A world without computers is unthinkable: they give us speed, precision, and possibilities—from a tractor plowing a field to a robot stitching a artery. But as work transforms, can our minds keep pace or does they break under the weight? After seeing how technology organizes the present and rewrites the past, we now ask ourselves: does it help us feel better or does it consume us internally? It's not just a matter of doing more, faster: it's our minds that must hold up, between screens that never turn off and unforgiving rhythms. I bring you into this fragile balance, between what we earn and what we leave on the table—because progress has a cost, and we pay it with our calm.
A bumpy ride: from muscles to monitors
Machines were born to relieve us of our labor: in the 60s, they mechanized fields and factories, freeing up our muscles—a farmer drove a tractor instead of a hand-pushed plow. Then, the automation of the 70s coordinated shifts and supplies, the computers of the 80s made decisions, robots operated: a steel arm sewed a valve instead of a surgeon, a line assembled cars without pause. Today, ICT keeps us connected everywhere, always—an employee sends reports from the couch, a foreman monitors a night shift via an app.
A teacher uses a tablet instead of a blackboard: fast, but he feels like a stranger among students who have been tapping away at screens since birth, while he struggled with chalk and an eraser. Taylor and Ford have kept us in line —tasks broken down into minimal gestures, chains sliding before steady hands—but now we don't produce, we control. A pilot glances at the onboard computer: the plane flies alone, he waits, ready to intervene only if an alarm sounds. The mind adapts, bends, but sometimes gets lost—between the boredom of watching and the tension of an unexpected event, well-being falters.
Trust: the key that opens or closes
We use technology if we trust it—and how much we trust changes everything. Sheridan (2002) explains: there are ten steps between you controlling every step and the machine doing everything by itself. A courier follows a delivery app: if it's clear, he navigates smoothly through alleys and packages; if he gets confused by absurd routes, he gives up and asks a passerby for directions. Too much trust, and a technician ignores a false alarm—a tank leaks, but the screen says "all ok"; too little, and a driver ignores the GPS, ending up stuck in traffic for hours. Context matters: a boss who explains the system makes him a companion, a breakdown turns him into a rival. Hancock makes it clear: we can be masters, servants, or slaves—it's up to us. But if we feel useless—a supervisor simply staring at a monitor while the robot dances—our mind shuts down, anxiety mounts, and our sense of self slowly fades.
Designing for the mind, not just the machine
Technology isn't the problem, it's the people who create it. A rigid system stresses: a worker in front of a chaotic monitor—scattered numbers, vague signals—makes a mistake and gets angry, perhaps halting a line for an avoidable error. One designed for people helps: a simple panel, with clear data and a prominent alarm, guides them without overwhelming them. It requires autonomy—setting your own pace, not chasing incessant beeps—and a sense of competence—knowing that your eye still counts, not just the chip. A company tries: it asks warehouse workers "what do you need?", and an app is born that alerts only when necessary, not every time a box is moved. Designers, managers, and workers together: it's not a luxury, it's the way to avoid collapse. A driver uses a GPS that learns his habits—it doesn't overwhelm him, it works alongside him. Because a calm mind works better—and a machine, alone, will never understand that.
References
Sheridan, T.B. (2002) Humans and Automation: System Design and Research Issues
Santa Monica, CA: John Wiley & Sons.
