The Campaign Against Sex Robots: A Critical Analysis

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Logo from the Campaign's Website

The Campaign Against Sex Robots launched to much media fanfare back in September. The brainchild of Dr. Kathleen Richardson from De Montfort University in Leicester UK, and Dr. Erik Brilling from University of Skovde in Sweden, the campaign aims to highlight the ways in which the development of sex robots could be ‘potentially harmful and will contribute to inequalities in society’. What’s more, despite being a relative newcomer, the campaign may have already achieved its first significant ‘scalp’. The 2nd International Conference on Love and Sex with Robots, organised by sex robot pioneer David Levy was due to be held in Malaysia this month (November 2015) but was cancelled by Malaysian authorities shortly after the campaign was launched.

Now, to be sure, it’s difficult to claim a direct causal relationship between the campaign and the cancellation of the conference, but there is no doubting the media success of the campaign: it has been featured in major newspapers, weblogs and TV shows around the world. Most recently, Dr Richardson participated in a panel at the Web Summit conference in Dublin, and this was discussed in the national media here in Ireland. Furthermore, the actions of the Malaysian authorities suggest that there is the potential for the campaign to gain some traction.

And yet, I find the Campaign Against Sex Robots somewhat bizarre. I’m puzzled by the media attention being given to it, especially since the ethics and psychology of human-robot relationships (including sexual relationships) has been a topic of serious inquiry for many years. And I’m also puzzled about the position of the campaign and the arguments its proponents proffer. I say this as someone with a bit of form in this area. I have written previously about the potential impact of sex robots on the traditional (human) sex work industry; I have also written about the case for legal bans of certain types of sex robot; and, with my friend and colleague Neil McArthur, I am currently co-editing a collection of essays on the legal, ethical and social implications of sex robots for MIT Press. So I am not unsympathetic to the kinds of issues being raised. But I cannot see what the campaign is driving at.

In this post, I want to provide some support for my puzzlement by analysing the goals of the campaign and the ‘position paper’ it has published in support of these goals. I want to make two main arguments: (i) the goals of the campaign are insufficiently clear and much of its media success may be trading on this lack of clarity; and (ii) the reasons proffered in support of the campaign are either unpersuasive or insufficiently strong to merit a ‘campaign’ against sex robots. I appreciate that others have done some of this critical work before. My goal is to do so in a more thorough way.

(Note: this post is long -- far longer than I originally envisaged. If you want to just get the gist of my criticisms, I suggest reading section one and the conclusion, and then having a look at the argument diagrams.)


1. What are the goals of the campaign against sex robots?
Let me start with a prediction: sex robots will become a reality. I say this with some confidence. I am not usually prone to making predictions about the future development of technology. I think people who make such predictions are routinely proved wrong, and hence forced into some awkward backtracking and self-amendment. Nevertheless, I feel pretty sure about this one. My confidence stems from two main sources: (i) history suggests that sex and technology have always gone together, hence if there is to be a revolution in robotics it is likely to include the development of sex robots; and (ii) sex robots already exist (in primitive and unsophisticated forms) and there are several companies actively trying to develop more sophisticated versions (perhaps most notably Real Doll). In making this prediction, I won't make specific claims about the likely form or degree of intelligence that will be associated with these sex robots. But I’m still sure they will exist.

Granting this, it seems to me that there are three stances one can take towards the existence of such robots:

Liberation: i.e. adopt a libertarian attitude towards the creation and deployment of such robots. Allow manufacturers to make them however they see fit, and sell or share them with whoever wants them.

Regulation: i.e. adopt a middle-of-the-road attitude towards the creation and deployment of such robots. Perhaps regulate and restrict the manufacture and/or sale of some types; insist upon certain standards for consumer/social protection for others; but do not implement an outright ban.

Criminalisation: i.e. adopt a restrictive attitude towards the creation and deployment of such robots. Ban their use and manufacture, and possibly seek criminal sanctions for those who breach the terms of those bans (such sanctions need not include incarceration or other forms of harsh treatment).

These three stances define a spectrum. At one end, you have extreme forms of liberation, which would enthusiastically welcome any and all sex robots; and at the other end you would have extreme forms of criminalisation, which would ban any and all sex robots. The great grey middle of ‘regulation’ lies in between.

For what it is worth, I favour a middle-of-the-road attitude. I think there could be some benefits to sex robots, and some problems. On balance, I would lean in favour of liberation for most types of sex robots, but might favour strict regulation or, indeed, restrictions, for other types. For instance, I previously wrote an article suggesting that sex robots used for rape fantasies and shaped like children could be plausibly criminalised. I did not strongly endorse that argument (it rested on a certain moralistic view of the criminal law that I dislike); I did not favour harsh punishment for potential offenders; and I would never claim that this policy would be successful in actually preventing the development or use of such technologies. But that’s not the point: we often criminalise things we never expect to prevent. I was also clear that the argument I made was weak and vulnerable to several potential defeaters. My goal in presenting it was not to defend a particular stance, but rather to map out the terrain for future ethical debate.

Anyway, leaving my own views to the side, the question arises: where on this spectrum do the proponents of the Campaign Against Sex Robots fall?

The answer is unclear. Obviously, they are not in favour of liberation, but are they are in favour of regulation or criminalisation? The naming of the campaign suggests something more towards the latter: they are against sex robots. And some of their pronouncements seem to reinforce this more extreme position. For instance, on their ‘About’ page, they say that “an organized approach against the development of sex robots is necessary”. On the same page, they also list a number of relatively unqualified objections to the development of sex robots. These include:

We believe the development of sex robots further sexually objectifies women. 

We propose that the development of sex robots will further reduce human empathy that can only be developed by an experience of mutual relationship. 

We challenge the view that the development of adult and child sex robots will have a positive benefit to society, but instead further reinforce power relations of inequality and violence.

On top of this, in her ‘position paper’, Richardson notes how she is modeling her campaign on the ‘Stop Killer Robots’ campaign. That campaign works to completely ban autonomous robots with lethal capabilities. If Richardson means for that model to be taken seriously, it suggests a similarly restrictive attitude motivates the Campaign Against Sex Robots.

But despite all this, there is some noticeable equivocation and hedging in what the campaign and its spokespeople have to say. Elsewhere on their “About” page they state that:

We propose to campaign to support the development of ethical technologies that reflect human principles of dignity, mutuality and freedom.

And that they wish:

To encourage computer scientists and roboticists to examine their own conscience when asked to provide code, hardware or ideas to develop this field.

Throughout the position paper, Richardson also makes clear that it is the fact that current sex robot proposals are modeled on a ‘prostitute-john’ relationship that bothers her. This suggests that if sex robots could embody an alternative and more egalitarian relationship she might not be so opposed.

On top of all this, Richardson appears to have disowned the more restrictive attitude in her recent statements. In an article about her appearance at the Web Summit, she is reported to have said we should “think about what it means” to create sex robots, not that we shouldn’t make them at all. That said, in the very same article she is reported to have called for a “ban” on sex robots. Maybe the journalist is being inaccurate in the summary (I wasn’t at the event) or maybe this reflects some genuine ambiguity on Richardson’s part. Either way, it seems problematic to me.

Why? Because I think the Campaign Against Sex Robots is currently trading on an equivocation about its core policy aims. Its branding as a general campaign “against” sex robots, along with the more unqualified objections to their development, seem to suggest that the core aim is to completely ban sex robots of all kinds. This provides juicy fodder for the media, but would require a very strong set of arguments in defence. As I hope to make clear below, I don’t think that the proponents of the campaign have met that high standard. On the other hand, the more reserved and implicitly qualified claims seem to suggest a more modest aim: to encourage creators of sex robots to think more clearly about the ethical risks associated with their development, in particular the impact it could have on gender inequality and objectification. This strikes me as a reasonably unobjectionable aim, one that would not require such strong arguments in defence, but would not be anywhere near as interesting. There are many people who already share this modest aim, and I think most people would not need much to be persuaded of its wisdom. But then the campaign would need to be more honest in its branding. It would need to be renamed something like “The Campaign for Ethical Sex Robots’.

In any event, until the Campaign provides more clarity about its core policy aims, it will be difficult to know what to make of it.


2. Why Campaign Against Sex Robots in the First Place?
Granting this difficulty, I nevertheless propose to evaluate the main arguments in favour of the campaign, as presented by its proponents. For this, I turn to the “Position Paper” on the Campaign’s website, which was written by Richardson. With the exception of its conclusion (which as I just noted is somewhat obscure) this paper does present a reasonably clear argument “against” sex robots. The argument is built around an analogy with human sex worker-client relationships (or, as Richardson prefers, ‘prostitute-john’ relationships). It is not set out explicitly anywhere in the text of the article. Here is my attempt to make its structure more explicit:

• (1) Prostitution is bad (e.g. because it reinforces gender inequality, contributes to the objectification of women, denies the subjectivity of the sex worker etc.)

• (2) Sex robots will be like prostitution in all these relevant bad-making ways (perhaps worse).

• (3) Therefore, sex robots will be bad.

• (4) Therefore, we ought to campaign against them.

This is an analogical argument, so it is not formally valid. I have tried to be reasonably generous in this reconstruction. My generosity comes in the vagueness of the premises and conclusions. The idea is that this vagueness allows the argument to work for either the strong or weak versions of the Campaign that I outlined above. So the first premise merely claims that there are several bad or negative features of prostitution; the second premise claims that these features will be shared by the development of sex robots; the first conclusion confirms the “badness” of sex robots; and the second conclusion is tacked on (minus a relevant supporting principle) in order to link the argument to the goals of the Campaign itself. It is left unclear what these goals actually are.

Vagueness of this sort is usually a vice, but in this context I’m hoping it will allow me to be somewhat flexible in my analysis. So in what follows I will evaluate each premise of the argument and see what kind of support they lend the conclusion(s). It will be impossible to divorce this analysis from the practical policy questions (i.e. should we campaign for regulation or criminalisation?). So I will try to evaluate the argument in relation to both strong and weak versions of the policy aims. To remove any sense of mystery from this analysis, I will state upfront that my conclusion will be that the argument is too weak to support a strong version of the campaign. It may suffice to support a weaker version, but this would have to be very modest in its aims, and even then it wouldn’t be particularly persuasive because it ignores reasons to favour the creation of sex robots and reasons to doubt the wisdom of interventionist policies.


3. Is Prostitution Bad?
Let’s start with premise (1) and the claim that prostitution is bad. I have written several pieces about the ethics of sex work. Those pieces evaluate most of the leading objections to the legalisation/normalisation of sex work. Richardson’s article recapitulates many of these objections. It initially expresses some disapproval for the “sex work” discourse, viewing the use of terms like ‘sex work’ and ‘sex worker’ as part of an attempt to legitimate an oppressive form of labour. (I should qualify that because Richardson doesn’t write with the normative clarity of an ethicist; she is an anthropologist and the detached stance of the anthropologist is apparent at times in her paper, despite the fact that the paper and the Campaign clearly have normative aims). She then starts to identify various bad-making properties of prostitution. These include things like the prevalence of violence and human trafficking in the industry, along with reference to statistics about the relative youth of its workers (75% are between 13 and 25, according to one source that she cites).

Her main objection to prostitution, however, focuses on the asymmetrical relationship between the prostitute and the client, the highly gendered nature of the employment (predominantly women and some men providing the service for men), and the denial of subjectivity (and corresponding objectification) the commercialisation entails. To support this view, Richardson quotes from a study of consumers of prostitution, who said things like:

‘Prostitution is like masturbating without having to use your hand’, 

‘It’s like renting a girlfriend or wife. You get to choose like a catalogue’, 

‘I feel sorry for these girls but this is what I want’ 

(Farley et al 2009)

Each of these views seems to reinforce the notion that the sex worker is being treated as little more than an object and that their subjectivity is being denied. The client and his needs are all that matters. What’s happening here, according to Richardson, is that the client is elevating his status and failing to empathise with the prostitute: substituting his fantasies for her real feelings. This is a big problem. The failure or inability to empathise is often associated with higher rates of crime and violence. She cites Baron-Cohen’s work on empathy and evil in support of this view.

To sum up, we seem to have two main criticisms of prostitution in Richardson’s article:

• (5) Prostitution is bad because the (predominantly) female workers suffer from violence at the hands of their clients, can be victims of trafficking and are, often, quite young.

• (6) Prostitution is bad because it thrives on an asymmetrical relationship between the client and prostitute, denies the subjectivity of the prostitute, compromises the ability of the client to empathise, and reinforces gender inequalities.

Are these criticisms any good? I have my doubts. Two points jump out at me. First, I think Richardson is being extremely selective and biased in her treatment of the evidence in relation to prostitutes and their clients. Second, even if she is right about these bad-making properties, there is no direct line from these properties to the appropriate policy response. In particular, there is no direct line from these properties to the criminalisation or restriction of prostitution. Let me briefly expand on these points.

On the first point, Richardson does cite evidence supporting the view that violence and trafficking are common in the sex work industry, and that clients deny the subjectivity of sex workers. But she ignores countervailing evidence. I don’t want to get too embroiled in weighing the empirical evidence. This is a complex debate, and there are certainly many negative features of the sex work industry. All I would say is that things are not as unremittingly awful as Richardson seems to suggest. Sanders, O’Neill and Pitcher, in their book Prostitution: Sex Work, Policy and Politics offer a more nuanced summary of the empirical literature. For instance, in relation to violence within the industry, they note that while the incidence is “high” and probably under-reported, it tends to be more prevalent for street-based sex workers, and that violence is usually associated with a minority of clients:

While clients are the most commonly reported perpetrators of violence against female sex workers, Kinnell (2006a) suggests that a minority of clients commit violence against sex workers and that often men who attack or murder sex workers frequently have a past history of violence against sex workers and other women….It must be remembered that the majority of commercial transactions take place without violence or incidence. 

(Sanders et al 2009, 44)

On the lack of empathy and the denial subjectivity, they offer a similarly nuanced view. First, they note how a highly conservative view of sexuality is often embedded in critiques of sex work:

There is generally a taboo about the types of sex involved in a commercial contact. The idea of time-limited, unemotional sex between strangers is what is often conjured up when commercial sex is imagined… The ‘seedy’ idea of commercial sex preserves the notion that only emotional, intimate sex can be found in long-term conventional relationships, and that other forms of sex (casual, group, masturbatory, BDSM, etc.) are unsatisfying, abnormal and also immoral. 

(Sanders et al 2009, 83)

They then go on to paint a complex picture of the attitude of clients toward sex workers:

[T]he argument is that general understandings of sex work and prostitution are based on false dichotomies that distinguish commercial sexual relationships as dissonant from non-commercial ones. Sanders (2008b) shows that there is mutual respect and understanding between regular clients and sex workers, dispelling the myth that all interactions between sex workers and clients are emotionless. There is ample counter-evidence (such as Bernstein 2001, 2007) that indicates that clients are ‘average’ men without any particular or peculiar characteristics and increasingly seeking ‘authenticity’, intimacy and mutuality rather that trying to fulfil any mythology of violent, non-consensual sex. 

(Sanders et al 2009, 84).

I cite this not to paint a rosy and pollyannish view of sex work. Far from it. I merely cite it to highlight the need for greater nuance than Richardson seems willing to provide. It is simply not true that all forms of prostitution involve the troubling features she identifies. Furthermore, in relation to an issue like trafficking, while I would agree that certain forms of trafficking are unremittingly awful, there is still a need for nuance. Trafficking-related statistics sometimes conflate general illegal labour migration (i.e. workers moving for better opportunities) with the stereotypical view of trafficking as a modern form of slavery.

This brings me to the second criticism. Even if Richardson is right about the bad-making properties of prostitution, there is no reason to think that those properties are sufficient to warrant criminalisation or any other highly restrictive policy. For instance, denials of subjectivity and asymmetries of power are rife throughout the capitalistic workplace. Many of the consumer products we buy are made possible by, arguably, exploitative international trade networks. And many service workers in our economies have their subjectivity denied by their clients. I often fail to care about the feelings of the barista making my morning coffee. But in these cases we typically do not favour criminalisation or restriction. At most, we favour a change in regulation and behaviour. Likewise, many of the negative features of prostitution could be caused (or worsened) by its criminalisation. This is arguably true of violence and trafficking. It is because sex workers are criminalised that they fail to obtain the protections afforded to most workers and fail to report what happens to them. This is why many sex worker activists — who are in no way unrealistic about the negative features of the job — favour legalisation and regulation. So Richardson will need to do more than single out some negative features of prostitution to support her analogical argument. I have tried to summarise these lines of criticism in the diagram below.

In the end, however, it is not worth dwelling too much on the bad-making properties of prostitution. The analogy is important to Richardson’s argument, but it is not the badness of prostitution that matters. What matters is the claim that these properties will be shared by the development of sex robots. This is where premise (2) comes in.


4. Would the development of sex robots be bad in the same way?
Premise (2) claims that the development of sex robots will replicate and reinforce the bad-making properties of prostitution. There are two things we need to figure out in relation to this claim. The first is how it should be interpreted; the second is how it is supported.

In relation to the interpretive issue, we must ask: Is the claim that, just as the treatment and attitude toward prostitutes is bad, so too will be the treatment and attitude toward sex robots? Or is it that the development of sex robots will increase the demand for human prostitution and/or thereby encourage users of sex robots to treat more real human (females) as objects? Richardson’s paper supports the latter interpretation. At the outset, she states that her concern about sex robots is that they:

[legitimate] a dangerous mode of existence where humans can move about in relations with other humans but not recognise them as human subjects in their own right. 

(Richardson 2015)

The key phrase here seems to be “in relations with other humans”, suggesting that the worry is about how we end up treating one another, not how we treat the robots themselves. This is supported in the conclusion where she states:

In this paper I have tried to show the explicit connections between prostitution and the development and imagination of human-sex robot relations. I propose that extending relations of prostitution into machines is neither ethical, nor is it safe. If anything the development of sex robots will further reinforce relations of power that do not recognise both parties as human subjects. 

(Richardson 2015)

Again, the emphasis in this quote seems to be on how the development of sex robots will affect inter-human relationships. Let’s reflect this in a modified version of premise (2):

• (2*) Sex robots will add to and reinforce the bad-making properties of prostitution (i.e. they will encourage us to treat one another with a lack of empathy and exacerbate existing gender/power inequalities).

How exactly is this supported? As best I can tell, Richardson supports it by referring to the work of David Levy and then responding to a number of counter-arguments. In his book Love and Sex with Robots, David Levy drew explicit parallels between the development of sex robots and prostitution. The idea being that the relationship between a user and his/her sex robot would be akin to the relationship between a client and a prostitute. Levy was quite explicit about this and spent a good part of his book looking at the motivations of those who purchase sex and how those motivations might transfer onto sex robots. He was reasonably nuanced in his discussion of this literature, though you wouldn’t be able to tell this from Richardson’s article (for those who are interested, I’ve analysed Levy’s work previously). In any event, the inference Richardson draws from this is that the development of sex robots is proceeding along the lines that Levy imagines and hence we should be concerned about its potential to reinforce the bad-making properties of prostitution.

• (9) Levy models the development of sex robots on the relationship between clients and prostitutes, therefore it is likely that the development of such robots will add to and reinforce the bad-making properties of prostitution.

I have to say I find this to be a weak argument, but I’ll get back to that later because Richardson isn’t quite finished with the defence of her view. She recognises that there are at least two major criticisms of her claim. The first holds that if robots are not persons (and for now we will assume that they are not) then there is nothing wrong with treating them as objects/things which we can use for our own pleasure. In other words, the technology is a morally neutral domain in which we can act out our fantasies. The second criticism points to the potentially cathartic effect of these technologies. If people act out negative or violent sexual fantasies on a robot, they might be less inclined to do so to a real human being. Sex robots may consequently help to prevent the bad things that Richardson worries about.

• (10) Sex robots are not persons; they are things: it is appropriate for us to treat them as things (i.e. the technology is a morally neutral domain for acting out our sexual fantasies)

• (11) Use of sex robots could be cathartic, e.g. using the technology to act out negative or violent sexual fantasies might stop people from doing the same thing to a real human being.

Richardson has responses to both of these criticisms. In the first instance, she believes that technology is not a value-neutral domain. Our culture and our norms are reflected in our technology. So we should be worried about how cultural meaning gets incorporated into our technology. Furthermore, she has serious doubts about the catharsis argument. She points to the historical relationship between pornography and prostitution. Pornography has now become widely available, but this has not led to a corresponding decline in prostitution nor, in the case of child pornography, abuse of real children. On the contrary, prostitution actually appears to have increased while pornography has increased. The same appears to be true of the relationship between sex toys/dolls and prostitution:

The arguments that sex robots will provide artificial sexual substitutes and reduce the purchase of sex by buyers is not borne out by evidence. There are numerous sexual artificial substitutes already available, RealDolls, vibrators, blow-up dolls etc., If an artificial substitute reduced the need to buy sex, there would be a reduction in prostitution but no such correlation is found. 

(Richardson 2015)

In other words:

• (12) Technology is not a morally neutral domain: societal values and ethics are inflected in our technologies.

• (13) There is no evidence to suggest that the cathartic argument is correct: prostitution has not decreased in response to the increased availability of pornography and/or sex toys.

Is this a robust defence of premise (2)? Does it support the overall argument Richardson wishes to make? Once again, I have my doubts. Some of the evidence she adduces is weak and even if it is correct it in no way supports a strongly restrictive approach to the development of sex robots. At best, it supports a regulative approach. Furthermore, in adopting that more regulative approach we need to be sensitive to both the merits and demerits of this technology and the costs proposed regulative strategy. This is something that Richardson neglects because she focuses almost entirely on the negative. In this vein, let me offer five responses to her argument, some of which target her support of premise (2*), others of which target the relationship between any putative bad-making properties of sex robots and the need for a ‘campaign’ against them.

First, I think Richardson’s primary support for premise (2) - viz. that it is reflected in the model of sex robot development used by David Levy — is weak. True, Levy is a pioneer in this field and may have a degree of influence (I cannot say for sure). But that doesn’t mean that all sex robot developers have to adopt his model. If we are worried about the relationship between the sex robot user and the robot, we can try to introduce standards and regulations that reflect a more positive set of sexual norms. For instance, the makers of Roxxxy (billed as the world’s first sex robot) claim to include a personality setting called ‘Frigid Farah’ with their robot. Frigid Farah will demonstrate some reluctance to the user’s sexual advances. You could argue that this reflects a troubling view of sexual consent: that resistance is not taken seriously (i.e. that ‘no’ doesn’t really mean ‘no’). But you could try to regulate against this and insist that every sex robot be required to give positive, affirmative signals of consent. This might reflect and reinforce a more desirable attitude toward sexual consent. And this is just an illustration of the broader point: that sex robots need not reflect negative social attitudes toward sex. We could demand and enforce a more positive set of attitudes. Maybe this is all Richardson really wants her campaign to achieve, i.e. to change the models adopted in the development of sex robots. But in that case, she is not really campaigning against them, she is campaigning for a better version of them.

Second, I think it is difficult to make good claims about the likely link between the use of a future technology like sex robots and actions toward real human beings. In this light, I find her point about the correlation between pornography and an increase in prostitution relatively unpersuasive. Unlike her, I don’t believe sex work is unremittingly bad and so I am not immediately worried about this correlation. What would be more persuasive to me is whether there was some correlation (and ultimately some causal link) between the increase in pornography/prostitution and the mistreatment of sex workers. I don’t know what the evidence is on that, but I think there is some reason to doubt it. Again, Sanders et al discuss ways in which the mainstreaming and legalisation of prostitution is sometimes associated with a decrease in mistreatment, particularly violence. This might give some reason for optimism.

A better case study for Richardson’s argument would probably be the debate about the link between pornography (adult hardcore or child) and real-world sexual violence/assault (toward adults or children). If it can be shown that exposure to pornography increases real-world sexual assault, then maybe we do have reason to worry about sex robots. But what does that evidence currently say? I reviewed the empirical literature in my article on robotic rape and robotic child sexual abuse. I concluded that the evidence at the moment is relatively ambiguous. Some studies show an increase; some show a decrease; and some are neutral. I speculated that we may be landed in a similarly ambiguous position when it comes to evidence concerning a link between sex robot usage and real-world sexual assault. That said, I also speculated that sex robots may be quite different to pornography: there may be a more robust real-world effect from using a sex robot. It is simply too early and too difficult to tell. Either way, I don’t see anything in this to support Richardson’s moral panic.

Third, if the evidence in relation to sex robot usage does end up being ambiguous, then I suspect the best way to argue against the development of sex robots is to focus on the symbolic meaning that attaches to their use. Richardson doesn’t seem to make this argument (though there are hints). I explored it in my paper on robotic rape and robotic child sexual abuse, and others have explored it in relation to video games and fiction. The idea would be that a person who derives pleasure from having sex with a robot displays a disturbing moral insensitivity to the symbolic meaning of their act, and this may reflect negatively on their moral character. I suggested that this might be true for people who derive sexual pleasure from robots that are shaped like children or that cater to rape fantasies. The problem here is not to do with the possible downstream, real-world consequences of this insensitivity. The problem has to do with the act itself. In other words, the argument is about the intrinsic properties of the act; not its extrinsic, consequential properties. This is a better argument because it doesn’t force one to speculate about the likely effects of a technology on future behaviour. But this argument is quite limited. I think it would, at best, apply to a limited subset of sex robot usages, and probably would not warrant a ban or, indeed, campaign against any and all sex robots.

Fourth, when thinking about the appropriate policy toward sex robots, it is important that we weigh the good against the bad. Richardson seems to ignore this point. Apart from her references to the catharsis argument, she nowhere mentions the possible good that could be done by sex robots. My colleague Neil McArthur has looked into some of these possibilities. There are several arguments that could be made. There is the simple hedonistic argument: sex robots provide people with a way of achieving pleasurable states of consciousness. There is the distributive argument: for whatever reason, there are people in the world today who lack access to certain types of sexual experience, sex robots could make those experiences (or, at least, close approximations of them) available to such people. This type of argument has been made in relation to the value of sex workers for persons with disabilities. Indeed, there are charities set up that try to link persons with disabilities to sex workers for this very reason. There is also the argument that sex robots could ameliorate imbalances in sex drive between the partners in existing relationships; or could add some diversity to the sex lives of such couples, without involving third parties (and the potential interpersonal strife to which they could give rise). It could also be the case that sex robots allow for particular forms of sexual self-expression to flourish, and so, in the interests of basic sexual freedom, we should permit it. Finally, unlike Richardson, we shouldn’t completely discount the possibility of sex robots reducing other forms of sexual harm. This is by no means an exhaustive list of positive attributes. It simply highlights the fact that there is some potential good to the technology and this must be weighed against any putative negative features when determining the appropriate policy.

Fifth, and finally, when thinking about the appropriate policy you also need to think about the potential costs of that policy. We might agree that there are bad-making properties to sex robots, but it could be that any proposed regulatory intervention would do more harm than good. I can see plausible ways in which this could be true for regulatory interventions into sex robots. Regulation of pornography, for instance, has historically involved greater restrictions toward pornography from sexual minorities (e.g. gay and lesbian porn). Regulatory intervention into sex robots may end up doing the same. I think it is particularly important to bear this in mind in light of Sanders et al’s comments about stereotypical views of unemotional commercialised sex feeding into prohibitive policies. It may also be the case that policing the development and use of sex robots requires significant resources and significant intrusions into our private lives. I’m not sure that we should want to bear those costs. Less instrusive regulatory policies — e.g. one that just encourage manufacturers to avoid problematic stereotypes or norms in the construction of sex robots — might be more tolerable. Again, maybe that’s all Richardson wants. But she needs to make that clear and to avoid simply emphasising the negative.

5. Conclusion
This post has been long. To sum up, I find the Campaign Against Sex Robots puzzling and problematic. I do so for three main reasons:

A. I think the current fanfare associated with the Campaign stems from its own equivocation regarding its core policy aims. Some of the statements by its members, as well as the name of the campaign itself, suggest a generalised campaign against all forms of sex robots. This is interesting from a media perspective, but difficult to defend. Some other statements suggest a desire for more ethical awareness in the creation of sex robots. This seems unobjectionable, but a lot less interesting and in need of far more nuance. It would also necessitate some re-branding of the Campaign (e.g. to ‘The Campaign for Ethical Sex Robots”).

B. The first premise of the argument in favour of the campaign focuses on the bad-making properties of prostitution. But this premise is flawed because it fails to factor in countervailing evidence about the experiences of sex workers and the attitudes of their clients, and because, even if it were true, it would not support a generalised campaign against sex work. Indeed, sex worker activists often argue the reverse: that the bad-making properties of prostitution are partly a result of its criminalisation and restriction, and not intrinsic to the practice itself.

C. The second premise of the argument focuses on how the bad-making properties of prostitution might carry over to the development of sex robots. But this premise is flawed for several reasons: (i) it is supported by reference to the work of one sex robot theorist and there is no reason why his view must dominate the development process; (ii) it relies on dubious claims about the likely causal link between the use of sex robots and the treatment of human beings; (iii) it fails to make the strongest argument in support of a restrictive attitude toward sex robots (the symbolic meaning argument), but even if it did, that argument would be limited and would not lend support to a general campaign; (iv) it fails to consider the possible good-making properties of sex robots; and (v) it fails to consider the possible costs of regulatory intervention.

None of this is to suggest that we shouldn’t think carefully about the ethics of sex robots. We should. But the Campaign Against Sex Robots does not seem to be contributing much to the current discussion.

Is there Trouble with Algorithmic Decision-making? Fairness and Efficiency-based Objections

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Tal Zarsky’s work has featured on this blog before. He is an expert in the legal aspects of big data and algorithmic decision-making. He recently published a paper entitled “The Trouble with Algorithmic Decision-Making” in which he tries to identify, categorise and respond to some of the leading objections to the use of algorithmic decision-making processes. This is a topic that interests me too, so I was eager to see what he had to say.

This post is my attempt to summarise and comment on some of the key themes from Zarsky’s paper. Its primary aim is to construct a diagram which will categorise the main objections found within Zarsky’s paper. Its secondary aim is to consider Zarsky’s responses to each of these objections. This will not be an exhaustive treatment of the core issues; it will be a high-level summary only. In this respect, it might be useful to people who are new to this debate.


1. What is interesting about algorithmic decision-making?
In one sense, algorithms are a mundane phenomenon: they are simply sets of instructions for taking an input and producing an output. There is probably some trivial sense in which all decision-making is algorithmic. After all, whenever you make a decision — say a decision about what food to buy — you are taking some set of inputs — e.g. information about your level of hunger, financial resources, food preferences and so on — and using them to produce an output — i.e. a decision about what you will actually buy. In most cases, the ruleset that you use to produce the output is implicit, but you could probably reconstruct it if you put enough thought into it. (Note: some people in the philosophy of mind might dispute the claim that all decision-making is algorithmic, but I won’t engage with that point of view in this post).

Given this mundanity and triviality, one may wonder why anyone at all is interested in algorithmic decision-making. The answer, of course, lies in the technology used in the more explicit forms of algorithmic decision-making that now govern our lives. With the rise of surveillance and big data, there are increasing opportunities for computer-coded algorithms to take advantage of large datasets to produce (potentially) socially useful outputs. Recognition of this fact, has led companies and governments to incorporate algorithmic decision-making into their pre-existing decision-making processes. There are so many examples of this nowadays that it is hard to pick just one.

The one Zarsky settles upon in his article is the use of credit-scoring algorithms by banks and other financial services providers. These algorithms use financial (and other) data to construct credit-scores. These scores are supposed to tell the banks the likely credit-risk of any particular customer. The most popular of these systems in the US is the FICO rating system, which relies on a proprietary (i.e. legally protected) algorithm and can be decisive in determining whether or not a person can access credit. Similar scoring systems are used in other countries, many of them also relying on the FICO system (at least in part).

One can make a good case for the use of such algorithms: they are quick, cost-effective ways to take advantage of large swathes of information. There is limited scope for humans to knit together this information in a useful way. Nevertheless, many people are disturbed and think these systems are deeply problematic. Zarsky suggests that these objections fall into two main categories (he admits that these are not exhaustive, but thinks they address the main areas of concern):

Efficiency-Based Objections: These objections target the claims often made on behalf of these systems by their creators, namely that they are more effective and accurate than human decision-makers would be.

Fairness Based Objections: These objections argue that algorithmic decision-making processes are unfair in one or more respects. The unfairness here can be substantive (i.e. concerned with the differential impact of the process on different groups of people) or procedural (i.e. concerned with the way in which the process engages with the people who are ultimately affected).

Of course, these kinds of objections can be levelled against any decision-making system. This raises the question: what is so special about algorithmic decision-making? The answer to that might be “nothing”, but there are two properties of algorithmic decision-making that are alleged to make it unique:

Automation: Algorithmic decisions can sometimes be made with no or limited human input and oversight.

Opacity: Algorithmic decisions can lack the transparency we desire, either because the algorithms are protect by secrecy laws or because of their inherent complexity.

One Zarsky’s goals is to see whether automation and opacity increase the potency of the efficiency and fairness-based objections, and whether transparency can help to address some of the concerns.
Acknowledging all this allows us to construct a diagram of the potential objections to algorithmic decision-making. As you can see below, there are two main branches (efficiency and fairness) which then sub-divide into a number of more specific objections. We’ll work our way through the various branches over the remainder of this post.

2. Efficiency-Based Objections
We start with efficiency-based objections. These are both the easiest to understand and the easiest to analyse. An efficiency-based objection holds that an algorithmic decision-making process is problematic due to inaccuracy. In the case of credit-scoring, the argument would be that the credit-scoring system does not provide an accurate representation of the likely credit-risk of the particular customer. There is some evidence that this is true. The bond-rating conducted by agencies like Fitch, Moody and Standard and Poor prior to the 2008 financial crisis were infamously inaccurate. There is also evidence that some credit-scoring systems draw faulty inferences from certain types of behaviour. I commented on one example — seeking more information about your mortgage being an indicator of credit risk as opposed to prudence — in a previous post.

The particular examples do not matter so much here. What matters is the arguments people adduce in support of the efficiency-based objection. Zarsky suggests that there are two main arguments:

Defective Dataset: The actual dataset upon which the algorithms rely is defective in some respect, i.e. contains inaccurate or misleading information.  

Predictive Problems: The systems try to predict future human behaviour but there are often serious practical hurdles to accurate predictions. This can manifest as a tendency to draw misleading conclusions from the data.

Are these criticisms plausible? And how are they linked to the automated and opaque nature of the decision-making systems?

Zarsky suggests that these criticisms are relatively weak. There are three reasons for this. First, the problems with inaccurate data may be corrected over time or at an aggregate level. In other words, misleading information from one source could be cancelled out or swamped by accurate information from other sources. The accuracy of the overall prediction could still be (probabilistically) valid. That said, Zarsky acknowledges the need for ongoing research into this matter. Theoretical possibilities and anecdotal evidence will not be sufficient to either prove or disprove the accuracy of an algorithm.

Second, even if these systems are inaccurate in certain respects, you need to compare their inaccuracy with the accuracy of alternative decision-making systems. For example, it could be that systems which assess credit risk based entirely on the subjective assessment of an individual bank employee are much more inaccurate. In that case, the inaccuracies of the algorithm might be acceptable. There is a good methodological point here: Whenever you assess policy changes you should do so comparatively, i.e. by comparing the policy with the status quo and some reasonable alternatives. When you do so, you might find that it is less objectionable than it first seems.

Third, transparency could be leveraged to improve the accuracy of such systems. For instance, people could be given the legal right to investigate and challenge the information used by the algorithm and, potentially, the source code of the algorithm itself. But Zarsky is not entirely convinced about the success of such transparency initiatives. One reason for this is that many people already have the right to scrutinise the information on their credit scores but don’t exercise those rights. Another is that making these systems more transparent may enable people to ‘game the system’. This is something I discussed in much greater detail in a previous post about Zarsky’s work.


3. Unfair Wealth Transfer Objections
Let’s move on now to fairness-related objections. These are more complex. They break down into three main subgroups. The first of these subgroups is concerned with the impact of algorithmic decision-making on the distribution of wealth (where ‘wealth’ is defined broadly to include social goods and opportunities of all kinds). The objection is based on the belief that algorithmic decision-making systems could result in wealth being unfairly distributed away from those who deserve it to those who really don’t. Zarsky notes three distinct ways in which this could happen:

From Consumers to Firms: Corporate enterprises could take unfair advantage of consumers, resulting in a wealth transfer from the consumers to the enterprises. For instance, a bank could use a credit score as the basis for manufacturing a sophisticated financial product that seems attractive to an at-risk customer but actually favours the bank in the long run. This could result in undeserved hardship to the customer.

Between Consumers: Certain consumers could take unfair advantage of these systems, resulting in a wealth transfer in their favour, to the detriment of others. So, for instance, in the case of credit-scoring and other financial algorithms, wealthy people, with teams of advisers, might be in a better position to game these systems to their advantage. This could result in further inequalities of income and wealth.

Away from Protected Groups: The algorithms could work in such a way that they have a disparate impact on groups with certain characteristics (e.g. gender, race, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation). In most countries, these groups are explicitly protected from discrimination by law. The concern is that algorithmic decision-making could unfairly target them due to implicit or explicit biases affecting the coding process, or due to some other unknown factor.

How serious are these concerns and what role do automation and opacity have to play? Let’s take them one by one.

In relation to transfers from consumers to firms, there is no doubt that businesses may be incentivised to take advantage of less fortunate customers. The whole sub-prime mortgage crisis is a classic example. The temptation is there irrespective of automation, but there may be ways in which the complexity and opacity of algorithmic systems make it more alluring. Again, the sub-prime mortgage crisis provides some powerful lessons. The complex methods used for weighting and calculating the risk attached to mortgage bonds fueled the speculation that led to the eventual crash. Transparency may reduce the risk, but is probably insufficient by itself. Regulation and strict scrutiny of the systems used by private (and public) bodies may be needed.

In relation to transfers between consumers, this could also certainly happen. We are witnessing a significant recrudescence in wealth inequality. If people like Thomas Piketty and Anthony Atkinson are to be believed — and I believe they are — then we are now returning to levels of inequality not seen since the late 19th century. It seems plausible that wealthy elites will be well-positioned to take advantage of complex and opaque algorithmic decision-making systems, if for no other reason than that they can expend considerable resources trying to get to grips with them.

Transparency could help by levelling the playing field to some extent. But Zarsky is not convinced. Transparency could heighten the advantage of the wealthy elites. One reason why people think budgetary decision-making should be conducted in secret, and all decisions simply announced at one time, is that they worry about elite lobbying groups taking advantage of transparency to push their agendas. Furthermore, Zarsky thinks that the automated and inhuman nature of algorithmic decision-making could actually help to resolve these inequities. Current elites are propped up by a system of implied and explicit biases among human decision-makers. Removing the human element could remove these implicit and explicit biases and result in greater equality.

Finally, when it comes to the impact on protected groups, we need to bear in mind the three different ways in which this could happen: (i) because protected characteristics (like race) are explicitly used by the algorithms when making unfair allocations; (ii) because the implicit biases of the designers results in a system that goes against the interests of the protected group and (iii) because, for some unknown reason, the algorithm has a disparate impact on the protected group when put into practice. If (i) is happening, it should simply be banned: the whole ethos of anti-discrimination law is that you cannot use such characteristics when making allocative decisions. If (ii) is happening, then greater transparency and scrutiny of the coding process is required. And if (iii) is happening, transparency is still necessary but needs to be combined with careful empirical studies of how the systems work. Furthermore, all of this must be balanced against the possibility of using algorithmic decision-making as a way to avoid human biases that disfavour the protected groups.


4. Arbitrariness and Autonomy-Based Objections
The second fairness-based objection has to do with arbitrariness. The concern is that an algorithmic decision could affect a person (negatively) for a seemingly arbitrary reason, i.e. a reason that is unconnected to any factor that should lead to them being legitimately singled out by the algorithm. Take two seemingly identical people, one of whom receives a positive credit score and the other who receives a negative one. As best we can tell, there is nothing in their behaviour or personal data to explain why one should be favoured over the other, but this is what the algorithm does. In such a scenario, the decision would be arbitrary and hence unfair.

You might think this is really an efficiency-based objection, but there is a subtle difference. In the scenario being imagined, the algorithmic decision-making process as a whole could be quite efficient. In other words, in the aggregate, it might be that the process works well and is effective in distinguishing high risk from low risk customers. It is just that in this particular case it seems to have singled someone out for an arbitrary reason.

In such a scenario, it seems pretty clear that the automated and opaque nature of the decision-making process would be partly to blame. It is true that human decision-making systems could also single people out for arbitrary reasons, but in those cases it will usually be easier to figure out where the system broke down. In the case of an automated and opaque algorithmic process, it will be more difficult to conduct the investigation into what went wrong. Faith in the algorithm, despite its flaws, could be tempting. Transparency may help to alleviate this concern, but again its effectiveness may be limited since it may be impossible to deconstruct the algorithm and figure out why the error arose. All that said, the negative impact in one individual case would need to be balanced against the aggregate gains. It could be that the individual is negatively affected on one occasion, but benefits on nearly all others. As a result, the arbitrariness in the one case may be offset.

This brings us to the final fairness-based objection. This one focuses on autonomy-based harms. Here, we switch focus from the fairness of the outcome to the fairness of the procedure itself. The concern is that algorithmic decision-making processes might fail to respect the dignity and autonomy of the individuals affected by their outputs. There are several ways in which this could happen. The system could rely on data that is collected without informed consent, or it may fail to allow for meaningful human participation and scrutiny due to its intrinsic complexity.

Interestingly, Zarsky finds this type of objection to be the most intractable. Transparency could help to mitigate some of the autonomy-based harms, but not all. Procedural due process rights for algorithmic decision-making systems could also help. But, to some extent, “these concerns are inescapable when opting for an (often automated) algorithmic analysis with inherent complexities” (Zarsky 2015, 13). This is something I have spoken about at length in my various ‘threat of algocracy’ posts and talks.

Okay, that’s it. As I said, this was merely intended to provide a high level summary of some of the key debates and issues surrounding algorithmic decision-making systems. For more detailed analyses, as well as potential solutions, you should read the other posts in my series on Algocracy and the Problems of Big Data (LINK).

Understanding the Threat of Algocracy

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On 2nd November, I gave a talk entitled "The Threat of Algocracy: Reality, Resistance and Accommodation" to the Programmable City Project at Maynooth University. You can watch the video of my presentation (minus the Q&A) above.

The talk defended one central thesis: That the increase in algorithm-based decision making poses a threat to the legitimacy of our political and legal system. The threat in question is relatively unique (due to its technological basis) and difficult to resist and accommodate.

In order to defend this thesis, I tried to ask and answer four questions:

1. What is 'algocracy'? Broadly speaking, to me 'algocracy' is the phenomenon whereby algorithms takeover public decision-making systems. More precisely, the term 'algocracy' can be used to describe decision-making systems in which computer-coded algorithms structure and constrain the way in which human beings interact with these decision-making processes (see, generally, Aneesh 2009). There are many different possible algocratic systems. I focus on algocratic systems made possible by the rise of big data, the internet of things, surveillance, data-mining and predictive analytics.

2. What is the 'threat of algocracy'?  Public decision-making processes ought to be legitimate. Most people take this to mean that the processes should satisfy a number of proceduralist and instrumentalist conditions. In other words, the processes should be fair and transparent whilst at the same time achieving good outcomes. The problem with algocratic systems is that they tend to favour good outcomes over transparency and fairness. This is the threat they pose to political legitimacy.

3. Can we (or should we) resist the threat? I argue that it is difficult to resist the threat of algocracy (i.e. to dismantle or block the creation of algocratic systems) due to the ubiquity of the technology and the strength of the political and economic forces favouring the creation of algocratic systems. I also argue that, in many cases, it may not be morally desirable to dismantle or block the creation of such systems.

4. Can we accommodate the threat? I argue that it is difficult to accommodate the threat of algocracy (i.e. to allow for meaningful participation in and comprehension of these systems). I examine three possible accommodationist solutions and find them lacking in several respects.

The talk provides more detail on these four questions. I find it difficult to watch and listen to myself give presentations of this sort, but other people may find it more tolerable. And if you can't get enough of this topic, I did an interview on the Review the Future podcast about it last year and I also wrote a short post describing the nature of the threat a couple of years back.

Demanding a Post-Work World: Technological Unemployment and the Human Future

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The political left has long been oriented toward the future. This is clear in its revolutionary ethos: the utopia of the revolutionary is, after all, always just around the corner. But in orienting itself toward the future, the left has not always been actively futurist in its outlook. Many leftists are uncomfortable with technology and science, viewing them as insidious and malign capitalistic projects. As a result, their utopian dreams often end up looking to a mythic historical Golden Age for inspiration.

This is why Nick Srnicek and Alex Williams’s recent book Inventing the Future: Postcapitalism and a World Without Work caught my eye. It is resolutely leftist in its political grounding, but also thoroughly futurist in outlook. Srnicek and Williams argue that their fellow travelers should not fear technology; rather, they should embrace it. In particular, they argue that the labour movement should embrace automation and technological unemployment. They are emancipatory forces, freeing us from the drudgery and degradation of work.

In this post, I want to explore and critically analyse two of the ideas in Srnicek and Williams’s book. First, I want to address a claim they make about the current crisis of work and the growth of surplus populations in capitalist societies. Second, I want to look at four demands that they think ought to organise and motivate those interested in bringing about the end of work. I do so in the spirit of constructive critical engagement. Although I share the authors’ interests in the postwork society, I do not share all aspects of their anti-capitalist outlook. Part of my desire here is to understand their perspective, and see how much of it accords with my own (underdeveloped and unsystematic) political views.


1. The Growth of Surplus Populations
I’ll start by examining an important concept in Marxism, that of the surplus population. As hinted, Srnicek and Williams have a way of looking at the world that I find difficult to get behind. They, like many Marxists, have a tendency to describe capitalism as an all-powerful, quasi-agential, and essentially malicious force that acts in the world; whereas I tend to view it as a relatively vague property, that can be ascribed to certain sets of human relations, and has good and bad elements. Furthermore, in identifying capitalism as this unique and powerful force, they have a tendency to subscribe to certain foundational myths about how capitalism came into being and how things were before it did. Consider the following passage from their book:

While work is common to every society, under capitalism it takes on historically unique qualities. In pre-capitalist societies, work was necessary, but people had shared access to land, subsistence farming and the necessary means of survival. Peasants were poor but self-sufficient, and survival was not dependent on working for someone else. Capitalism changed all this. 

(Srnicek and Williams, 87)

This strikes me as being an ahistorical fiction. Part of the problem is that the authors don’t clearly delineate what they mean by a capitalist or pre-capitalist society, but I assume they mean to draw a line between the hunter-gatherer and agrarian societies that dominated the world before the industrial revolution of the 1700s. If so, then I think they are being generous to the merits of agrarian societies. Ian Morris’s recent book Foragers, Farmers and Fossil Fuels does a good job laying out the evidence we have regarding life in pre-capitalist societies (the broader thesis of Morris’s book is more uncertain, but it certainly fits within the historical materialist mode of analysis preferred by Marxists). It suggests that peasants in pre-capitalist societies were far from the egalitarian, self-sufficient freemen that Srnicek and Williams seem to suggest.

Despite my problems with the way in which Srnicek and Williams frame some of their argument, I think there is something important in what they have to say about the relationship between capitalism and unemployment:

…unemployment as we understand it today was an invention of capitalism. Having been torn away from their means of subsistence, for the first time in history a new ‘surplus population’ emerges that is unable to find wages work. 

(Srnicek and Williams, 87)

What they point to in this passage is an interesting consequence of the capitalist mode of production. Capitalism is hugely impressive in its productive capacities. No one would deny this. If we compare the diversity of goods and services available to the average person today with what was available to even the richest of people 200 years ago, there is little doubt about the productive marvel of capitalism. But in this productivity, capitalism has a tendency to create and sustain surplus populations. That is: groups of people that are either permanently or occasionally unnecessary for that productivity.

Understanding this tendency to create surplus populations is crucial to understanding what Srnicek and Williams call the current ‘crisis’ of work, and the need to imagine a postwork world. There are three reasons for this:

1. The surplus population is on the rise: Fewer and fewer people (percentage-wise) are needed to keep the wheels of capitalism turning. At one point, Srnicek and Williams cite studies suggesting that the global number of unemployed outweighs the number of employed. This is tricky to estimate, but even if it is not true, there is evidence suggesting that surplus populations are on this rise. There has been an increase in the ‘natural’ rate of unemployment in developed economies, from around 1 to 2 percent in the 1950s and 60s, to about 5.5 percent today (in the US - higher again in Europe); there has been a decline in the labour force participation rate; a drop in the number of jobs being created worldwide; a significant rise in income inequality; a rise in the number of precarious forms of employment; and a series of innovations in the casualisation of labour (e.g. zero hour contracts). Each of these trends points toward an increasing surplus population.

2. Technology is, at least partly, responsible for this rise: This is something I have looked at ad nauseum on the blog before, but suffice to say Srnicek and Williams endorse the view that, at a minimum, technology is displacing many middle-skill jobs and leading to a significant polarisation in the labour market. The result is a few ‘superstars’ that benefit from the productive gains of technology, and a larger underclass of low-skill labour that find themselves in more precarious forms of work. Also, there is evidence of rapid de-industrialisation in some developing nations (such as China). In other words, these countries are seeing large numbers of manufacturing jobs disappear very soon after embracing full industrialisation. This also hints at the role of technology in the creation of surplus populations.

3. Surplus populations have important social repercussions: This point is obvious. If you have a large number of people not engaged with the machinery of capitalism, and if the entire economy and culture is organised around that machinery, you have a potential recipe for disaster. The surplus population becomes increasingly disenfranchised and ends up being ‘managed’ in often inhumane ways. Srnicek and Williams point to the rise of slums, mass incarceration, and immigration controls as just some examples of this.

These three things — the rise of the surplus population; the role of technology in their creation; and the important social repercussions they can have — should give us some pause for thought. In particular, it should encourage us to rethink our attitude toward work and the work ethic.


2. Four Demands for the Post-Work Future
The work ethic is woven into the fabric of contemporary culture. Most of us grow up with the view that work is both virtuous and necessary. Paid employment is dignifying: it motivates us, allows us to provide for our families, and to generate a sense of self and pride. Indeed, this fondness for the work ethic is something that even the labour movement seems to have imbibed. For them, the problem is not so much the existence of work, but rather the conditions of employment. “Good jobs for all” is their rallying cry.

But how sustainable is this fondness for the work ethic? If Srnicek and Williams’s claims about the rise of surplus populations are accurate, then the answer would seem to be ‘not very’. If technological advances mean that fewer people are needed for high rates of economic productivity, then we need to start imagining a post-work world. This could be desirable for a number of reasons. Although there may be people who are deeply engaged and satisfied by what they do, there is reason to believe that they are in the minority. A Gallup poll in 2013, cited by Srnicek and Williams, found that only 13% of people worldwide were actually ‘engaged’ by what they did. Consequently, the authors think that creating a post-work world should be a major project for the political left, and that this project should be organised around four key demands:

Demand 1: Full Automation - We should not fear technology; we should embrace it. Improvements in automating technologies can free people from the drudgery and indignity of work. Furthermore, technological displacement is already happening (to at least some extent). This demand simply encourages us to push it as far as possible. That said, Srnicek and Williams accept that there may be limitations to how far we can go. Some of these might be technical, some economic. But one of the chief ones is likely to be the moral value we attach to work via the work ethic. This is something we should aim to dissolve.

Demand 2: Shorten the Working Week - This used to be one of the central aims of the labour movement, before it dropped out in the mid-20th century. Srnicek and Williams lament this, noting how the work-life balance has eroded over time. Nowadays, with 24/7 markets and communications technologies, we are constantly at the beck-and-call of work. To resist this, the demand for a shorter working week needs to resurface. Srnicek and Williams favour a demand for a three-day weekend. They do so for four reasons: (1) it will allow for increased leisure time; (2) it is necessary in an era of increasing automation; (3) it will benefit the environment (reductions in energy consumptions etc.) and (4) it can enhance the bargaining power of the working class. The last of these is defended on the grounds that a coordinated withdrawal of labour supply strengthens the bargaining position of the workers vis-a-vis the capitalists (this is the standard rationale behind strikes).

Demand 3: Universal Basic Income - This will be familiar to readers of this blog. The UBI is an income grant that is given to all citizens/persons within a particular political state irrespective of their willingness/ability to work. The UBI is a popular welfare reform strategy among both left and right. But one thing Srnicek and Williams insist upon in their demand is a uniquely leftist version of the proposal. To them, conservative arguments for the UBI are all about maintaining consumer demand in an era of increasing inequality and automation. This is not truly revolutionary in nature. They believe the case for the UBI should be grounded in an attempt to overthrow the political regime of capitalism, strengthen the hand of labour, rethink the value of work and challenge the gendered division of labour. To this end, they insist upon a UBI that is sufficient to live on, truly universal and supplementary to other forms of welfare.

Demand 4: Devalue the Work Ethic - The final demand brings us back to what I said about the work ethic at the start of this section. Srnicek and Williams think we are far too much in thrall to the ennobling power of work. Work has become the primary avenue for self-realisation. This needs to change. As they put it, ‘work, and the suffering that accompanies it, should not be glorified’ (2015, 125). This necessitates a change in our culture and willingness to articulate a vision for a postwork world.

These four demands work together as an integrated whole. While they could be taken individually, Srnicek and Williams think it would be best if they were pursued side-by-side.

3. Concluding Thoughts
As I said at the outset, there is much here with which I sympathise. I too think it is important to take seriously the implications of technology for the economy and society. And I think the concept of surplus populations is a useful framing device for thinking about these concerns. I also agree with most of their proposed demands. That said, I have two quick concerns.

First, I am concerned that their four demands are not as coherent and consistent as they seem to think. In particular, I worry about the consistency of the demand for full automation with strengthening the hand of the labour movement. If it is true (or highly likely) that automating technologies can take over most forms of productive labour, then surely this weakens the bargaining power of the labour movement? The reason why strikes strengthen bargaining power is because you need workers to perform certain roles. When train drivers go on strike in London, everyone notices and starts to complain. They need the human workers to run the train system. This mounts pressure on employers to reach some settlement with the workers (provided the public doesn’t also turn against the workers). In a world of ‘full’ automation, I fail to see how this will continue to be the case. It seems to me like the demand for full automation must go hand in hand with recognition of the depleting power of the labour movement as a whole. This might be a naive and obvious point, but I don’t see it discussed anywhere in Srnicek and Williams’s book.

Second, as with many political tracts of this sort, I find Srnicek and Williams are better at rallying the troops and presenting a political platform for change than they are at mapping out the shape and form of the post-work society. In other words, they are good at describing the journey we ought to take, but not the destination we should reach. To them, demanding a postwork society is part of the emancipatory project of the left. I can see this being true, and I have written about the relationship between work and freedom in the past. But emancipation to do what exactly? We get some hints in their final chapter. The result will not be an ‘end of history’, they say. Society will continue to evolve, but it will be a society in which people are free to conduct more experiments in living:

The synthetic construction of freedom is the means by which human powers are to be developed. This freedom finds many different modes of expression, including economic and political ones, experiments with sexuality and reproductive structures, and the creation of new desires, expanded aesthetic capabilities, new forms of thought and reasoning, and ultimately entirely new modes of being human. The expansion of desires, of needs, of lifestyles, of communities, of ways of being, of capacities — are all invoked by the project of universal emancipation. This is a project of opening up the future… 

(Srnicek and Williams, 180-81 - references omitted)

While some of this sounds interesting — and echoes the desires of the transhumanist movement — it still seems maddeningly vague to me. I think those who are truly interested in imagining a postwork world would be well-advised to think more systematically about what it takes to live a full and meaningful life, and to assess whether that will be possible when people lack the economic motivation to work. I am intuitively optimistic in this regard, but the details remain clouded.

Philosophy of Consent and Sexual Assault (Index)

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I have written quite a few posts about the philosophy of consent and sexual assault over the past couple of years. This is obviously a controversial but important topic. For those who are interested, I have collected all the posts together in this handy index:

• Some notes on consent and sexual offences (Part One, Part Two) - An overview of some of the key issues in the philosophy of consent and the definition of sexual assault.

• Four Concepts of Consent and their Relevance to Sexual Offences - A detailed summary of Peter Westen's useful framework for thinking about consent and its role in the law of sexual offences.

• On Rubenfeld and the Riddle of Rape-by-Deception - My analysis and critique of Jed Rubenfeld's controversial take on rape-by-deception.

• Yes Means Yes: The Case for Affirmative Consent Standards in Sexual Offences: An attempt to present the best possible case for affirmative consent standards.

• Intoxicated Consent to Sexual Relations: A Map of Moral Claims: An effort to analyse the various moral positions one could take on the validity of consent whilst intoxicated.

• Voluntary Intoxication and Personal Responsibility: A follow up to the previous post, focusing on the link between intoxication and responsibility. Doesn't directly engage with the question of responsibility for sexual assault, though that lurks in the background.

• Drunken Consent to Sex and Personal Responsibility: An analysis of two arguments about the connection between personal responsibility and drunken consent to sex. The first, from Heidi Hurd, argues that anyone who is voluntarily intoxicated must take responsibility for their intoxicated consent to sex; the second, from Susan Estrich, argues the opposite. Both arguments are found lacking.

• A Rawlsian Approach to Intoxicated Consent to Sex? An outline of Alan Wertheimer's take on intoxicated consent to sex. Wertheimer thinks we can approach the setting of consent standards much like Rawls approaches the setting of standards of justice.  

• Sexual Assault, Consent Apps and Technological Solutionism - My critique of the recent attempts to use smartphone apps to address issues surrounding consent and sexual assault.

Commercial Surrogacy Debate - Opening Statement

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On 22 October 2015, I participated in a debate about the legalisation of commercial surrogacy (that's why I have been writing about the topic recently). Above you can find an audio version of my opening statement. This was a version that I recorded in advance to see whether what I had to say would fit within the allotted 15 minutes, but it should be pretty close to what I actually said.

When I initially agreed to participate in this debate, I was asked to argue against commercial surrogacy. In the week before the debate, I was asked to switch sides by the organisers, which I did. The very fact that I was willing to do so probably indicates that this is a topic about which I feel somewhat divided. In general, I lean in favour of legalising most things (e.g. drug use, sex work), but prior to this debate I had never really thought about the surrogacy issue. On balance, I think legalisation is probably the better option, largely for reasons I expressed in a previous blog post (and repeat in my opening statement), but I'm not sure.

Anyway, you can listen to what I had to say above. Before you do, here are a few listening notes:

• I really struggled to reduce what I wanted to say to 15 minutes. To do so, I had to skip over some of the nuances and grey areas in my argument. This was an interesting exercise for me as it was the first real public debate in which I participated with such time limits.

• In my initial definition of surrogacy (and later when responding to one of the anti-commodification arguments), I did not distinguish between genetic and gestational forms. I am aware of the distinction, but decided not to mention it because I felt my argument covered both types.

• I did not discuss all possible forms of the anti-commodification argument. I do a slightly better job of this in one of my previous blog posts.

• The empirical studies (or reviews of such studies) that I mention in the speech are more complex than I let on. Although I stand by the claim that surrogacy agreements in developed countries are pretty well implemented, I appreciate there have been problems with them too. 

• The studies I mention can be found here, here and here.

• I am aware of issues associated with exploitation and consent in surrogacy agreements. I discuss them at greater length here, but I did not have time to address them in my opening speech. The idea was that the third argument I offered could address these concerns.

If you care, the proposition won the debate (i.e. the audience voted in favour of commercialisation), but I view this as being virtually meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

The Ethics of Commercial Surrogacy: Gender Inequality Arguments

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(Previous Entry)

This is a follow-up to my previous post on Debra Satz’s analysis of commercial surrogacy. In that post, I reviewed three classic objections to surrogacy and presented some of Satz’s critiques of those objections. As I mentioned, this was a ground-clearing exercise. Although Satz’s thinks that the traditional objections are flawed, she is not herself a supporter of commercial surrogacy (to be precise, she is not a supporter of ‘contract pregnancy’, which makes the target and conclusion of her arguments less clear — I’ll return to this point below).

She thinks there is something deeply troubling about commercial surrogacy arrangements, particularly when facilitated by for-profit intermediaries (so-called ‘surrogacy brokers’). She thinks that commercial surrogacy serves to reinforce systematic gender (and other) inequalities. This gives us a sufficient reason to oppose its legalisation (at least, I think that’s what she believes — as I say, it’s not entirely clear).

In this post, I want to go through her main argument. I’ll do so in three parts. First, I’ll outline the basic structure of the argument. Second, I’ll look at her defence of the key premise in this argument. And third, I’ll offer some critical reflections on that argument. As you shall see, although I appreciate the concerns that Satz raises, I’m not convinced that opposing commercialised surrogacy is the best way to correct for systematic gender (and other) inequalities.


1. The Systematic Inequality Argument
Satz’s argument works off two assumptions. It’s worth making these explicit because if you don’t share them the argument is unlikely to be persuasive. That said, I expect pretty much everyone will share these assumptions.

The first is simply that women have been (probably still are) victims of systematic gender inequality. This seems unexceptionable. It is certainly true that women’s lives and (importantly) women’s bodies have been controlled and limited by oppressive legal-moral regimes in the past; and it is probably true that they still are (though the situation has undoubtedly improved in most developed countries). I’m being equivocal on this latter point because it doesn’t need to be true for the argument to work. It is enough that there was historical oppression and that society needs to guard against slipping back into it.

The second assumption is that surrogacy is a peculiarly female-dominated form of labour. This also seems unexceptional. There are many forms of employment that are, for historical, cultural and maybe biological reasons, female-dominated. Examples would include certain forms of teaching, care work, cleaning, secretarial work and sex work (the latter often being analogised or compared with surrogacy in ethical debates). But you don’t have to be female to perform these kinds of work. Men can and do work in these jobs. That’s not true of surrogacy: to be a surrogate you must have the biological characteristics of a female (it is true that some transgender males could work as surrogates, but only if they have these characteristics). This means that surrogates will tend (overwhelmingly) to be cisgendered females. This makes gender inequality arguments particularly salient when it comes to debates about surrogacy.

With those two assumptions in place, we can develop the argument proper. It works a little something like this:

• (1) If commercial surrogacy reinforces and perpetuates systematic gender (and other) inequalities, it ought to be prohibited.

• (2) Commercial surrogacy does (or is likely to) reinforce and perpetuate systematic gender (and other) inequalities.

• (3) Therefore, commercial surrogacy ought to be prohibited.

The argument looks logically valid, but is it any good? We can grant the motivating moral principle stated in premise (1). Gender (and certain other) inequalities are widely recognised as being bad things, and it is generally agreed that we should seek to minimise and mitigate their occurrence (there may be some dispute about the merits of some modicum of income inequality but I don’t know of anyone who thinks we should seek to maximise income inequality). Whether that should lead us to prohibit or ban commercial surrogacy is slightly more dubious, but I will grant the claim for now.

That makes premise (2) critical. Satz proffers an elaborate defence. Let’s look at the details.


2. Does Surrogacy Reinforce and Perpetuate Inequalities?
Satz’s defence of premise (2) has four main prongs. The first three are all concerned with the various ways in which commercial surrogacy can (and does) reinforce and perpetuate gender inequality. The fourth limb notes how these gender inequality effects may compound on top of other socially problematic forms of inequality (e.g. racial or income). Satz doesn’t make much of this fourth limb, only really noting it in passing. She focuses her energy on the first three.

The first prong of the defence is concerned with the effect of surrogacy contracts on women’s bodies. Such contracts often try to exert significant levels of bodily control. As Satz puts it:

Pregnancy contracts involve substantial control over women’s bodies. Such provisions include agreements concerning medical treatment, the conditions under which the surrogate agrees to undergo an abortion, and regulation of the surrogate’s emotions. Thus, in the case of Baby M [a famous surrogacy case], Mary Beth Whitehead not only consented to refrain from forming or attempting to form any relationship with the child she would conceive, but she also agreed not to smoke cigarettes, drink alcoholic beverages, or take medications without written consent from her physician. She also agreed to undergo amniocentesis and to abort the fetus. 

(Satz 2010, 129)

For Satz the critical point is not just that the contracts exert significant control over the body — other employment contracts can do the same and be relatively unobjectionable — it is the fact that the body in question belongs to a woman:

…the issue is that in contract pregnancy the body that is controlled belongs to a woman, in a society that historically has subordinated women’s interests to those of men, primarily through its control over women’s sexuality and reproduction. 

(Satz 2010, 129)

Defenders of surrogacy will intervene at this point and argue that some appropriate regulation could be introduced to correct for these negative effects. But Satz argues that it will be difficult to come up with such regulations. The purpose of a contract pregnancy, after all, is to produce a healthy baby and “[t]o help guarantee a healthy baby, a woman’s behaviour must be highly controlled” (Satz 2010, 129).

The second prong of her argument focuses on stereotyping. As she sees it, the rise of contract pregnancy will serve to reinforce negative stereotypes about women being ‘baby machines’. Satz has a somewhat nuanced view of stereotypes and their negative effects. She admits that stereotypes can be empirically grounded. Her concern is that even when empirically grounded they will end up being ‘self-confirming’. People who are affected by the negative stereotype will start to conform and adapt to social expectations, and thus we get a negative feedback cycle:

In early twentieth century America few women aspired to be doctors; their ambitions were powerfully shaped by the structure of opportunity, but also by the expectations that they and others had about their role in the household. If the practice of contract pregnancy were to become common and widespread, it might affect the way all women see themselves. 

(Satz 2010, 130)

This brings us to the third prong of her argument. This one focuses on the social and legal understanding of motherhood. Satz worries that if contract pregnancy is normalised motherhood will start to be understood solely in terms of genetic contribution to offspring and not (also) in terms of gestational contribution. To support the concern, she refers back to the Baby M case, in which a surrogate mother won back parental rights because she was also the genetic mother. This is then contrasted with the case of Anna Johnson, another surrogate, who lost parental rights because she was not the genetic mother. Satz explains the problem like this:

By not taking women’s actual gestational contributions into account, the courts reinforce an old stereotype of women as merely the incubators of men’s seeds…By defining women’s rights and contributions in terms of those of men, when they are different, the courts fail to recognize an adequate basis for women’s rights and needs. These rulings place an additional burden on women. 

(Satz 2010, 131)

These three prongs form the major part of Satz’s argument. She does, however, add to them the further observation that gender inequalities may tend to compound on top of other social inequalities. Thus, for instance, the kinds of women who will end up being surrogates may tend to be from lower-income households, or be members of racial and ethnic minorities. I discussed some of these concerns in a previous post about transnational surrogacy.

I’ve tried to summarise Satz’s defence of premise (2) in the argument diagram below.

3. Three Concerns about Satz’s Argument
What should we make of all this? I certainly wouldn’t deny the potential for surrogacy to compound and reinforce gender (and other) inequalities. As I noted earlier, surrogacy is going to be a strongly female-dominated form of labour due to current biological constraints. So there is no doubt that its legalisation will add to the gendered division of labour. But I’m not convinced that this, by itself, is a sufficient reason to oppose legalising its commercial form. I have three concerns in particular about Satz’s argument.

First, I worry that it relies too heavily on initially plausible, but on reflection somewhat dubious, quasi-empirical claims. For instance, her talk about how normalisation of contract pregnancy could reinforce negative stereotypes, or about how women’s bodies will need to be closely controlled in order to ensure a healthy baby, or about the effect of normalisation on society’s understanding of motherhood. These are all empirical claims but they are somewhat speculative in nature. As best I can tell, Satz cites no evidence in support of these claims (although she does use court cases to support some aspects). I would like to have something more empirically robust. For example, I have my doubts about whether surrogacy agreements would require close control over a woman’s body. This claim seems to assume and reinforce a negative stereotype — viz. that a surrogate mother would be reckless and would not have the interests of the child she is carrying at heart. Furthermore, Satz’s discussion ignores the existing empirical research on surrogacy practices and the experiences of surrogate mothers. Jenni Millbank reviews much of this evidence in a recent article and concludes that most surrogacy agreements are well-implemented and that the practice provides satisfaction for the women who engage in it. Likewise, Satz ignores the ways in which paid surrogacy may be used by women to overcome pre-existing social-economic disadvantages.

Second, I don’t think Satz does a good job of convincing us that regulation is not an appropriate solution to the problems she raises. For example, in relation to the claim that surrogacy agreements involve significant levels of control over a woman’s body, Satz dismisses the case for regulation on the grounds that it would be difficult to negate this given the purpose of the contract. But I’m not at all convinced that this is true. As I just noted, Satz’s defence of this claim rests on a somewhat dubious assumption about the (reckless) proclivities of the surrogate mother. More importantly, Satz’s problem seems to be with a situation in which the intended parents have all the bargaining power. But you could set up a regulatory regime in which the surrogate has most of the bargaining power. You could make surrogacy agreements a very special kind of contract in which nearly all the risk is absorbed by the intended parents, or in which there are extra protections for the gestational privacy of the surrogate (e.g. no right to require an abortion).* Furthermore, as Millbank points out, there are ways in which professional intermediaries (i.e. people who screen, counsel and match surrogates to intended parents) can help to minimise the risks associated with surrogacy contracts.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I don’t think Satz’s argument does enough to explain why prohibition is the preferred alternative. I think applied ethical arguments should always be evaluated in comparative terms: is the proposal that is on the table better than the alternatives and the current status quo? When assessed in these comparative terms, I don’t think Satz’s argument does the necessary work. Part of the problem is that she just isn’t very clear about the overall conclusion she wants us to reach. She speaks against ‘contract pregnancy’ but then at other times seems to suggest the need for regulated contracts, or for contracts that are permitted but ‘unenforceable in the courts’ (Satz 2010, 131). This leaves me confused, so I’ll just offer my own analysis of the situation.

Assume that there are three broad possibilities when it comes to surrogacy agreements: (i) they could be criminalised or, at least, not legally recognised; (ii) they could be permitted but only on an altruistic (i.e. not for-profit) basis; or (iii) they could be permitted on a commercial basis (i.e. surrogates should be paid). The latter is consistent with a high degree of regulation and protection for the surrogate. Indeed, the market for surrogacy services could even be run entirely by the government if you like. The key is simply that surrogates are paid for their services beyond medical and living expenses. Of those three possibilities, I suspect that (iii) is the preferred alternative, even for someone who is concerned about gender (and other) social inequalities.

Why do I think this? Well, (i) seems highly problematic. A complete ban would not negate the desire for surrogacy and it is very difficult to implement such bans (particularly given that some forms of surrogacy are not that technologically sophisticated). The result would be to drive the market underground and/or overseas to countries like India (see my previous post on this). This would arguably make the practice more exploitative and more regressive from a women’s rights perspective. This is one area in which an analogy with sex work might be appropriate. You may dislike sex work and find it morally problematic, but it is not at all clear that banning or criminalising it is the best way to protect the vulnerable people who work in the industry. Indeed, many sex workers and feminist activists argue the exact opposite. I think the same could be true of surrogacy.

That leaves us with (ii) and (iii). Both could work and could include important regulatory protections for the surrogate. The problem I have with (ii) is that it can be very difficult to police the boundary line between altruistic and commercial forms of surrogacy, and, furthermore, it is arguably more unfair and more exploitative than commercial forms. For instance, the UK permits ‘altruistic’ surrogacy and surrogates can be paid reasonable expenses of around £13,000. In some cases courts have authorised higher payments, but even the standard payment often amounts to commercialisation in all but name. The reality is that people often try to circumvent the law with other forms of payment. Similarly, in countries like Australia and Canada altruistic surrogacy agreements are permitted in which intermediaries (fertility clinics and the like) are allowed to profit from the agreements but surrogates are not. The Marxist within me recoils at this: why should these intermediaries be allowed to extract all the profit from the surrogate’s labour? What is so terrible about her taking some form of compensation? You could even argue that assigning an economic value to her gestational labour sends an important social signal. It indicates that this is a type of labour that deserves some economic reward. Furthermore, as pointed out above, providing such an economic reward may provide a means for some women to ameliorate their social-economic disadvantage. Altruistic surrogacy doesn’t permit this.

So, in the end, even if commercial surrogacy is not ideal from a gender equality perspective, it seems to be better than the alternatives. The sad fact is that we live in a morally imperfect world and our attempts to set policy need to take this into account.


* Despite some sensational news stories, I am not aware of any case in a developed country, like the US, where a woman has been forced to undergo an abortion under a surrogacy agreement.