Civilization Can Be Crowdsourced and Other Foolish Dreams

There is a notion that has gained traction in the minds of the moderns, particularly among those who have mistaken the proliferation of technology for the advancement of wisdom: namely, the belief that civilization itself—its knowledge, its order, its values—can be crowdsourced. Like so many utopian ideas that appeal to the intellectually restless and the morally confused, this one rests upon a fundamental misunderstanding of human nature, history, and the conditions that make civilization possible.

This belief, like many fashionable delusions, rests on the sentimental assumption that wisdom is as widely distributed as access to a smartphone. That if enough people “weigh in,” virtue and truth will rise naturally to the top, like cream in a glass of milk. The reality, of course, is that in the marketplace of public opinion, it is not the cream that floats upward but the scum—the glib, the resentful, the shallow, and the shrill.

Of course, the myth is seductive. One can sit in a room lit by electricity, tapping upon a device manufactured through complex global supply chains, and imagine oneself part of a democratic, decentralized utopia of intellect. No longer must one toil through the dusty corridors of libraries, or submit to the severe judgments of editors, mentors, or canon. Wikipedia, Reddit, and the unrelenting swarm of social media platforms promise the illusion of spontaneous order—of a civilization constructed not by hard-won discernment but by the collective enthusiasms of the mob.

This is, of course, a fantasy, and an adolescent one at that. Civilization is not an emergent property of digital comment threads. It is, rather, a fragile and deeply hierarchical thing, the accumulated inheritance of tradition, reason, and discipline, maintained not by the will of the many but by the responsibility of the few. To think otherwise is to mistake graffiti for art, slogans for thought, and babble for debate.

Indeed, to crowdsourcing is attributed a kind of moral purity, as though the collective, by virtue of being collective, is ethically superior to the individual. But Rousseau's noble savage is never far behind these fantasies. One would like to believe that if we could just decentralize power, open-source our institutions, and make every decision subject to mass participation, the outcome would be more just, more inclusive, and more humane. The mob, we are told, is wise. But history—so ignored by the utopians—tells us otherwise. The crowd lynches before it deliberates; it chants slogans before it reads books; it destroys monuments before it understands the past they commemorate. Civilization is precisely that which disciplines the crowd, which contains its impulses within institutions, rituals, and rules. Needless to say, Athens gave us democracy, yes—but it also sentenced Socrates to death and launched ruinous wars at the urging of the mob.

The deeper danger of this delusion lies in its slow corrosion of authority. Not the authoritarianism of the despot, but the authority of the schoolteacher, the scholar, the parent, the priest—those whose labour once consisted in transmitting the difficult fruits of civilization to the young. Now, to assert any expertise is to be accused of elitism. “Who are you,” the acolytes of the digital commons ask, “to say what is true?” And thus do we arrive not at pluralism, but at an epistemological anarchy where all opinions are equal and none are valuable.

We forget that civilization was never the default condition of humanity. It is the exception, not the rule. It is constructed slowly, painfully, over generations, and may be lost in a matter of years. The idea that it may be sustained, or even improved, by an endless stream of anonymous commentary is worse than foolish; it is dangerous. It encourages the abdication of responsibility and the belief that wisdom can emerge from collective ignorance. But ignorance, however widely shared, is still ignorance.

The pathology behind this belief in crowdsourcing is, I suspect, deeper than mere naiveté. It is rooted in an unwillingness to confront the demands of civilization itself: discipline, hierarchy, responsibility, and the acceptance of limits. Civilization is not, after all, fun. It requires self-denial, which is precisely what our culture—addled by consumerism and infantilized by ideology—most abhors. The idea that civilization might emerge organically from the collective impulses of the untrained and undisciplined masses is not just foolish; it is an escape from adulthood.

Those who propose to crowdsource civilization do not, I notice, crowdsource their own medical operations or legal defenses. They do not invite a thousand anonymous strangers to perform their root canals or interpret their contracts. They do not let the wisdom of the masses perform heart surgery. No: for their own lives, they demand competence, experience, and expertise. It is only when it comes to society at large—where the costs are dispersed and the accountability vaporized—that they indulge their egalitarian fantasies.

Those who still care for civilization must resist this siren song. They must defend the value of tradition, the necessity of judgment, and the virtues of hierarchy—not as relics of oppression, but as the scaffolding that prevents the edifice from collapsing. 

Perhaps we are not crowdsourcing civilization. Perhaps we are surrendering it.

Image source: Christ Giving the Keys to Saint Peter by Pietro Perugino.