The Ruling Class's Love Affair with Technologists

The ruling class—the people in power and authority—loves technologists, the champions of humanity's technological advancement. Technology is neutral and universally beneficial when properly applied, or so the story goes.

I should clarify my use of 'technologists' here. While the term could encompass anyone working with technology, including social scientists, I'm focusing on a specific breed: those who  specialize deeply AND exclusively concentrate in STEM fields like Computer Science and Engineering for technical mastery. These are the technologists who pride themselves on being purely technical, supposedly above the messy complications of social context.

These technologists wield a privilege that even the ruling class envies, regardless of whether those in power are politically left or right. It's the privilege of neutrality—appearing to transcend politics, claiming to serve only humanity's best interests, shielded from any accusations of perpetuating bias or enabling oppression.

You see, technologists are people of science. Science is all about rationality. Science sees no difference among people. Science pursues absolute truth. Technologists do science, so naturally, all they care about is benefiting humanity. They don't care about politics—they just want to do good science that will ultimately benefit the world. Everything is fair and square in the world of technology. At least in principle. This is precisely why the ruling class loves technologists. Because technologists claim to care only about science. The messy matters of society and subjectivity are just distractions. All they care about is doing good science. Of course, as long as they're paid well and kept comfortable.

And here's the best part for the ruling class: this arrangement works perfectly. They love being associated with technologists because these brilliant minds are all about doing good to the world without really question the larger injustices that the ruling class might be perpetuating. As long as it doesn't affect them directly.

See, I'm not painting technologists as bad people. They're definitely good people—and, importantly, very smart. But they can also be extraordinarily naive, often engulfed in their world of technology, voluntarily or involuntarily overlooking the complexities of society (including the systemic harms). This might seem like a blanket criticism, but I think it makes logical sense.

The Banality of Evil

The philosopher Hannah Arendt coined the term banality of evil to describe how ordinary individuals—without inherent malice—can become complicit in great harms simply by failing to reflect critically on the systems they serve. Her analysis of Adolf Eichmann, a Nazi official who helped coordinate the logistics of the Holocaust, revealed a chilling truth: Eichmann did not appear to be a fanatic. Instead, he was ordinary—someone who claimed to be just following orders, focused on efficiency and procedure rather than morality or consequence.

This idea—that evil can thrive not only through hatred but through thoughtlessness—is especially relevant when we consider the ethical responsibilities of professionals in technical fields. Technologists often take pride in being apolitical or neutral, immersed in their work and committed to solving complex problems. But without critical self-reflection, even brilliant minds can become instruments of harm—not out of intent, but by omission.

Consider Albert Speer, who began as Adolf Hitler’s architect and later rose to become Germany’s Minister of Armaments during World War II. As an architect and planner, Speer represents a class of technological professionals—those who design, organize, and build. In his memoirs (Inside the Third Reich, 1970), Speer attempts to explain and justify his role. He repeatedly emphasizes his belief in the neutrality of his work. “I felt myself to be Hitler’s architect. Political events did not concern me,” he wrote. Even as late as 1944, Speer claimed to hold onto the illusion that his duties were separate from the moral implications of the regime: “The task I have to fulfill is an unpolitical one. I have felt at ease in my work only so long as my person and my work were evaluated solely by the standard of practical accomplishments.”

This idea—that technical achievement can be divorced from moral responsibility—is precisely the illusion Arendt warned against. Speer did not claim ignorance of what the regime stood for; rather, he insisted that his role was simply not to ask such questions. But by the time he wrote those words, he wasn’t just designing buildings—he was overseeing the entire German war economy, including factories that used forced labor and supplied arms for a genocidal regime. To frame this as "unpolitical" is not just an evasion of responsibility, but a dangerous denial of the ethical dimension of technical power.

Speer also reflected, perhaps more candidly, on the broader behavior of those around him: “I exploited the phenomenon of the technician’s often blind devotion to his task. Because of what seems to be the moral neutrality of technology, these people were without any scruples about their activities.” This is a profound insight. It was not only Speer who clung to the illusion of neutrality—he observed the same pattern in the engineers, managers, and specialists working under him. The very structure of technical professionalism, with its focus on efficiency, output, and functional success, allowed individuals to abdicate moral responsibility under the guise of doing a job well.

Psychiatrist Robert Jay Lifton’s concept of “doubling” also sheds light on this. Speer did not see himself as immoral—he seemed to split his identity, acting as both a competent technocrat and a detached observer. He felt morally at ease only when his actions were evaluated as technical achievements, separated from their social and ethical consequences.

It is important to be clear: this is not an attempt to equate modern technologists with those involved in Nazi atrocities. The historical context and scale of the Holocaust are unique and must be treated with due gravity. Rather, the example of Speer is a cautionary tale about the risks of unchecked technical detachment. It reminds us that the dangers of “neutrality” are not hypothetical—they have played out in history with devastating results.

As Karl Marx observed, “The ruling ideas of each age have ever been the ideas of its ruling class.” This makes the act of questioning dominant narratives not just important, but necessary. Critical reflection is the antidote to passive complicity. Without it, the most powerful tools we create can be turned to serve the most harmful ends—not because technologists are evil, but because they chose not to ask who their work empowers, and why.

When we fail to question how and why technologies are being developed and deployed, we risk serving interests we never intended to support. Neutrality, in the face of injustice, is itself a form of alignment—with the status quo. And the status quo, more often than not, reflects the values and power of those who already dominate society.

That is why the ruling class loves technologists—not because they are malicious, but because they are often too absorbed in the mechanics of their craft to ask the deeper, harder questions. And that is precisely why technologists must learn to ask them.