The Limits of Dismissal

Power, Meaning, and the Trouble with Closing the Argument Too Soon

Noah Smith

's piece this morning “The 'corporate feudalism' thing won't work” arrives at an interesting moment in our ongoing dialogue. Smith, understandably, felt I mischaracterized his position in my earlier piece "The Limits of Description." I offered to provide correction if he would clarify his views, but that conversation remains unresolved. Now, with Musk conspicuously becoming one of Smith's followers (as announced by @BigTechAlert), we find ourselves in a perfect illustration of the very tensions my work explores—between empirical description and ideological meaning-making, between individual intent and systemic patterns of influence.

I acknowledge that Smith may feel this response continues to misrepresent his views. That's not my intention. Rather, I'm attempting to engage with the substance of his argument while illuminating the philosophical tensions that underlie our different approaches. This is not about personal disagreement but about the productive friction between different modes of analysis.

Smith's argument, empirically grounded as always, is that Democrats lost the 2024 election not because they were insufficiently concerned with corporate power, but because they focused on the wrong issues—issues that elite progressives care about rather than those that move average voters. This analysis has considerable merit. Smith correctly identifies that antitrust actions against tech giants generated little popular enthusiasm and that “greedflation” narratives (the idea that corporate greed drove inflation) contradicted empirical evidence. Two plus two equals four, and the data doesn't support claims that corporate markups drove post-pandemic inflation.

Where our approaches diverge is not primarily in the empirical claims, but in how we frame the significance of those claims. Smith treats corporate power primarily as a failed messaging strategy rather than as a structural reality with profound implications for democratic governance. By framing the entire question around what will “work” to win elections, Smith's analysis performs a subtle but significant reduction—collapsing the multidimensional question of corporate power into the single dimension of political messaging. This framing sidesteps deeper questions about how concentrated economic power reshapes the landscape in which democratic politics operates, regardless of whether these concerns make for effective campaign slogans.

Consider a concrete example: when Facebook (now Meta) acquires Instagram and WhatsApp, it's not just a business transaction. It fundamentally alters the information ecosystem in which political discourse occurs. Even if voters don't list “tech monopolies” as a top concern in polls, the ways these platforms shape attention, amplify certain voices, and filter information profoundly impact democratic processes. This structural influence operates whether or not it makes for effective campaign rhetoric.

The relationship between Smith's analysis and his podcast co-host Erik Torenberg's who thinks favorably of Curtis Yarvin's work provides another layer of complexity. Yarvin (who once wrote under the pseudonym Mencius Moldbug) is a controversial figure who advocates replacing democratic governance with corporate-style rule by a CEO-like figure. While Smith obviously bears no responsibility for his colleague's intellectual interests, this connection highlights how the boundaries between empirical analysis, ideological frameworks, and networks of influence often blur in ways that deserve attention.

Smith's most revealing statement comes when he acknowledges that “Elon was the only tech billionaire who has ended up grabbing significant amounts of political power.” This is presented as evidence that the “Neo-Brandeisian theory has a big hole in it” (referring to a school of antitrust thought that focuses on concentrated corporate power), but it actually demonstrates something more complex—that our system lacks effective guardrails when economic power does translate into extraordinary political influence. Musk's unprecedented role in the Department of Government Efficiency, with authority over federal agencies despite holding no official position or accountability, exemplifies how economic concentration can bypass democratic safeguards entirely.

That Musk has now turned his attention toward Smith's work after Smith positioned him as the exception creates a perfect case study in how power operates in our information ecosystem. This is not to suggest anything untoward about Smith's analysis or motives. Rather, it illustrates how power functions beyond formal institutional channels—how attention from the powerful shapes which ideas receive wider distribution and consideration.

The productive path forward isn't in determining whether Smith or I am “right” about corporate power, but in developing frameworks that integrate multiple perspectives—that recognize bedrock facts while also addressing the ways power shapes the context in which those facts acquire meaning. We can simultaneously acknowledge that many specific claims about corporate power driving inflation or housing costs were empirically incorrect, that anti-corporate messaging failed to resonate with voters, that the concentration of economic power creates structural challenges for democratic governance that extend beyond electoral strategy, and that the very discourse about power exists within systems shaped by the power differentials being discussed. These propositions can all be true simultaneously. The disagreement between Smith and myself isn't about empirical facts but about which facts matter most and what framework best interprets their significance.

Smith presents what appears to be a binary choice: focus on “real” issues like Trump's tariffs or waste time on elite concerns about corporate concentration that don't resonate with voters. But this framing misses the deeper connection between concentrated economic power and democratic erosion. Consider how Musk's acquisition of Twitter/X immediately reshaped public discourse, including how political figures communicate with the public and how certain viewpoints gain or lose prominence. This isn't just about a tech billionaire buying a company—it's about how private ownership of vital communication infrastructure gives unprecedented power to shape public understanding of political reality itself.

When Smith writes that “In some cases, corporate power is very real. In some cases, it's bad. But it's just not the omnipresent supervillain that Warrenite progressives would have you believe it is,” he's making a reasonable point about not oversimplifying complex economic realities. But his own framing risks a different oversimplification—treating concerns about structural power as merely an "anti-corporatist fantasy extended universe."

Smith's dismissal of corporate power concerns reveals its own ideological commitments when he psychologizes his opponents, suggesting their concerns stem from “class resentment” and “hatred for the 'tech bro' class.” This rhetorical move—reducing structural analysis to psychological motive—is itself deeply ideological. It transforms what should be a debate about systems, structures, and power into a question of individual psychology and taste.

The challenge for both Smith and myself isn't to prove the other wrong, but to develop more integrated approaches that don't force false choices between empirical analysis and structural critique, between immediate political strategy and longer-term systemic change. Smith concludes by arguing that Democrats should focus on more pressing threats—Trump's tariffs, tax cuts, and assault on democracy—rather than corporate power. But a deeper analysis would recognize how these phenomena are connected—how the weakening of democratic institutions, the rise of nationalist authoritarianism, and the concentration of economic power interact and reinforce each other.

For citizens navigating this complex landscape, the most valuable approach is developing what I call “epistemic liberalism”—the capacity to balance empirical facts with awareness of how power shapes their interpretation. This means maintaining commitment to empirical reality while recognizing how power operates through narrative frames; it means holding multiple causal factors in tension rather than seeking single explanations; it means developing literacy about how information environments are shaped by concentrated power. When we see how platform ownership influences what perspectives gain attention, we understand democracy not just as a system of voting but as a shared process of meaning-making that requires certain conditions to function.

This is the productive tension I advocate holding—not collapsing complex reality into simplified either/or choices, but maintaining the creative friction between different modes of analysis.

Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And the relationship between concentrated economic power and democratic politics is more complex than either progressive oversimplification or empiricist dismissal can capture.

Meaning is not given in the data alone. It emerges from the tensions we're willing to hold rather than resolve prematurely. Perhaps this ongoing dialogue between Smith's empirical rigor and my philosophical framework is itself an example of that productive tension at work.

“The liberty of a democracy is not safe if the people tolerate the growth of private power to a point where it becomes stronger than the democratic state itself. That in its essence is fascism: ownership of government by an individual, by a group, or by any controlling private power.” — Franklin D. Roosevelt, 1938