Just yesterday, a tech columnist experienced a shock—perhaps even a culture shock. Late in the evening, they sat at home, sipped tea, and messaged on Telegram. That’s how many people unwind in front of a screen, scrolling through chats and snippets from friends and strangers. Then, randomly tapping the “People are nearby” prompt, there was no warning sign of trouble. On the display, a smiling photo of a neighbor who had just walked the dog appeared, along with a dozen half‑familiar faces. Someone even sent a cheerful emoji and a simple “Hello.” In that instant, the instinct to retreat grew strong: blocks were slammed on almost everyone’s access, the messenger might have been deleted, and perhaps the internet could be cut. A creeping sense of being outed in one’s own digital life settled in.
The moment sparked fear. It recalled a time when the internet felt distant and mediated by clubs and shared spaces. You had to visit a computer club to connect with someone online, back when desktop machines were rarities and ICQ was the gateway to chat (yes, younger readers, it’s a long thread to pull). Still, progress has marched on since then.
While nervously fidgeting, the columnist saw a friend’s social post that stirred thoughts. The post came from a well‑known, talented director who isn’t paranoid by nature. The text read: “We are not just resting; our movements are being watched. Yesterday I went to slot machines (in Minsk) for the first time in years. Just for a moment I felt the night win, and then darkness returned. He told his wife where he went and handed over what he earned. Then, almost immediately, Facebook—the Meta company’s platform—started pushing Minsk casinos in abundance. Or did the app simply listen to his conversation with his wife? The tension rose, as did the skepticism.”
The columnist, with years in the IT field, understands how these technologies operate and what their implications are for Big Data and artificial intelligence. A memory from a closed Microsoft presentation around 2013 stands out, when a demonstration revealed a technology capable of tracking where a viewer’s gaze lands on a screen. The shock that followed wasn’t merely technical; it touched the core of privacy and agency.
These ideas once belonged to a distant horizon. In the lay imagination, they were semi‑scientific myths, passages from science fiction, or prototype concepts shown at exhibitions. Then reality began to look through the window. Neural networks can paint portraits and generate text at levels that blur the line between machine and human authorship. Self‑driving cars move through cities. The phone has learned to listen, to observe, to record, and to transmit vast quantities of information, sometimes without clear consent or notification.
For someone who grew up with an eight‑bit Dandy game console as a wonder, these changes feel almost surreal. Think of people who have spent decades using simpler, tactile tools—wooden abacuses in the ministry, perhaps—and you can imagine the jolt they experience. The shift is not merely technical; it’s existential for many, stirring reflections on control, trust, and the pace of change.
Against this torrent, the question arises: what do the vast opportunities of modern technology mean for everyday life? Is there a place to wonder about the strange, almost mystical, behaviors of the digital world—like pondering how a spider moves its legs or listening to the sound of a whale—late at night on a search engine? The curiosity persists, even as the tools become more powerful and more invasive.
Looking back, science fiction writers of the twentieth century often imagined these shifts with a mix of awe and fear. Some warned that those who wanted to learn could return to familiar predictions and recognize how accurate those forecasts could be. The question, though, is whether the present satisfies curiosity without surrendering autonomy. If an artificial intelligence finally becomes a pervasive assistant, a mediator among machines, it could reshape how ideas are exchanged and how communities connect. The notion of a network of near‑infinite connections might appear in the evenings for someone who once felt lazy and unsure, offering both solace and unease. It’s reasonable to hope that fear is shared—by at least some readers—rather than felt alone.
Ultimately, the columnist’s view is that personal opinions may diverge from editorial positions. The dialogue about AI and data privacy remains open, and skepticism is a healthy instinct as technologies advance. What matters is staying informed, maintaining agency, and asking tough questions about how these tools touch daily life without erasing human judgment and choice.