In which the curmudgeonly old sod puts the world to rights.
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A complicated system that is so hard to brute-force solve — and I mean a lot harder than draughts or chess, that it is, in Daniel Susskind’s mind, compelling evidence that we will shortly be good for little more than pleasant intellectual onanism while the machines harvest our vital fluids for battery juice and wage wars on each other above ground in a post-apocalyptic waste-land.