During the Super Bowl, Anthropic ran a dystopian AI ad about dystopian AI ads featuring an AI android physical trainer hawking insoles to a user who only asked for an ab workout. Not to be outdone, Amazon ran a commercial for its AI assistant Alexa+ in which Chris Hemsworth fretted over all the different ways AI might kill him, including severing his head and drowning him in his pool. Equally bleak, the telehealth company Hims & Hers ran an ad titled “RICH PEOPLE LIVE LONGER” in which oligarchs access such healthcare luxuries as facelifts, bespoke IVs, and “preventative care” to live longer than the rest of us. It was an anti-billionaire ad by a multibillion-dollar healthcare company.
Turn on the TV today, and you will drown in a sea of ads in which capitalists denounce capitalism. Think of the PNC Bank ads where parents sell their children’s naming rights a la sports stadiums for the money to raise them or the Robinhood ads where a white-haired older man, perhaps meant to evoke Bernie Sanders or Jeremy Corbyn, curses the “men of means with their silver spoons eating up the financial favors of the one percent” from the deck of a yacht.
After years of ingesting the mainstream discourse around surveillance capitalism, Occupy Wall Street, and democratic socialism, corporations are regurgitating and even surpassing the rhetoric of the modern left. Naturally, it’s all a winking sleight of hand meant to corral us back into engaging with the same capitalism they portray as a hellscape — but with new and improved privatized solutions. In another widely reviled Super Bowl ad, the video doorbell company Ring tells us that every year, 10 million family pets go missing, and by opting into a web of mass surveillance, the company has reunited “more than a dog a day” with their families.
Modern advertisers descend from those ad men of the 1960s who first perfected the art of channeling our angst with society writ large into buying more junk. As historian Thomas Frank wrote in his book “The Conquest of Cool,” midcentury advertisers constructed “a cultural perpetual motion machine in which disgust with the … everyday oppressions of consumer society could be enlisted to drive the ever-accelerating wheels of consumption.”
The machine has hummed on ever since, retrofitting capitalism’s reprimands into its rationales. It churns out commercials reframing the precariat’s pain not as the product of plutocracy but as the product of buying the wrong products. Advertisements pitch that the good life is to be secured by procuring high quality goods, by curating the right combination of AI assistants, locally crafted beer, paraben-free dryer sheets, Jimmy Dean breakfast biscuits, Capital One Venture X points, BetMGM spreads, Coinbase crypto wallets, on and on.
It’s lunacy. Buying Levi’s won’t give you deep pockets. Brand promises, like all promises, are made to be broken. As AI anxiety fueled fears of mass layoffs, Coca-Cola soothed American workers’ worries about “AI coming for everything” with a glossy 2025 Super Bowl ad, featuring Lauren London, where the gleaming actress flexed her dimples and told us everything would be all right. Ten months later, Coke automated its advertising with generative videos, replacing the actors they’d paid to soothe our worries about being replaced by AI with AI itself.
I’m tempted to propose a small experiment, if anyone wants to try it.
Hold this frame in mind, then go watch a live walk through any major downtown. Tokyo is a good example, but anywhere dense works as long as you can see people’s faces. Don’t analyze yet. Just watch the ads, the screens, the signage. Then watch the faces moving past them.
Last week in Shibuya I noticed something that stuck with me. People wearing large electronic ad boards on their bodies, moving in coordinated packs through the crossings. Literal walking billboards. It felt like escalation. Not confidence. Desperation.
What I keep noticing isn’t outrage or engagement so much as flattening. The ads are louder, more animated, more self-aware. The delivery systems are becoming more intrusive and physical. But the faces moving past them are tired, inward, already elsewhere. It doesn’t feel like persuasion happening in real time. It feels like two systems passing through each other with minimal contact.
There’s a long-standing observation that societies can look healthy right up until they aren’t. Japan is undergoing a severe demographic contraction, and yet the surface still looks immaculate, hyperfunctional, optimized. The signals say vitality. The underlying trajectories say something else.
I don’t think this is about Japan specifically. It just makes the contrast easier to see. When meaning thins out, systems get very good at looking alive. Ads keep acknowledging the problem. Infrastructure keeps humming. People keep moving.
What struck me in Shibuya was the sense that advertisers already know this. The escalation feels like an admission. If the old signals worked, they wouldn’t need to strap screens to human bodies and march them through crowds.
And it didn’t look like it was helping.
What’s harder to spot is where imagination, trust, and shared future quietly step out of frame.