Repeating History's Mistakes: The Future of AI

In 2010, Mark Zuckerberg made a promise. Facebook, he said, would open the world, connect people across boundaries, make us closer, more understanding. And for a while, it seemed to work. Social media was celebrated. It was new, it was powerful… it was progress.

But as the years passed, a strange thing happened. The algorithms that were supposed to bring us together began doing something very different. Quietly, almost invisibly, they became machines of division and distortion. These algorithms learned to hook us with anger, isolate us in echo chambers, reward the loudest, most polarised voices. Zuckerberg’s innocent “engagement algorithm” was now amplifying fear and hatred. And as we scrolled, endlessly, something else was happening, too: we were growing more divided, more distracted, more anxious.

The Riddle of Easter Island

This is not the first time humanity has been enchanted by the promise of progress, only to find something darker lurking beneath it. It’s a story as old as civilization itself. And it brings us to a much older mystery: a riddle posed by one of the most isolated places on Earth—a place called Rapa Nui, better known as Easter Island.

When European explorers first arrived on Easter Island in the 18th century, they were baffled. Here was a tiny, windswept island in the Pacific Ocean, far from any mainland, yet somehow home to massive stone statues—the Moai—that stood watch over a barren landscape. The Europeans looked at these statues, at the strange emptiness of the island, and they asked themselves a question: how could a society on such a small, remote place create something so vast, so ambitious… and leave so little behind?

The answer to this riddle, as it gradually emerged, was chilling. The statues that had once been symbols of power and pride were now silent witnesses to the island’s ecological ruin. The Rapanui people, driven by a cultural imperative to build ever-larger statues, had cut down their last tree to transport these monolithic figures. With no wood left, they couldn’t build canoes to fish or provide for basic needs. Their ecosystem had been destroyed from within, not by an external enemy, but by their own hands.

The tragedy of Easter Island is not just a story of ecological collapse; it’s a warning. It shows how ambition, unchecked by foresight, can lead even the most advanced societies to ruin. And as we push forward with artificial intelligence and technological progress, the Rapa Nui story asks us an uncomfortable question: are we, too, cutting down our last trees in pursuit of progress?

Hubris: The Temptation to Control Nature

Humanity has always been tempted by hubris—the idea that with enough knowledge, we can bend the world to our will. For the Rapanui, this hubris took the form of their obsession with the Moai statues. They believed the statues brought spiritual power to their clans, that the bigger the statue, the greater the power. It was a logic that demanded more: more resources, more labor, more control over nature. But they didn’t see where that logic would lead them. By the time they realised what they had done, it was too late. The trees were gone, the soil was eroded, and the island could no longer sustain them.

Today, our modern-day hubris is found in Silicon Valley, where tech CEOs and engineers are driven by a similar faith in progress and a similar urge to control nature. They believe that with enough data, enough computing power, we can solve the world’s problems, even understand the human mind itself. They promise us that AI will cure diseases, fix education, even improve human relationships. But they don’t see the darker side of their ambition. Like the Rapanui, they are building something grand. Some have, of course, highlighted the risks. But hardly any seem to see the costs—costs that may only become clear after the last tree has been cut down.

Just as the Rapanui believed the Moai would bring them prosperity, today’s tech visionaries believe AI will bring a better future. But what they don’t see is that intelligence without wisdom is a dangerous thing. Algorithms can optimize, predict, calculate—but they cannot understand. They can’t feel empathy, or compassion, or joy. They don’t know what it means to be human. And in our rush to build this new, digital future, we risk forgetting what the Rapanui forgot: that some things cannot be controlled, and that real progress requires humility.

Overreach: The Tale of Pandora’s Box

Ancient Greek mythology gives us a story of overreach, one that feels unsettlingly relevant in the age of AI. The story of Pandora. Pandora, given a box by Zeus, was warned never to open it. But curiosity and ambition got the best of her, and when she lifted the lid, she unleashed suffering, strife, and hardship upon the world. It was only after the damage was done that she realized what she had set in motion.

In our world, overreach takes the form of technology that has moved beyond the realm of tools and into the fabric of our lives. Take healthcare. AI promises to make diagnoses faster, treatments more efficient, to even predict diseases before they happen. But as healthcare becomes more data-driven, more optimized, something human is slipping away. Medicine is not just about numbers and probabilities; it’s about compassion, trust, the simple act of being there for someone who is suffering. Algorithms can analyze symptoms, but they cannot offer comfort. They can prescribe treatment, but they cannot provide care.

Or consider education. We are told that AI can make learning more efficient, that it can tailor lessons to each student’s pace, identify gaps in understanding, optimize every moment. But education isn’t just about efficiency; it’s about curiosity, exploration, the messy, unpredictable process of growing up. Algorithms can teach students to pass tests, but they can’t teach them how to think, to question, to wonder. And as we push for more efficiency, more optimization, we risk turning our schools into factories that produce knowledge but starve the soul.

In the same way, the Rapanui’s drive to build bigger and bigger statues ultimately hollowed out their society, stripping it of the very resources it needed to survive. And in our drive to make life more efficient, more predictable, more optimized, we risk losing the very things that make life worth living.

Short-Term Thinking: The Failure to See Beyond Immediate Gains

The Rapanui, like us, were victims of short-term thinking. They wanted power, status, security, and they believed that bigger statues would bring it. But they couldn’t see the long-term cost of their actions. They couldn’t see that every tree they cut brought them closer to collapse. By the time they did, it was too late. The forest was gone, the soil was eroded, and their society had no way to sustain itself.

We, too, are driven by short-term thinking. The Industrial Revolution promised wealth and progress, but left us with polluted cities and a climate crisis. The Green Revolution promised to end hunger, but left us with soil degradation and pesticide-resistant pests. Today, AI promises to bring efficiency, to make life easier, faster, better. But what it doesn’t tell us is what it might take away.

A Missing Counterweight: Lessons from the Arts, History, and Myth

The Rapanui were not the only ones to fall into the trap of progress. Throughout history, civilizations have risen and fallen by believing they could control the world around them. But the arts, history, and myth have always offered a counterweight to this logic. They remind us that life is complex, that some things cannot be controlled, that true progress requires not just intelligence but wisdom.

Pandora’s box, Frankenstein, Orwell’s 1984—these stories are not just fiction; they are warnings. They remind us of the dangers of hubris, the temptation to control what we do not fully understand. But in our rush toward the future, we have pushed these lessons aside. We have elevated science and technology as the only paths to progress, sidelining the arts, philosophy, and history as irrelevant. But if we ignore these stories, if we abandon the voices that warn of human limits, we risk repeating the mistakes of those who came before us.

Will We Learn? Or Are We Destined to Repeat the Past?

As we stand on the brink of a new technological revolution, the question remains: will we learn from the story of Rapa Nui, or are we destined to repeat it? Because AI, like the Moai statues, is both a marvel and a warning. It shows us what we are capable of, but it also reveals the risks of a world driven by hubris, overreach, and short-term thinking.

In the end, the riddle of Easter Island is not just about a society that collapsed; it’s a reflection of our present and a warning for our future. Just as the Rapanui pushed forward, convinced they were building something of lasting value, we too are racing toward a future shaped by artificial intelligence, convinced it will bring a new era of prosperity. But if we look closely, we see the same patterns, the same dangers lurking beneath the surface.

The story of Rapa Nui asks us to pause. To remember that true progress is not just about building bigger, faster, smarter machines. It’s about understanding ourselves, our limits, and the delicate balance that sustains life. It’s about seeing that the real path to a better world lies not in dominating nature, but in learning to live within it.

If we continue to ignore these lessons, we may find ourselves, one day, standing in a world transformed but empty, a world hollowed out by ambition and technology, a monument to our own short-sightedness. Perhaps the most radical thing we can do… is to stop, to listen, and to ask whether we are, once again, cutting down our last trees.