Günther Anders, is a rarely cited but deeply relevant philosopher of technology, who warned us shortly after the trial of Adolf Eichmann, that we would one day become outdated as humans, not because of what we lack, but because of what we create.
He called it the ‘Promethean Gap’, the ever-widening distance between what we are capable of producing (machines, systems, data, nuclear bombs) and what we are capable of emotionally, morally, or imaginatively responding to. In that gap, he said, lies the seed of totalitarianism, not necessarily in the form of jackboots and flags, but in the slow erosion of the human being into a data point, a user, a number, a case.
A new NHS plan – a familiar logic
This week, Labour launched its 10-year plan for the NHS. At its heart is a shift towards digital transformation: AI diagnostics, a ‘doctor in your pocket’ app, robotic surgeries, real-time data surveillance systems to spot safety risks, and a greater role for predictive algorithms in everything from triage to treatment.
None of this is inherently bad. It’s modern, efficient, even exciting. But Anders would raise a quiet alarm. He would remind us that we often invent tools faster than we invent wisdom. And that when we offload judgement, care, and attentiveness to systems, especially ones we no longer understand, we begin to surrender our humanity.
From care to calculation
The deeper danger is not that the technology fails. It’s that it works, and in doing so, subtly redefines what it means to be a patient, a clinician, a human.
- When the consultation becomes an app, the body becomes data.
- When decisions are driven by algorithms, discretion withers.
- When risk is monitored through digital surveillance, trust and safety become managed variables, not embodied experience.
This is not a Luddite protest. It’s a plea for memory: to remember that medicine is not just about outcomes, but relationships. And that human health can’t be fully apprehended through a dashboard.
A broader pattern
This isn’t limited to the NHS. Across government, a similar logic is taking hold:
- The push for AI-based education platforms in schools.
- The use of biometric surveillance in public spaces.
- The automation of benefits systems that ‘flag’ anomalies but ignore context.
Efficiency, scale, and control are becoming the organising principles of public life. But what happens when care, nuance, and presence no longer fit the template?
Anders foresaw this. He called it the “second industrialisation” of humanity, where we don’t just build machines, we begin to treat ourselves like them. The rise of the ‘TechBros’ political power is something we might do well to attend to.
NHS and the machine: what do we do?
We don’t need to reject technology. But we do need to ask better questions.
- What kind of human does this system imagine?
- What happens when we mistake metrics for meaning?
- Can we design for care, not just control?
- How do we resist becoming minor characters in a story written by machines?
The NHS doesn’t need to return to the past. But it does need to remember what it’s for.
If we forget that care is an act of presence, not a function of processing, then even our most advanced health system may become a place where the machines are more modern than the people.
Let’s not be outpaced by what we make.
Let’s remain human.
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