Work Wizards and Leisure Luddites

imagining a more human way to live with technology

Until recently, I’ve always received the announcement of new technology with the ardor of one thousand tech bros on Cyber Monday. Growing up, I shared many joyful moments with new tools and toys. When I was 8, after many months of begging, I finally joined the cool kids club when my mom bought me a Gameboy Advance SP. I remember asking for iTunes gift cards so I could download music onto my iPod Nano (3rd gen), one $0.99 song at a time. I continued to view technology with rose-tinted glasses as I evolved from trading Pokemon at recess to sharing earbuds on the school bus. I fondly remember opening up my Nintendo Wii on a cold Christmas morning in Virginia. It was riveting to play Brick Breaker on my dad’s Blackberry when he was driving us somewhere. The Motorola Backflip, my first phone, came with basic games and texting, but without social media or unlimited data, it remained simply a tool for human connection.

Things started to change around high school. I discovered League of Legends. At first, it was a harmless video game that I played with friends while on group Skype calls. What started as entertainment morphed into an addiction, feeding my anger while starving me of sports, school, and socializing. School ended at 2:05, and like clockwork, my days melted into six hours of League, followed by hurried homework. I'd crawl to bed with my mind fried but my body humming with unused energy. It wasn’t until I got into weightlifting in my junior year that I began to create space in my life for more human activities. I was able to finish high school strong, but my relationship with technology was about to become even more complex in college.

While studying Electrical Engineering and Computer Science at Berkeley, I was immersed in the prevalent narrative that technology—specifically startups—would change the world. We believed any problem could be solved with enough technical innovation. I was a wide-eyed and bushy-tailed kid, eager to learn how I could "make an impact" through circuits and code.

Despite my immersion in tech's ambitious possibilities and potentials, something felt off. While I genuinely was excited about new ideas and where the industry was headed, my free time and school breaks told a different story. I started escaping to Tahoe, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, and other natural wonders. After growing up skiing on the icy hills of the east, I discovered the magic of the mountains out west. These adventures stood in stark contrast to the technological solutions I was learning about in class.

The irony wasn't lost on me. When it came to work and society at large, I was all for leveraging technology to create progress—it made sense to use available tools to build better products and save time. Yet in my personal life—my hobbies, health, and relationships—I found myself actively trying to reduce or eliminate that same technology. This wasn't a stance against progress; it was a recognition that maybe not every aspect of life needed an upgrade.

My desire to minimize personal technology use has intensified. I've stripped my phone down to its essentials—no social media apps, no notifications—and I deliberately chose the iPhone 13 mini over the latest and greatest super-giga-pro-max iPhones that are so large you nearly have to get your pant pockets tailored.

A recent reflection exercise revealed that all my peak experiences share one common thread: adventure in nature. Solo backpacking the Na Pali coastline, wandering Alaska’s wilderness while dodging bears, surfing sunset waves in Oahu, and skiing lines that dance between comfort and recklessness. When I visualized my ideal environment, I saw an analog future: an office filled with physical books, a garden bursting with fresh fruits and vegetables, and floor-to-ceiling windows that invite nature inside.

Some might say I've become a “Leisure Luddite”, someone who intentionally chooses physical books over e-readers, board games over video games, runs in the park over treadmills with attached TV screens, and face-to-face conversations (or phone calls) over FaceTime. But I'm not some anti-tech crusader plotting to smash machines like the original Luddites during the Industrial Revolution.

In fact, when it comes to work, I'm more of a “Work Wizard”—a champion of using every available digital tool and automation to be more effective, and still that same kid who gets excited about delightful innovations like AirPods. This isn't a contradiction to be reconciled, but rather complementary polarities that help me feel integrated, whole, and complete.

Working like a Wizard

Modern work increasingly resembles magic. What we accomplish daily through technology would seem like pure sorcery to someone from 50 years ago. We store infinite knowledge in our pockets, instantly transmit thoughts across the globe, and orchestrate complex workflows that run automatically in the background like invisible familiars. When we collaborate with strangers in real-time on shared documents, our ideas merge and evolve as if through collective telepathy.

As AI permeates more of our lives, the metaphor of modern work as sorcery grows less metaphorical by the day.

"Powers that used to be reserved for magicians and sorcerers — the power to access volumes of knowledge instantaneously, to create fully realized illusory otherworlds, to deceive, to conjure, to transport, to materialize on a massive scale — are no longer hypothetical. The age of metaphor is over. The mythic powers are real."
- The Emerald

In my own work, I've crafted a spellbook of enchanted tools. NotebookLM transforms dense research papers into engaging 15-minute podcast episodes I can absorb while walking. Untold serves as my voice journaling and brainstorming companion. Readwise acts as my memory palace, organizing reading materials and summoning insights when I need them. I'm constantly seeking to optimize my workflows, switching from Google to Perplexity, from Chrome to Arc, and even from ChatGPT to Claude. Each tool is carefully and rigorously chosen to amplify my capabilities.

However, wielding these powers requires wisdom. As a knowledge worker, my value comes from the quality of my ideas. Consider what economists call "induced demand¹" - the tendency for increased capacity to generate increased usage. Adding highway lanes rarely alleviates traffic; it simply invites more cars onto the road. This principle extends to work: even as new tools let us accomplish tasks more efficiently, we often find ways to fill the standard 40-hour workweek with more tasks. The trap is thinking that increased productivity should lead to increased output, when it could instead create space for what matters most.

This is why I approach technology with clear intention. Tools like Notion, Google Suite, and Substack already grant me the power to reach anyone and make a living. I welcome a future where AI agents handle soul-crushing calls with government agencies, banks, and health insurance. But the intention isn't to fill new space with more work - it's to preserve it for Luddite-like leisure and analog adventures. After all, the most powerful spells are those that create more room to be human.

Lounging like a Luddite

We've reached an inflection point where more technology no longer means better living. When I imagine my ideal leisure time, screens play a surprisingly small role. My deepest joys come from the tangible—immersion in nature with genuine human connection. Our "free time" has become occupied with digital parasites.

My tech friends are gravitating toward tactile hobbies like pottery, cooking, and gardening - activities that engage their hands and bodies after days of screen-staring. Others join run clubs as a tech-free, alcohol-free alternative to dating apps. We seem to be collectively seeking refuge from the abstract, fleeting nature of our digital existence.

I feel most alive when attuned to my surroundings, whether responding to nature's rhythms or shared rituals with others. My first instinct is to read the environment: surf if the swell is on, ski when there's fresh powder, or simply wander outdoors with friends.

Even in New York City, where digital connectivity and fast-paced urban life reign supreme, I seek out analog activities: wandering through Central Park, hosting intimate dinner parties, gathering with fellow writers in cozy spaces, or sweating with friends in workout classes. This is a fundamentally different kind of stimulation than the hollow exhaustion that comes from hours of isolated scrolling.

While I still take photos, I rarely post them anymore. A few years ago, Instagram was my creative outlet - I'd spend hours crafting visual stories from my travels and adventures, carefully curating moments to share. Beyond the dopamine hits of likes and comments, it felt like genuine self-expression and connection. But somewhere along the way, Instagram morphed from a digital photo album into a chaotic marketplace, where authentic moments get lost between targeted ads and algorithmic distractions. My desire to visit beautiful places remains unchanged, but I've lost the compulsion to view life through a screen. When I do capture moments now, it's for just me and those closest to me. Today's social media landscape resembles Times Square - flashy, overwhelming, with authentic experiences buried beneath endless layers of distraction.

This shift away from digital sharing has rippled into other areas of my life, leading me to question where technology truly serves us versus where it worsens the present experience. For instance,I've switched from digital journaling to handwritten morning pages, opting for the slower process that matches the speed of thinking instead of prioritizing searchability. There's something jarring about seeing brightly lit Apple Watch screens recording statistics in the middle of a candlelit hatha yoga class—as if we can't simply experience something without measuring it. I cringe everytime I see friends logging every tiny activity on Strava, from gentle stretches to 0.65-mile walks. In our compulsion to capture everything, we risk experiencing nothing.

Technology excels at scaling, optimizing, automating. But leisure isn't meant to be optimized - it's meant to be enjoyed. This echoes the Taoist concept of "the use of uselessness" (無用之用): the crooked tree survives because it makes poor lumber; a vessel's emptiness gives it purpose. True value often lies in what can't be measured or maximized by corporate metrics.

Attention is a precious internal resource just as important to cultivate as sleep or physical energy. Like water in a well, it must be allowed to replenish through genuine rest. The Tao teaches of wu-wei (無為), or "non-doing" - not the absence of action, but the art of moving with life's natural flow. What we consider "downtime" today - endless scrolling and streaming - is merely numbing and coping mechanisms that keep our minds restlessly treading water. Nourishing practices like meditation or yoga nidra allow our scattered attention to settle like fallen leaves, inviting our nervous systems into deep rest. In this sacred stillness, we might discover our deeper need for rest, in a world that force-feeds our attention an endless buffet of digital junk food.

The Underbelly of Work-Life Integration

Even though it's been over 4 years since the pandemic upended traditional work patterns, we're still adjusting to this new reality. Gone are the simpler days of commuting to a 9-to-5 when work-life balance was naturally enforced by physical location. Back then, the boundaries were clear and fixed - you'd punch in, do your job, punch out, and be home with family. The office walls created an inherent structure that’s now dissolved.

In recent years, there's been an enthusiastic embrace of "work-life integration" over "work-life balance." The logic is appealing: If I'm working from home, why not cook a proper lunch, take a mid-day walk with a friend, or exercise between meetings? Not everyone’s peak productivity is during traditional business hours, so the flexibility to run errands during the day and work at night can be liberating for night owls and creatives.

However, shifting too quickly to work-life integration without intentionality risks losing all sense of boundaries. Like a shelf needs both horizontal and vertical panels to function, we need clear delineation between different modes of being. Without boundaries, rituals, or pauses, our days collapse into a chaotic blur, like items scattered across the floor without organization.

While creating physical boundaries helps - like having separate devices for work and personal use, or working from a coworking space instead of home - rituals and pauses can be equally powerful. A revealing question I've been asking my coaching clients (and myself) is "How do you know when your workday is complete?" This seemingly simple inquiry often surfaces surprising lack of clarity or agency, with many leaving it up to bosses, clients, or the endless stream of emails and Slack messages to dictate their schedule.

To combat drifting in and out of work without clear intentions, I've been experimenting with various end-of-work rituals, from taking a mindful pause to declaring "My work is complete for today. This is enough," to using transitional activities like a walk outside to shift mental states. These small acts of intention help reclaim sovereignty over our time and attention.

Interestingly, we're now in an era where we're using technology to protect ourselves from more addictive technology. We must acknowledge that we're no match for the default settings designed by trillion-dollar companies to keep us "engaged" (addicted). Rather than taking “Leisure Luddite” too literally and advocating for complete technological abstinence, I believe in fighting fire with fire - using tools strategically to avoid getting sucked into the ethereal digital abyss:

• Freedom blocks social media, email, and messaging when I’m at the gym

• News Feed Eradicator removes algorithmic feeds from social platforms

• Podcasts are less demanding of attention than mindless phone scrolling during transit

• AirPods Pro with voice isolation enable walking phone calls instead of video meetings

The art of integrating our Work Wizard and Leisure Luddite selves lies in thoughtful boundaries and consistent practice. Whether through strategic use of technology to curb its own addictive tendencies, or simply declaring "my work is complete" before stepping away, these boundaries must be thoughtfully maintained. Without such intentional separation, we risk allowing our Work Wizard's tools to colonize our Leisure Luddite's sanctuary.

A More Human Day

I dream of a life where technology bends to human rhythms, not the other way around. In my work, I want to be a digital sorcerer, wielding technology with fluid grace and quiet confidence. But in my leisure, I seek to be like a forest mystic - present, unhurried, and attuned to nature’s cycles.

My days begin with sunlight, not screens. Before the digital world makes its demands, I let my nervous system remember its own wisdom in the morning silence. Meditation comes first - just breath and awareness in my small corner sanctuary. Then pen meets paper, morning thoughts spilling onto blank pages without the intermediary of keyboards and cursors. A phone-free walk outside follows, where my only companions are birdsong overhead, morning light filtering through trees, and familiar nods from the regular cast of dog-walkers.

When I finally brew my pour-over coffee, watching the water spiral through fresh grounds, I've been awake for 90 minutes without checking a single device. Only then do I open my laptop, where AI companions await to amplify my work - NotebookLM summarizing research, Perplexity parsing the web, Claude crafting outlines. The afternoon unfolds into coaching conversations, with technology quietly managing the logistics - scheduling, documenting, invoicing - while I focus entirely on the sacred space between minds. As the sun begins its descent into golden hour, I close my laptop with intention. The evening belongs to simple pleasures: paper books, wooden cutting boards, voices shared around the table, feet in communion with earth during twilight strolls.

This isn't the Luddite's rejection of progress, nor the techno-optimist's blind embrace of every new innovation. Instead, it's a conscious choreography between our digital and analog selves. Technology's power lies not in constant presence but in purposeful application, while our deepest human needs - for connection, meaning, and peace - are often best served by the ancient tools of silence, presence, and devoted attention. In living as both Work Wizard and Leisure Luddite, we might just rediscover what it means to be fully human in a digital age.

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Thanks for reading!

Curious what a more human day could look like for you? Or interested in working like a wizard and lounging like a Luddite? Reach out to explore coaching with me:

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