Twilight of the Gods at Sun Valley
The tails between legs among titans. Plus: The symbolic corpse of ICM
If the Masters of the Universe fall in the forest and no one hears them, did they make a sound?
The captains of our industry and every other new-fangled, tech-adjacent industry convened in Idaho last week, as usual, for their annual celebration of capitalism's over-achievers; their chance to carve up the world in bucolic peace. A special getaway, where reporters know their place to stand in their driveway pen and know that buttonholing the staff for tidbits is a big no-no if they want to be allowed back.
Same as it ever was, as they say.
But what was interesting about this year is how not important it seemed; how very much not hanging on every pronouncement the world was, our world in particular. The reports trickled out about Elon's finale, and Sheryl's next moves and which mogul said hi to which mogul. These droplets didn't just seem irrelevant to the fate of our world; given where things are, they sound pathetic.