What is Metamodernism?
Chapter 4 of Technological Metamodernism
Previously:
Reader: Alright, you’ve been teasing this “metamodern approach” for three chapters now. I think I’ve been patient enough. What exactly is metamodernism? And more importantly, why should I care about yet another academic theory when we’re dealing with very real technological problems?
Hilma: Fair question. Metamodernism might sound like just another fancy neologism, but hear me out—because understanding this sensibility, this way of being in the world, might be exactly what we need to navigate this technological moment.
The term “metamodernism” emerged around 2010, coined by two Dutch cultural theorists, Timotheus Vermeulen and Robin van den Akker. They were trying to describe something they noticed in contemporary art and culture—a new mood, an approach that was neither modernist sincerity nor postmodernist irony, but something that somehow held both at once.
Reader: You lost me already. Modernist? Postmodernist? I thought we were talking about technology, not art history.
Hilma: Patience. These aren’t just art movements—they’re entire ways of seeing the world, complete worldviews that shaped everything from architecture to politics to how we think about truth itself. And to understand where metamodernism fits, we need to understand what came before.
Think of modernism as the worldview that emerged with the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution. Modernism said: the world is knowable, progress is real, science will set us free, reason can solve our problems. It’s the faith in grand narratives—stories about humanity’s march toward truth, freedom, prosperity. Democracy, human rights, technological advancement—these are all fundamentally modernist ideas.
Reader: Okay, so modernism is basically optimistic rationalism. What’s wrong with that?
Hilma: Nothing’s inherently wrong with it—but it’s incomplete. Postmodernism emerged in the mid-to-late 20th century as a critique of modernism’s confidence. Postmodernists said: wait, whose reason? Whose progress? Whose freedom? They pointed out that modernism’s universal truths often served particular interests. That science had been used to justify colonialism and eugenics. That progress for some meant exploitation for others.
Postmodernism became deeply skeptical of grand narratives, suspicious of claims to objective truth, alert to how power shapes knowledge. It emphasized irony, deconstruction, multiplicity, difference. Where modernism saw clarity, postmodernism saw complexity. Where modernism built systems, postmodernism took them apart.
Reader: So postmodernism is basically critical skepticism? The people who say “everything is a social construct”?
Hilma: That’s part of it, though it’s more nuanced than that caricature suggests. But yes—postmodernism excels at critique but struggles with construction. It can tell you why something won’t work, why your assumptions are flawed, why your solutions will reproduce the problems they claim to solve. What it can’t easily do is offer positive visions or constructive alternatives. It’s much better at tearing down than building up.
This is where metamodernism enters. Not as a rejection of either modernism or postmodernism, but as an attempt to navigate between them—or perhaps more accurately, to oscillate between them, holding both their insights in productive tension.
Perhaps the best known example of the metamodern sensibility in popular culture is Bo Burnham’s Inside, created during the COVID-19 lockdown. Consider “That Funny Feeling,” which lists seemingly random anxieties of modern life—reading terms of service, obeying traffic laws perfectly, the wrong way to use a comma—building toward “that funny feeling,” a nameless dread about late capitalism and climate collapse. But it’s set to a gentle, genuinely beautiful melody that moves you even as the lyrics catalogue civilizational decay.
You’re not sure whether to laugh or cry, and that ambiguity is the point. It’s a great example of ironic sincerity, a hallmark of the metamodern vibe—being deeply genuine while being fully aware of how ridiculous and inadequate your genuineness is, and refusing to resolve the tension between these positions.
Reader: That does sound like more and more of the art and comedy I encounter these days. But I’m still not sure why this matters for technology.
Hilma: Because we see this same pattern playing out in debates about technology. The techno-optimists have a modernist sensibility—progress is real, technology will save us, more is better. The techno-skeptics have a postmodernist sensibility—technology is about power, every solution creates new problems, we need to critique and resist.
Both positions have crucial insights. And both, taken alone, fail to adequately grapple with our technological moment. What we need is a metamodern mindset—one that can hold both technological hope and technological critique, that can be earnestly idealistic about what’s possible while being ironically aware of the patterns of failure, that can advocate for specific interventions while recognizing their limitations.
Reader: So metamodernism is just... pragmatic centrism? Taking the good bits from each side?
Hilma: God, no. That would be insufferably bland. Metamodernism isn’t about splitting differences or finding middle grounds. It’s about oscillating—moving between positions, feeling the full force of each perspective without getting stuck in either one.
Let me introduce you to someone who articulated this brilliantly: Hanzi Freinacht, the author of The Listening Society. And yes, before you ask—Hanzi Freinacht is a pseudonym created by two Swedish intellectuals, Emil Ejner Friis and Daniel Görtz. The pseudonymous authorship itself is wonderfully metamodern—simultaneously serious scholarship and playful performance.
Reader: Wait, so this whole metamodernism thing involves fake names and performance art? This is starting to feel very pretentious.
Hilma: Or it’s recognizing that all intellectual work is performance, that objectivity is always performed, and that being explicit about that performance is more honest than pretending it doesn’t exist? But I digress.
The Listening Society and its sequel Nordic Ideology are, in my view, the most comprehensive articulation of what a metamodern worldview actually looks like when applied to politics and society. Freinacht synthesizes insights from developmental psychology, sociology, complexity theory, and political philosophy to sketch out what a society oriented toward human flourishing and growth might look like.
Reader: You’re going to tell me this involves stages of development, aren’t you? Like those annoying spiral dynamics charts where everyone thinks they’re at the top?
Hilma: You’re right to be suspicious. Developmental stage theory is one of the most seductive and dangerous ideas in metamodernism. Yes, The Listening Society includes extensive discussion of psychological development stages. Yes, this can lead to insufferable hierarchical thinking where people congratulate themselves on being “more developed” than others.
But what’s more important to me about Freinacht’s work—and about metamodernism broadly—is the sensibility, the mood, the stance towards life. It’s about cultivating a particular way of being in the world that’s more attuned to complexity, more capable of holding paradox, more oriented toward development.
Reader: Okay, so forget the stages for now. What is this sensibility? Give me something concrete.
Hilma: Let’s start with three key aspects that Freinacht identifies in his piece “5 things that make you metamodern.” First: a belief in development and progress.
Now, before you object—this isn’t naive modernist faith that everything is getting better. It’s the recognition that development is possible, that things can improve, that we have some agency in shaping outcomes. The metamodern perspective holds that while not all change is progress, progress is real and worth pursuing. But—and here’s the metamodern twist—we also recognize that all progress comes with costs, that every solution creates new problems, that development always involves trade-offs.
Reader: So it’s optimistic but not stupid about it?
Hilma: Precisely. It’s optimism that has been through the postmodern critique and survived—not by ignoring the critique, but by incorporating it. Yes, efforts to improve the world often fail or backfire. Yes, power shapes outcomes in ways we can’t fully control. Yes, unintended consequences are real. And yet—we can still make things better. The wisdom is recognizing that just because something makes you feel bad doesn’t mean it’s wrong.
The second aspect is what Freinacht calls “aiming at reconstruction.” Postmodernism excelled at deconstruction—taking apart systems, revealing their hidden assumptions, showing how they perpetuate power. This is valuable work. But standing in the rubble of demolished certainties doesn’t actually help people live.
Metamodernism accepts the need for reconstruction—for building new narratives, new systems, new ways of organizing social life—while remaining aware that these reconstructions are provisional, that they’ll need to be deconstructed and rebuilt again, that we’re creating what Freinacht calls a “proto-synthesis” rather than a final answer.
Reader: So we build things while knowing they’re temporary? That seems demoralizing.
Hilma: Or liberating. If you know your construction is provisional, you’re less attached to it, less defensive when it’s criticized, more open to improving it. You’re not building eternal truths—you’re creating useful scaffolding for the present moment and near future.
Think about science. Every scientific theory is provisional—we know it’s going to be refined, maybe overturned. But that doesn’t stop us from using our current best theories to build bridges and cure diseases. The provisionality doesn’t undermine the usefulness. In fact, it enables progress—because we’re not so wedded to our current understanding that we can’t improve it.
Reader: Alright, I can see that. What’s the third aspect?
Hilma: “Both-and” thinking. This is perhaps the most distinctive feature of metamodern sensibility. Where modernism tends toward “either-or” thinking—either reason or emotion, either individual or collective, either progress or tradition—and postmodernism tends to deconstruct these binaries entirely, metamodernism embraces “both-and.” Not by finding mushy middle grounds, but by recognizing that apparent opposites often need each other, that the tension between them is productive, that reality is complex enough to accommodate both.
Here’s where it gets deliciously recursive: “both-and” thinking means both “both-and” and “either-or” thinking. Sometimes the situation genuinely calls for synthesis, for holding opposites in tension. But sometimes you actually do need to choose—sometimes “both-and” becomes an evasion, a way to avoid necessary decisions. The metamodern move is recognizing when to oscillate between positions and when to commit to one side.
Consider climate action. On one level, we need “both-and”: both individual behavior change and systemic policy reform, both technological innovation and lifestyle transformation, both economic growth and ecological limits. These aren’t contradictions—they’re complementary approaches.
But at another level, we face genuine “either-or” choices: either we rapidly phase out fossil fuels or we don’t, either we protect this specific forest or we clear it for development. The “both-and” sensibility doesn’t mean refusing to make hard choices—it means knowing when the tension is productive and when you actually need to pick a side and act decisively.
Reader: Okay, I’m following the theoretical framework. But how does this oscillating, both-and approach actually translate into concrete action?
Hilma: Let me introduce you to what Freinacht calls “Game Change”—this is where metamodernism becomes genuinely radical. The basic idea is simple but profound: all human suffering is caused by the games we play, and the only real solution is to change the rules of those games.
Think about it. You’re anxious about your job, worried about making rent, stressed about keeping up appearances. These aren’t natural features of existence—they’re products of specific social games with specific rules. You didn’t choose to play these games; you were born into them. And most efforts to help you involve helping you play the games better, not changing the games themselves.
Reader: So “Game Change” is just... changing the system? Isn’t that what every political movement promises?
Hilma: No, it’s more specific than that. Game Change involves understanding both Game Acceptance and Game Denial. Let me unpack each.
Game Acceptance is when you acknowledge the game exists and try to win according to its rules. Capitalism is the game? Fine, I’ll start a business, hustle, invest. Social hierarchy exists? I’ll climb it. You recognize power operates a certain way and work within that reality. This isn’t inherently bad—you need some Game Acceptance to function. But pure Game Acceptance means accepting injustice as inevitable, treating winners and losers as deserved, believing the game can’t or shouldn’t be changed.
Reader: And Game Denial is... pretending the game doesn’t exist?
Hilma: Exactly. It’s the idealist who says “we should all just be nice to each other” without recognizing that material conditions and power relations shape behavior. It’s the communist who insists people will spontaneously cooperate if we just abolish private property, ignoring that competition and hierarchy have deep psychological and social roots. It’s refusing to engage with power as it actually operates, expecting reality to conform to your ideals through sheer moral force.
Game Denial feels morally pure—you’re not “playing the game,” you’re above it. But in practice, Game Denial usually just means losing while feeling righteous about it. You don’t change the game by pretending it doesn’t exist or refusing to engage with it. You just make yourself irrelevant.
Reader: So both are inadequate. What’s Game Change then?
Hilma: Game Change is when you understand the game well enough to play it effectively while actively working to change its rules. You acknowledge power dynamics while strategizing to shift them. You compete while questioning whether competition should determine outcomes. You succeed within the system while building alternatives to it.
This requires holding a complex position: you’re neither naively accepting nor self-righteously denying. You’re engaged and strategic, idealistic and pragmatic, working within existing constraints while pushing against them. It demands a lot—which is part of why it’s rare. It’s much easier to pick one position and stick with it.
Reader: Can you give me a concrete example of Game Change versus the other approaches?
Hilma: Let’s take economic inequality. Pure Game Acceptance says: “That’s how capitalism works, compete better.” Pure Game Denial says: “Let’s abolish capitalism and money!” and then wonders why nobody takes them seriously.
Game Change says: “Let’s understand exactly how wealth concentrates, then strategically intervene—progressive taxation, worker ownership models, universal basic services—while being realistic about political constraints and human psychology.” It means building cooperative enterprises that prove alternatives work, shifting narratives about what’s possible, creating policy wins that expand what’s politically thinkable, always with clear-eyed assessment of power dynamics.
Or consider social media and attention. Game Acceptance: “Everyone’s on these platforms, might as well use them to build my brand.” Game Denial: “These platforms are evil, delete your account!” Game Change: “Let’s understand the attention economy’s mechanics, build alternative platforms with different incentive structures, push for regulation that changes how data extraction works, create new norms around digital interaction—while recognizing we have to engage with existing platforms strategically because that’s where people are.”
Reader: I’m starting to see how this applies to technology. But it seems to me there’s something suspicious about a framework that lets you claim to transcend both sides of every debate.
Hilma: Now you’re asking the right question. This brings us to the critiques of metamodernism—and they’re substantial.
One of the sharpest comes from Nora Bateson, daughter of the systems theorist Gregory Bateson. She’s been particularly critical of developmental stage theories, writing on social media that stage theories are “bullshit” and “colonial as hell.”
Reader: That’s pretty direct. What’s her point?
Hilma: Her critique cuts to something important. Developmental stage models—whether Spiral Dynamics, or Ken Wilber’s Integral Theory, or even some versions of metamodernism—have a dangerous tendency toward hierarchical thinking. They create rankings of consciousness or cultural sophistication, with the theorists conveniently placing themselves at the top. This leads to insufferable self-congratulation and dismissal of others as “less developed.”
This is particularly pernicious when applied across cultures. It’s very easy for Western theorists to see Western modernity as more “developed” than indigenous cultures, when in many ways indigenous cultures might be operating with more sophisticated understandings of ecology, community, and long-term thinking.
Reader: So the whole framework is secretly about justifying Western superiority?
Hilma: Not necessarily—but it can easily become that. Even with the best intentions, developmental models tend toward what we might call “ladder thinking”—the assumption that there’s one primary direction of development, one ladder we’re all climbing, with some people higher up than others.
Reality is messier. Different cultures have developed different capabilities. A hunter-gatherer society might have more sophisticated ecological knowledge and social coordination than an industrial society, even if it lacks smartphones. An indigenous wisdom tradition might offer more subtle understanding of consciousness than Western psychology, even if it doesn’t use fMRI machines.
Reader: So why I should take metamodernism seriously? It sounds like it falls into the same traps as earlier stage theories.
Hilma: This is where I depart somewhat from Nordic metamodernism. As I mentioned, I think the stage theory elements are the least interesting aspect of metamodern thinking. What matters more to me is the sensibility, the mood, the way of holding complexity.
You don’t need to believe in developmental stages to appreciate ironic sincerity. You don’t need a hierarchy of consciousness to value both-and thinking. You don’t need a ladder of cultural evolution to pursue Game Change.
The greatest gift of metamodernism isn’t a new hierarchy or a claim to transcendent perspective. It’s a set of moves, a repertoire of responses to complexity and paradox. It’s a way of staying engaged without being naive, being critical without being paralyzed, being hopeful without being delusional.
Reader: So you’re advocating for metamodernism while rejecting its hierarchical elements? Isn’t that cherry-picking?
Hilma: Or it’s doing exactly what metamodernism recommends—holding the framework lightly, using what’s useful, remaining aware of its limitations. Remember: proto-synthesis, not final truth.
The metamodern sensibility is genuinely valuable for navigating technological change. It lets us acknowledge that AI might be transformative and be skeptical of apocalyptic or utopian narratives. It lets us criticize surveillance capitalism and recognize the genuine utility of digital platforms. It lets us advocate for specific regulations and remain aware of how regulation can be captured.
Reader: But doesn’t this just become wishy-washy both-sidesism? “Everything is complicated, there are trade-offs, who can say what’s right?”
Hilma: That’s the degenerative form of metamodern thinking—and yes, it’s a real risk. The healthy version isn’t “both sides have a point so nothing matters.” It’s “both sides have partial truth so we need to synthesize them into a greater whole.”
It means making actual decisions and taking actual positions, but holding them provisionally rather than dogmatically. It means being willing to change course when evidence suggests you’re wrong. It means recognizing that your opponents might be responding to something real, even if you disagree with their solutions.
Reader: Give me an example of what this looks like in practice with technology.
Hilma: Consider AI safety. Pure Game Acceptance: “AI development is inevitable, regulation will just handicap democratic countries, best to let markets sort it out.” Pure Game Denial: “We must pause all AI development until we solve alignment”—ignoring that coordination problems make pauses nearly impossible.
Game Change—the metamodern approach: “We need to understand the specific risks and benefits of different AI systems, push for transparency requirements that don’t cripple innovation, create international coordination mechanisms while being realistic about enforcement limitations, develop AI governance that can evolve as the technology evolves, build public understanding of the issues while avoiding both hype and panic.”
This isn’t splitting the difference between acceleration and deceleration. It’s recognizing that the binary itself is inadequate. The question isn’t “faster or slower”—it’s “what kinds of AI systems, built how, by whom, governed through what mechanisms, for what purposes?”
Reader: I can see how that’s more sophisticated. But I’m still concerned that metamodernism becomes a way for intellectuals to feel superior while avoiding commitment. How do you prevent that?
Hilma: You can’t, fully. Any intellectual framework can be weaponized for status games. People will use metamodernism to claim they’ve transcended mere partisan thinking while actually just being contrarian. They’ll use both-and thinking to avoid taking sides on questions where taking sides matters.
The antidote is to judge metamodernism—or any framework—by its fruits. Does it lead to more effective action or just more sophisticated inaction? Does it increase your capacity to grapple with complexity or provide excuses for avoiding difficult choices? Does it help you understand people you disagree with or just give you new ways to dismiss them?
For technology specifically, the test is whether metamodern thinking helps us build better systems, create more humane technological arrangements, navigate the tensions between innovation and precaution more wisely. If it just becomes another academic language game, it’s failed.
Reader: So what comes next? What does a technological metamodernism actually look like when applied to specific domains?
Hilma: Well, we’ve completed the conceptual groundwork—surveyed the debate landscape, understood what technology is, articulated the metamodern sensibility. Now we explore what happens when we actually try to apply this framework.
In the coming chapters, we’ll explore specific approaches to technological design and governance that embody metamodern principles—from axiological design to defensive accelerationism, from cosmo-localism to awakened design. We’ll see how thinkers are already working to transcend the skeptic-optimist binary, creating frameworks for technology that serves human flourishing without naive faith in technological salvation.
We’ll start by taking a historical perspective, and examine what I call “proto-metamodern” thinkers on technology—figures who were grappling with these tensions before the language of metamodernism existed, whose work prefigures contemporary metamodern thinking about technology. Let’s meet some of our intellectual ancestors.