Introduction
Work is undergoing a profound set of transformations as it becomes digitalised in various ways. Such digitalisation is not merely a conversion from analogue to digital, but a more fundamental reconfiguration of social life (Brennen & Kreis, 2016). Software tools and digital infrastructures fundamentally reconfigure the ways in which human labour is framed and deployed (Rossiter, 2017). For industry boosters, this process is a positive one, accelerating innovation (Brynjolfsson & McAfee, 2011) and ushering in progress and prosperity through brilliant tools (Brynjolfsson & McAfee, 2014).
But more critical research has highlighted the human fallout of digitalisation: its ability to extract capital in novel ways while increasing the precarity and inequality of workers. For example, digital platforms allow individuals to work from home but under a piecework model, a highly exploitative form of labour that activists and advocates worked for decades to abolish (Dubal, 2020). In the context of policing, housing and welfare systems, high-tech tools often exacerbate inequality and punish the poor (Eubanks, 2018). And within the gig economy, digital sensors and mobile apps are used to meticulously track work, rewarding and punishing individuals based on their performance (Munn, 2017). This is not to say that every single case of digitalisation is damaging, but it does suggest a core set of paradigms that all too often make these transformations detrimental to workers and labour conditions.
So, while digital manifestations are novel, they continue longstanding paradigms of technology in the service of capital. Marx (1977) observed how the introduction of the machine reduced the worker’s agency and freedom. Cooley (1980) argued that digitalisation and automation restricted workers to a set of rote roles rather than facilitating their freedom. Berardi (2009) showed how digital technologies allowed work to be segmented and outsourced, increasing the precarity of labour. Huws (2014) demonstrated how digitalisation accumulates capital while reshaping labour conditions in ways detrimental to the well-being of workers. And Beller (2018) illustrated how technologies were long leveraged within capitalist regimes to amplify forms of racialised and gendered inequality. Taken together, this work suggests that the human harms documented in recent digitalisation initiatives are not merely ‘teething problems’, but part of a broader paradigm of anti-human and anti-worker values at the core of our current economic and technological systems.
Rather than suppressing and marginalising human labour, how might digitalisation instead be used to support human workers, enrich their relations and enhance their social, cultural and environmental lifeworlds? This article conceptualises ‘tika technology’ as a potential starting point. Tika is a word borrowed from the indigenous Māori language of my birthplace. Tika is the correct way to do something from a social, cultural and environment perspective; it entails an appropriate response that is just and right (Mead, 2016). Tika technology, then, is not determined by the degree of advancement (‘high’ vs ‘low’ technology), nor by its contrast with conventional offerings (as so-called ‘alternative technologies’), but by its suitability to the task, especially from the perspectives of equity, community and sustainability.
The first section of this article sets out some key features by pushing against ‘smartness’ while drawing on alternative paradigms: convivial tools, appropriate technology and calm computing. The second section presents a notional list of core principles for tika technology. The third section offers two real-world examples that illustrate these principles. And the fourth section steps through potential benefits of tika technology for individuals, society and the environment.
This article takes a design-centered approach, asserting that the design of digital (and non-digital) technologies matters when discussing the future of work. However, it is also worth acknowledging that technology does not exist in a vacuum. Scholars have long pushed against technological determinism, the notion that technology alone, as an overarching and evolutionary force, determines cultural, social and historical conditions (MacKenzie & Wajcman, 1988). The development and adoption of technology is always highly social and cultural (Green, 2002). Technology is embedded within a rich network of human and non-human actors (Latour, 2007). And this means that technology use is influenced by existing practices and structures, whether these are cultural norms, organisational hierarchies or knowledge systems (Orlikowski, 1992). Technology is taken up, adapted and applied in very different ways depending on the sociocultural context, a point to keep in mind in any discussion of digitalisation and the future of work.
At the same time, however, we need to take care not to dismiss the influence of technology altogether, to throw out technology with the determinist bathwater (Beirne & Ramsay, 1992). The design and development of technology has consequences, prioritising some values and functions while suppressing others. And this design means that some uses are supported and encouraged while others are discouraged or even rendered impossible. Social shaping of technology approaches (Mackenzie & Wajcman, 1985; Russell & Williams, 2002) acknowledge this point, rejecting both social and technological determinism and instead stressing the complex interplay of these twin forces, their mutual shaping. Howcroft and Taylor (2022), for example, focus on economics, gender and other social forces while acknowledging that ‘the material power and properties of technical objects deserve attention’. This article thus recognises social (and cultural and political) influences on technology while also insisting that technology matters. As everyday activities increasingly become digitalised and mediated in various ways, it is worth paying attention to the design of technology and the norms, values and interests embedded within it. As Escobar (2018:167) stresses, every technology ‘inaugurates a set of rituals, ways of doing and modes of being’, shaping what it is to be human.
This design-centred approach suggests the core audience for this article: designers, developers, makers and all of those who have a hand in crafting our present (and future) technologies. This article joins a growing critique of contemporary technologies by designers, who have admitted that the technologies they have created have unwanted and unanticipated side effects, exploiting workers, fostering antagonism and polarisation and undermining democratic principles (Lewis, 2017; Vincent, 2017; Maack, 2019). In response to this critique, technologists have launched calls for ‘humane technology’ (Harris, 2019) and ‘life-centred design’ (Borthwick et al., 2022). The aim of these initiatives, as in this article, is to purposively push against the de facto imperatives that are assumed in the technology industry and establish a new set of guiding principles.
Technological principles are also something increasingly seen in the policy, civil society and political realm. As the stakes of emerging technologies such as AI and automated decision-making become clear, a range of guidelines and frameworks that aim to make them ethical and responsible have emerged, from the Beijing AI Principles to Microsoft’s Responsible AI (for a survey, see Jobin, Ienca & Vayena, 2019). In all these cases, the aim is to mitigate the negative impacts of technologies and accentuate elements such as justice, equality and transparency that are seen as contributing positively to human lives and livelihoods.
Such principles are ideals, to be sure, but they serve as starting points or even lodestars for the conceptualisation and development of future technologies. Whether made compulsory through legislation or seen as aspirational by companies, principles have the capacity to trigger discussion, shape business goals and guide design decisions. Indeed, in recent years we can see movements such as ‘privacy by design’ (Gürses et al., 2011; Spiekermann, 2012) and ‘ethical AI’ (Eitel-Porter, 2021) start to gain traction, moving beyond abstract endorsements to embed these values in the affordances and architectures of contemporary technology. This article is inspired by these approaches, seeing principles as key foundations that can be operationalised in a range of ways according to the context and the needs of a community.
Conceptualising tika technology
Anti-smart
What are the key influences and perspectives that characterise tika technology? Firstly, tika technology pushes against smart technology. In the last decade, smartness has become an increasingly ubiquitous label, attached to a bewildering variety of objects and infrastructures, from smartphones and smart watches to smart cities and even smart nations (Hoe, 2016). In the context of work, we are told that the labour market is undergoing a process of profound transformation (Eberhard et al., 2017) and that the only way to succeed in the face of increased pressures and performance requirements is to work smarter, not harder (Crowley, 2016).
However, critical scholarship in recent years has argued that smart technologies are deeply problematic and come with significant trade-offs. Smart technologies shape behaviour, conduct surveillance and extract surplus value, ultimately serving corporate technocratic power rather than consumers (Sadowski, 2020). Smart cities can become a tool of oppression and authoritarianism, disciplining individuals and suppressing their ability to assemble (Ivesen & Maalsen, 2019). And smart home technology is still deeply imbued with patriarchal values and conventional gender norms (Strengers & Kennedy, 2020).
Smartness as a broader paradigm is plagued with the same problems. As Mattern (2021) notes, smartness is both flexible and deceptive, being taken up in any number of ways by corporations and developers while veiling its ties to technosolutionism and neoliberalism. Moreover, smartness itself is racialised. Cognitive superiority has historically been associated with white Europeans and cognitive inferiority with people of colour (Hatt, 2016). Together these critiques undermine smartness as something inherently productive or progressive. At best, smart technologies have failed to live up to the dazzling vision that they promised. At worst, smartness launders a set of technical transformations that extract value while exploiting workers and exacerbating racial and gendered inequality.
Tika technology, then, rejects so-called smartness as deeply problematic, asserting that it is the wrong paradigm to guide digitalisation and the future of work. Yet if this establishes a rough route for digital transformation, it is insufficient by itself. A set of positive goals, paradigms and examples is also needed to fill out the portrait of tika technology.
Convivial
Secondly, tika technology is inspired by Ivan Illich’s work on convivial tools. For Illich (1973:49), tools were not just hardware like hammers, but the broader infrastructure of daily life: from factories to hospitals and educational institutes. Tools were ubiquitous and vital for everyone, and yet Illich (23) argued they had reached a point of disutility, hurting society more than they helped it. By focusing purely on industrial efficiency, such tools had ignored people’s needs, particularly their relationships with each other and with the environment. Illich (31) stated that it was urgently necessary to ‘invert the present deep structure of tools’, giving people tools that allowed them to work independently. ‘People need new tools to work with rather than tools that ‘work’ for them’, Illich (32) stated, ‘they need technology to make the most of the energy and imagination each has, rather than more well-programmed energy slaves’.
Such statements run counter to much digitalisation discourse, suggesting collaboration rather than automation. For Illich, the goal was not to offload work to technical systems, establishing a master/slave relationship, but instead to extend human agency and foster forms of co-participation. Interestingly, scholarship in the last decade has begun to focus on this concept under the aegis of ‘human-centric’ or ‘human-centered’ automation (Billings, 2018; Muslim & Itoh, 2019). Next-generation automated systems strive for human-machine symbiosis (Romero et al., 2015). And in an automotive context, we see human-centric systems aiming to provide meaningful human control (Calvert et al., 2020). All these projects reflect to various degrees Illich’s hope for tools that work with rather than for. Instead of replacing or erasing human labour, they seek to augment and enrich it in respectful and meaningful ways. For Illich (1973: 33) the very definition of conviviality, and the aim of convivial tools, is to make the person autonomous. Convivial tools should support human autonomy by facilitating a full range of activity that is not merely productive but instead creative, lively or even playful (Illich, 1973:49, 146).
Along with autonomy, convivial tools also need to account for energy. For Illich, progress has often been equated with high technology and high energy use. ‘High technology’, he writes, ‘has been mistakenly identified with powerful intervention in physical, psychological and social processes’ (Illich, 1973:59). Convivial tools reject this correlation, tending to privilege lower power use. Such statements are prescient in anticipating our current environmental crisis and the increased focus on ecological aspects when designing our tools and systems. Indeed, recent work (Vetter, 2018) has adopted Illich’s work as a blueprint for degrowth, celebrating open-source cargo bikes and compostable toilets as new forms of convivial technologies.
Appropriate
Thirdly, tika technology draws upon appropriate technology, a concept originating in Ernst Schumacher’s, 1973 book, Small is Beautiful. Inspired by Gandhi and Buddhist values and his work in India and Burma, Schumacher (1973) championed the development of technologies that were local, people-powered and driven by an alternative philosophy. These ideas were later developed by numerous others over the subsequent three decades. While there is no formal definition of what constitutes appropriate technology, Hazeltine and Bull (1998) have suggested some core traits: small-scale, affordable by locals, decentralised, labour-intensive, energy-efficient, environmentally sustainable and locally autonomous.
The strength of appropriate technology is not its ability to set out a precise national programme of tech development, but instead to question the purpose of technology more fundamentally. What criteria are used to evaluate whether technology is ‘successful’? And what should technology actually be doing for a particular group of people or a community?
The key contribution was to posit a different set of economic and social principles for technologies. Appropriate technology questions the mantra of unlimited economic growth and suggests that it is both environmentally and spiritually destructive (Schumacher, 1973). New foundations which prioritise human flourishing and well-being over the financial imperatives that typically dominate decisions about technology are required.
Appropriate technologies thus offer a radical deviation from existing conventions of technological development. And yet the insights from this movement have often been sidelined, framed on the one hand as a historical moment that is now past (Pursell, 1993) or more typically, as something that is exclusively intended for developing countries (Wicklein, 1998; Murphy et al., 2009; Patnaik & Bhowmick, 2018). However, in a world with an ongoing environmental crisis, with its disruption of conventional energy sources and global technical infrastructures, a technology that is local, sustainable and autonomous has much to offer for all. This philosophy should not be understood as an inferior concession for those without ‘advanced’ technology, but instead be taken seriously as a new paradigm for living with technology in the Anthropocene (Crutzen, 2006): a more humane and more ecologically attuned approach that offers clear benefits.
Calm
Tika technology draws upon calm computing, a concept presented by Weiser and Brown in 1997, based on their early work at Xerox PARC. Computing had rapidly moved from mainframes to personal computers and an array of devices used by broader publics in everyday life. And yet such devices often bombarded users with alerts and notifications, constantly demanding their full attention (Weiser & Brown, 1997:3). Calm technology, by contrast, occupied the periphery of a user’s attention and then smoothly slid to the centre when needed (Weiser & Brown, 1997:4). This compelling vision was highly influential, essentially birthing the field of ubiquitous computing (Aylett & Quigley, 2015).
Of course, calm technology is not without its flaws. Weiser and Brown are technologists rather than theorists, meaning that the concept is somewhat sketchily defined. In addition, there is an unspoken conflation between calm computing as a philosophy and ubiquitous computing as the means of attaining it. The former aims to ‘encalm’ while the latter is defined as a world ‘filled with interconnected, imbedded computers’ which bring ‘more information’ and ‘more details into the periphery’ of a user’s attention (Weiser & Brown, 1997:4, 7). The result is a deep tension between the key aims of calm computing and the deluge of data and devices that will ostensibly provide it.
However, calm technology should not be dismissed merely because it runs up against the imperatives of neoliberal capitalism. In fact, as the pathologies of this mode of production become increasingly clear, such frictions might be understood as a feature rather than a flaw. In other words, calm technology’s ‘failure’ to be manifested as market-compatible products and services is precisely what makes it interesting.
With this in mind, tika technology draws from several core principles of calm computing: it should require the smallest amount of attention, respect social norms and operate primarily in the periphery. The aim, as one principle suggests, is to ‘give people what they need to solve their problem, and nothing more’ (Zampieri, 2011:n.p.). Indeed, recent years have seen these principles taken up in arguably more serious and fundamental ways. If the Silicon Valley mantra was previously ‘move fast and break stuff’, the new aim for many technologists is to ‘move slow and contemplate things’ (Beattie, 2020:137). The key question for these designers is how technologies can support users in decelerating and disconnecting from always-on media. These goals slot into a broader set of principles pushing back against productivity and busyness and instead attempting to embrace mindful labour (Gregg, 2018).
Principles of tika technology
By pushing against smart technology and embracing key elements of convivial tools, appropriate technology and calm computing, we are now in a position to sketch some core principles of tika technology. Five preliminary principles can be identified here.
First, Tika technology is Humble. It adopts modest requirements in terms of its role, the claims it makes, and its technical and ecological requirements.
Second, Tika technology is Calm. It is non-intrusive until needed, and is designed in ways that foster slowness, quietness and mindfulness.
Third, Tika technology is Passive. It does not attempt to take over tasks or labour, but instead offers to augment human intervention, working with rather than for.
Fourth, Tika technology is Inclusive. By lowering barriers, it aims to be as accessible as possible, accounting for the diverse peoples and needs in a community.
Finally, Tika technology is Expressive. It is not fixated on maximum productivity, but on a full spectrum of liveliness and creativity, supporting a rich constellation of human activity and relations.
These five preliminary principles are of course provisional. Other researchers, institutions and organisations might take up this list and liberally add, edit or modify certain points. Indeed, as Pacey (1983) observed, technology must be adapted to a particular culture and contexts if it is to be successful. Children in Dubai have different needs than elderly adults in Dakar. Urban users will focus on some requirements, while rural users will prioritise others. Technologies conceived in the developed world may need to be heavily modified to function in the developing world. Adopting any technology, then, is not a smooth and perfunctory affair, but a messy process filled with contingency, which ends up transforming both the technology and the organisation that adopts it (McLaughlin et al., 2002). With this in mind, further development of this list into alternate versions and articulations is welcome.
Examples of tika technology
What does tika technology look like in practice? The two examples in this section embody the key principles discussed above, helping us move from abstract ideas to concrete realities.
The first is the CovidCard, a device prototyped in New Zealand (Dreaver, 2020). With the global pandemic, the ability to contact trace − identifying those who have been in contact with someone who has an infectious disease − has become vitally important. While smartphone apps can be used, they also present major difficulties. Firstly, there are affordability and accessibility issues: who can afford a smartphone and who cannot? This barrier can have connections to generational wealth and historically marginalised groups. Secondly, there are technical literacy issues: who is experienced or savvy enough to use this technology in the intended way? This issue particularly pertains to the elderly, but also those with less exposure to technology or non-native speakers. Thirdly, there are major privacy issues: who can see and share your personal data? A smartphone already houses a wealth of intimate information and sharing a rich timeline of locational data on your movement with the government only heightens these privacy issues. All of these factors present barriers to adopting and using a contact-tracing smartphone application (Smoll et al., 2021). And these deterrents have turned out to be a major factor. As of August 2020, New Zealand’s Covid Tracer app was only receiving around 25,000 scans a day, a minuscule amount in a country of 5 million people (Walton, 2020). Similarly, Australia’s COVIDSafe app cost $9 million to develop but was barely used and identified zero close contacts (Conifer, 2021).
How does the CovidCard address this challenging problem? The CovidCard is a low- energy Bluetooth device designed for contact tracing. It’s a simple white card, roughly the shape and size of a credit card, designed to be worn on a lanyard around the neck. When a person steps on a bus or visits the cafe, the gym or any other location, the card detects and records close contacts using Bluetooth and stores this data securely on their card for 21 days. It does not have GPS, meaning that it cannot track a user’s location. And it does not have an internet connection, meaning that it cannot transfer or store data in the cloud. The card is tika technology:
There is no user requirement except that you carry it. It doesn’t record location, it doesn’t connect to wi-fi, and it doesn’t produce alerts or allow tracking. It’s also passive tech, reactively recognising when it comes within two metres of another card and remembering its number, until it forgets it three weeks later. (O’Donnell, 2020)
The card adheres to several tika technology principles. It is quiet and non-intrusive, disappearing into the background in the context of a busy working day. It does not bleep or draw attention to itself, audibly or visually, modelling the passive and peaceful integration of technology into a person’s life. It can be used by anyone, regardless of tech literacy or experience, in the same way that one would ‘use’ a necklace or company ID card: by wearing it. And it maintains high respect for the privacy and dignity of its human users, storing details for a set time and then forgetting them. While the card embodies the expressive principle to a lesser extent, one could argue that it is about holistic health rather than work performance. Instead of using location data to reward or punish the productivity of workers, it concentrates on a public health task: documenting contacts in case of an infection. In the United States, tech critics are advocating for similar technology in the context of the pandemic, stating that we need ‘dumb technology that does as little as possible and knows as little about us as possible’ (Ovide, 2021).
The second example of tika technology is one that deliberately pushes against the usual connotations of digitalisation. Merdacotta is a ceramic made primarily from cow dung mixed with clay, straw and farm waste (Peters, 2016). The Castelbosco farm in northern Italy has 2,500 pedigree cows that produce 30,000 litres of milk but also 100,000 kilos of dung every day. The farmer collaborated with the Museo Della Merda in Italy to come up with a process for turning this massive amount of material into a beautiful and ecologically-sustainable product.
The dung first goes through a biogas generator, extracting methane as an energy source, and rendering it dry and odourless. This is then mixed with straw and Tuscan clay and fired, producing merdacotta. The result is similar to terracotta, but both lighter in weight and more resistant to cold. Its material make-up also produces more gaps and imperfections when firing, producing something closer to terracotta before it was industrialised (Material District, 2016). Tableware products can be coated with a transparent glaze before firing at 1000 degrees Celsius, rendering them food safe. Current objects in the series include tableware, from soup plates and salad bowls to mugs and jugs, along with flower pots and vases, tiles and larger sculptural items that can serve as benches and tables (Museo della Merda, 2018). These pieces were exhibited together as the ‘primordial products’ series in 2016, winning the Milano Design Award (Museo della Merda, 2018).
As with the CovidCard, there is a kind of quietness or calmness to objects made from merdacotta. With their dull, earthy tones, they are the antithesis of the flashing lights and glossy surfaces that characterise many contemporary technologies. And yet in a very tangible way, they function excellently as technologies. They are tough, resisting both water and cold. They work perfectly without requiring electricity or an internet connection. And they support a range of creative and expressive activities by their human users, from tending gardens to eating meals together and enjoying conversation on a shared bench. In addition, the material’s production process − where waste is used, energy is extracted, and useful, long-lasting objects are created − is deeply sustainable and ecologically aware. Indeed, in the context of climate change and the Anthropocene, such a simple, natural and beautiful object should be considered a ‘cutting-edge technology’ (Smallwood, 2016). These qualities of calmness, quietness, expressiveness and sustainability all contribute to making merdacotta an ideal example of tika technology.
These are very different examples from very different contexts. The first, while it has many strengths, showcases passivity and inclusivity, lowering the barriers to technology use and making something accessible and affordable that anyone can use. The second majors in expressivity and sustainability, using technology in an ecologically focused process to creatively transform a material. And yet both examples productively challenge digitalisation conventions, sharply contrasting with the implicit values (speed, efficiency, profitability) in much discourse on digital transformation (Munn, 2022 forthcoming). These are suitable, minimal tools that look past the obsession with economic growth to a more holistic and challenging goal: caring for humans in all their diversity and the environment they depend on. In that sense, they function as an infrastructure that fosters a more livable life (Butler, 2015).
Potential challenges, potential benefits
While the vision outlined above may be compelling, it is admittedly challenging to carry out. Any alternative conceptualisation of technology must confront significant hurdles. The values at the heart of our existing economic systems effectively carry out a double move, incentivising the development of certain types of technology while discouraging the creation of other types. This logic manifests in many different ways, whether this is maintaining power over labour (Noble, 2011) or exploiting the earth to produce luxury goods for the elite (Taffel, 2022). These market-focused forces are systemic, operating over and above the virtues of particular actors, and they overpower conventional cultural values (Nee & Swedberg, 2007). As Marx (1977:741) so clearly showed, the virtue of one seller or producer is often irrelevant within this system; these values must be internalised if a business is to stay competitive.
Manders-Huits and Zimmer (2009) identify three challenges when attempting to do technical design that is ethical or value-conscious technical design. The first is that the moral framework or set of values must be sufficiently justified (Manders-Huits & Zimmer, 2009). It will only be taken up and integrated into design processes if it receives enough support from designers, the business and other stakeholders. The second is that values must be clearly defined (Manders-Huits & Zimmer, 2009). Principles that are laudable but vague or contested in meaning are difficult to ‘operationalise’ into products and services. Finally, designers must find strategies to resolve conflicts between stakeholders (Manders-Huits & Zimmer, 2009). Business values will inevitably clash with the values of other stakeholders: arriving at a consensus is key for ethical design work.
Yet if there are certainly roadblocks to alternative technology development, there are also promising developments − promising not least because they come from designers and design theorists themselves. Chapman and Gant (2007) recognise the problems associated with current models and recommend a series of concrete shifts in theory and practice that would allow designers to be more sustainable. An edited volume by Clarkson et al. (2013) offers specific ways to design in more inclusive ways, responding to the needs of the elderly or those who require additional assistance. Escobar (2018) argues that the current model is antithetical to life on the planet: profound cultural and ecological transitions are urgently needed, and design can contribute to this shift. And Stevens et al (2019) set out a new well-being-based approach to architectural design they term ‘Design for Human Flourishing’.
These ideas are not just conceptual or theoretical, but material, manifesting in the kinds of products, services and experiences that designers are making. We might think, for instance, of the work of Dunne and Raby (2014), whose many works around speculative and critical design have included pieces like ‘Designs for an Overpopulated Planet’. There is Superflux (2022), a design studio that creates ‘pre-experiences’ that give audiences tangible encounters with coming climate change conditions. And there is the Center for Humane Technologies (Harris, 2019), which aims to expose the insidious effects of current technologies and radically reimagine new systems to replace them. All of this work is inherently partial and provisional, flawed in particular ways. But it demonstrates the ability of designers to imagine new models, establish different priorities and produce alternative visions for technology. Change is difficult but possible − and it is up to designers to work out how that change might manifest in their own particular contexts.
The hurdles to alternative technology development, then, are significant. But if these can be overcome, even partially, then tika technology would seem to offer benefits on multiple levels, from the individual to society and the environment. Of course, the framing of such claims requires care. Potential benefits are not based on a randomised control trial of deploying these two types of technology in the field but are instead extrapolated from the core principles laid out above. In other words, technology, designed with particular values and uses in mind, encourages certain activities while discouraging or disallowing others (Conole & Dyke, 2016). By looking at projects where similar values and affordances have been employed, we can anticipate a set of expected benefits.
Firstly, we could anticipate that tika technology supports agency and privacy at the level of the individual worker. If all-encompassing digital systems impose certain behaviours and dictate the paths through which activities should unfold (Kallinikos, 2004), then self-restricted technologies and modest tools should instead open up a broad set of possibilities and uses. Similarly, if smart technologies and sophisticated algorithms facilitate more pervasive forms of surveillance (Zuboff, 2019), then more passive technologies, which collect limited or zero personal data, should support the privacy of individuals. Rather than being smarter, more pervasive and more invasive, these technologies inherently limit themselves. The logic here is that restraining the autonomy of technologies actually contributes to the autonomy of human users.
Secondly, tika technology should enhance accessibility and equality when it comes to technological uptake at the societal level. If increased complexity within technology reduces its accessibility (Hackett & Parmanto, 2005), then we should anticipate that simplifying technologies should foster inclusion and accessibility (Aluísio & Gasperin, 2010). A similar logic would apply to overcoming other roadblocks. In an indigenous context, the cost of a technology and the skills needed to use it have been found to create barriers to adoption (Dyson, 2004). Conversely, in a developing context, perceived ease-of-use has been shown to have a positive impact on the adoption of particular technologies (Kashada et al., 2018). To be sure, technological adoption is a complex topic with a range of contextual factors. But these observations suggest that low-cost, easy-to-use technologies at least provide a promising starting point for those striving for accessibility and inclusion.
Finally, we would expect to see tika technologies having a positive environmental impact. While we can only point to broad tendencies and values, these nevertheless have concrete impacts on the kinds of technologies that are produced. For instance, it makes sense that convivial technologies which reject the industrial imperative of maximum growth would instead focus on degrowth or post-growth (Vetter, 2018; Kerschner et al, 2018) as paths toward sustainability. Such technologies move beyond the modernist paradigm of control and instead seek to foster mutualistic autonomy and decolonial self-realisation (Arora et al., 2020). These quieter, slower, more humble technologies aim to minimise their material and energy requirements as much as possible, presenting new models for ecologically aware tools and infrastructures.
Conclusion
Digitalisation has the capacity to profoundly transform the nature of work, reconfiguring the way in which labour is framed, distributed and performed. Yet all too often, these transformations have hurt rather than helped workers, introducing novel ways to extract value and data from labour while exacerbating forms of racialised and gendered inequality. How might digitalisation instead improve conditions for workers and the lifeworlds around them? Tika technologies deliberately push against values at the heart of so-called smart technologies while adopting key principles from convivial tools and calm technologies. The result is a novel paradigm that embraces an alternative set of guiding principles, seeking to develop technologies that are humble, calm, peaceful, passive and expressive. The CovidCard and Merdacotta provide examples of technologies which embody such principles, sometimes in unexpected or unorthodox ways. The final section highlighted some potential roadblocks but also suggested some potential benefits by drawing on analogous examples with similar principles. Potential benefits include increased agency and privacy, expanded accessibility and inclusion and improved sustainability.
Of course, this article has only introduced the concept, sketching a preliminary portrait of tika technology, what it might look like, and what its operating principles would be. More research is needed to further conceptualise this form of design and development, articulating its properties and setting out a potential program in a more detailed and systematic way. Other research might apply this concept to new or existing technology, mapping design decisions back to the core principles explored here. Finally, further studies might seek to empirically verify the benefits of tika technology, using questionnaires, observation, or other methodologies to measure the positive impact of this approach. As the pathologies of so-called smart technologies become increasingly clear, a novel and critical technological paradigm is urgently needed. Tika technologies offer a new vision of considered and countercultural tools that support human flourishing.
© Luke Munn, 2023.