Who Does Elon Love?
In the theater of our modern technological age, few figures loom as large as Elon Musk. His ventures reach from the depths of the earth to the edges of space, his influence stretches from financial markets to governmental policy, and his voice—amplified by his ownership of a global communications platform—shapes public discourse for millions. We analyze his business decisions, his political alignments, his provocations and proclamations. But perhaps the most revealing question we can ask about someone wielding such extraordinary power is the simplest: Who does Elon love?
This isn't idle psychoanalysis. The objects of our love—what we ultimately care about, what we're willing to sacrifice for, what we place at the center of our value system—shape our vision for how society should be organized and who should have power within it. For a figure with Musk's influence, these orientations of care have profound implications for all of us.
Musk's pattern of behavior suggests he loves ideas, visions, and systems rather than people or institutions. He demonstrates passion for technological breakthroughs, for ambitious engineering challenges, for humanity's potential future—but shows remarkably little attachment to the present human reality with all its messy complexities and needs.
Consider how he approaches his companies. Each represents not just a business venture but a grand civilizational mission: Tesla aims to accelerate the world's transition to sustainable energy. SpaceX works to make humanity multi-planetary. Neuralink promises to merge human consciousness with artificial intelligence. These aren't mere corporate mission statements; they're existential projects. Musk genuinely seems to love these ideas—these abstract futures he's working to create.
Yet his treatment of the actual humans who help build these futures reveals a striking disconnect. The well-documented grueling work conditions at his companies, his cavalier firing practices, his public humiliation of employees who disagree with him—all suggest someone who values human capital primarily as instrumental to realizing his visions rather than as inherently worthy of care and consideration.
Musk appears to love the grand narrative of himself as a world-historical figure—a protagonist in a cosmic drama of species survival and interplanetary expansion. His persistent self-mythology, from comparisons to Iron Man to his insistence that his actions are motivated by saving humanity, reveals someone deeply invested in his own heroic stature.
This self-conception isn't merely ego (though there's certainly that). It reflects a particular worldview—one where history is shaped primarily by exceptional individuals rather than collective institutions or social movements. Musk's need to be at the center of every narrative isn't just ego—it reflects a belief that history should be shaped by “great men,” not democratic processes. And that belief shapes how he wields power.
His love of this protagonist role manifests in his reflexive hostility toward criticism, his need to dominate conversations, and his inability to acknowledge expertise outside his own. It's not just that he wants to be right—he needs to be the one who is right, the indispensable figure at the center of every narrative that matters.
Musk's ability to execute complex projects does not make him a safeguard against authoritarian chaos—it makes him its most effective instrument. His technical competence combined with his protagonist complex creates something potentially more dangerous than mere demagoguery: the rationalization of autocracy, the optimization of control, the engineering of power unconstrained by democratic feedback.
What's notably absent in Musk's pattern of behavior is evidence of deep love for democratic institutions, for the delicate social contracts that enable cooperative society, or for the human-scale communities that sustain most people's lives.
His oft-stated contempt for regulatory bodies, elected officials, and public-sector expertise reveals someone who sees democratic governance primarily as an impediment to progress rather than its guardian. His approach to Twitter/X—dismantling trust and safety systems, amplifying conspiracy theories, attacking journalists—suggests little concern for the civic information ecosystem necessary for democratic function.
Even his much-proclaimed love of “free speech” appears selective, applying primarily to speech he agrees with or speech that doesn't challenge his companies' interests. It's not the principled love of open discourse that undergirds democratic society, but rather a more instrumental view of communication as a tool for influence and control.
Perhaps the most revealing aspect of Musk's orientation is that he seems to love humanity as an abstract concept—particularly humanity's potential future—more than individual humans in all their flawed complexity.
This is the techno-futurist's version of loving “mankind” but not people. It's a perspective that can justify tremendous disruption to existing human communities and relationships in service of abstract notions of progress or survival. It can rationalize suffering in the present as necessary sacrifice for a hypothetical future good.
We see this in Musk's Mars colonization rhetoric—the willingness to spend billions on establishing a human presence on another planet while showing relative indifference to pressing human needs on the one we already inhabit. We see it in his apocalyptic AI warnings alongside his aggressive pursuit of autonomous systems. We see it in his stated concern for humanity's future while undermining the climate science consensus that might help secure that future.
True democratic leadership requires loving humanity as it exists—not as a theoretical construct. It demands patience for human complexity, not just engineering prowess. It requires embracing the messiness of democratic deliberation rather than imposing solutions from above. Musk's vision, for all its ambition, has no room for this kind of love.
The fundamental tragedy may be that Musk loves an idealized version of humanity's future more than the actual humans living in the present. He loves the abstraction of freedom more than the concrete institutions that protect it. He loves the idea of Mars as humanity's backup drive more than Earth as our shared home.
This pattern of love—ideas over people, self-narrative over community, future potential over present reality—isn't unique to Musk. It reflects a broader techno-libertarian worldview that has gained extraordinary influence in our society, one that prioritizes grand technological visions and individual greatness over social bonds and democratic processes.
Understanding who Elon loves helps us understand the world he's working to create—a world where technological “solutions” are imposed from above rather than developed through democratic deliberation, where efficiency trumps solidarity, where the future is designed by self-appointed visionaries rather than collectively negotiated.
This isn't to suggest that Musk's technological ambitions are without value or that his concerns about existential risk are unfounded. But a society shaped primarily by these loves—these particular orientations of care—would be profoundly different from one built on democratic principles and communal responsibility.
Two plus two equals four. There are twenty-four hours in a day. And who we love—what we ultimately care about, what we're willing to sacrifice for—reveals more about our vision for humanity than all our stated intentions and proclamations. In asking who Elon loves, we're really asking what kind of future we're racing toward under the influence of those who share his loves and priorities.
A future shaped by Musk's loves would be efficient, optimized, and profoundly lonely. A society built on democratic love would be messier, slower—but it would be built for people, not just progress. The choice is ours. The question is not merely academic but existential: will we surrender our future to those who love ideas more than people, or will we insist on a world shaped by more humane loves—loves that recognize both our limitations and our dignity, our need for both innovation and connection?
Perhaps it's time to ask ourselves not just who Elon loves, but what kind of loves should be shaping our collective future.
I couldn’t agree more. I think that Elon Musk does not understand or feel love for humanity beyond what humanity can lend to his own visions.
I will not surrender our future to those who love ideas more than people. Because you’re right, the base of who we are lies in our need for connection and the recognition of our limitations.
Elon Musk, despite all of his intellect and innovative ideas, lacks the understanding of what true love, empathy and compassion means.
He is a danger to the fundamental threads of humanity.
He must be removed.
A misanthropist with main character syndrome.