Visions of the future don’t just reflect what’s ahead—they reveal what’s already happening. The Electric State presents a world where technology has permeated every aspect of life, yet instead of progress, it has led to collapse. Autonomous war machines rust in desolate landscapes, people escape into virtual realities, and the real world fades into irrelevance. It may sound like pure science fiction, but the themes hit uncomfortably close to home. In 2025, AI-driven warfare, social isolation through digital media, and deep political divides are shaping our reality. How far are we, really, from the dystopian world of The Electric State?
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⚠️ Enter at your own risk! This analysis delves into the details of the dystopian plot. If you continue, be aware of spoilers that lurk in wait for you…
The Electric State: A Dystopian Mirror of Our Time?
Simon Stålenhag’s “The Electric State” depicts a haunting alternate 1997 in which technology and society have spiraled out of control—a vision that the Russo brothers are now bringing to the big screen in 2025. The story follows a runaway teenager and her small robot as they head westward through a strange United States littered with the wreckage of colossal combat drones and the remnants of a high-tech consumer society in decline (simonstalenhag.se). As the “hollow core” of civilization collapses in Stålenhag’s narrative, this dystopian journey recalls real-world developments of the past 10–15 years. From the emergence of autonomous weapons and ubiquitous automation to the isolation driven by social media, political upheavals, and climate disasters, “The Electric State” taps into present-day anxieties. This analysis examines whether Stålenhag’s retro-tech apocalypse can be deemed a modern dystopia and what insights it offers into contemporary society, especially with regard to the challenges of 2025. Key motifs—AI-driven warfare, economic automation, digital isolation, and nostalgia—are compared with current trends, as are political and ecological themes such as democratic instability, disinformation, and the climate crisis. Finally, we consider how the new film adaptation interprets these elements and whether it preserves the novel’s dystopian core or dilutes it for a mainstream audience by drawing parallels to other noteworthy dystopian movies like “Blade Runner 2049” and “The Hunger Games.” The picture that emerges is both cautionary and illuminating: “The Electric State” holds up a grim mirror to our world, highlighting the dangers of unchecked technology and societal neglect—yet it also invites us to reflect on how we might avert such a future.
Dystopian Motifs and Parallels to the Real World
An illustration of digital isolation in “The Electric State”: a man “plugged in” to a virtual reality device (the Neurocaster) at an abandoned roadside terminal. In Stålenhag’s dystopia, countless people retreat into this VR system, their minds absorbed into a network while their bodies waste away.
Dystopian fiction often exaggerates or accelerates societal problems to critique the present, and “The Electric State” is no exception. Its motifs—from malevolent AI weapons to people trapped in virtual reality—reflect real phenomena that have grown significantly over the past decade. By setting the story in a retro 1990s America on the brink of collapse, Stålenhag uses nostalgia and the familiar to address highly contemporary issues (Official Press Notes). Although “The Electric State” features giant robots and VR addicts, its central fears—technology outpacing ethics, social withdrawal in the midst of connectivity, and the longing for a past that felt safer—are just as relevant in the 2020s. Below, we explore four key dystopian themes from the novel and their parallels in today’s reality.
AI in Warfare: From Fictional Uprisings to Autonomous Drones
One of the novel’s most unsettling elements is the aftermath of an AI-driven war. Stålenhag envisions a robot uprising in the early ’90s—machines that were once servants turning against humans, leaving behind enormous military drones rusting in the American West (Official Press Notes, simonstalenhag.se). This motif connects directly to current debates about autonomous weapons and artificial intelligence in warfare. Over the past 15 years, real-world militaries have increasingly deployed AI in combat, raising ethical and existential questions strikingly similar to those in “The Electric State.” While we have not (yet) encountered sentient robots, Lethal Autonomous Weapon Systems (LAWS)—often called “killer robots”—are no longer science fiction. These are AI-powered military systems capable of selecting and engaging targets without direct human control, ranging from autonomous drones and sentry robots to algorithm-driven cyberweapons. Reports suggest such systems may already be in use in conflicts: advanced drones with growing autonomy have been deployed on the battlefield in Ukraine, Libya, and elsewhere (carnegieendowment.org). Major powers and technologically advanced states (the U.S., China, Russia, Israel, etc.) are actively investing in this technology, fueling an arms race for smarter and faster weapons.
What makes AI-driven warfare dystopian is the potential loss of human judgment in life-or-death decisions. Delegating killing to machines raises grave ethical concerns: if an autonomous drone hits the wrong target, who is responsible—the algorithm’s programmer, the commanding officer, or no one at all? An international security analysis states: “Transferring battlefield decisions to machines raises fundamental ethical, legal, and political questions,” especially about machines that can make lethal decisions without human input. In “The Electric State,” the ruinous outcome of the war—the collapse of civilization—provides an unmistakable warning against such unfettered military AI. Real-world experts and organizations share comparable fears. The UN Secretary-General has bluntly declared autonomous weapon systems “politically unacceptable and morally repugnant,” calling for a ban on systems that operate without meaningful human control (hrw.org, disarmament.unoda.org). Yet development continues, spurred by strategic competition and the promise of military advantage.
Recent conflicts have offered a glimpse of what algorithmic warfare might look like. In the Russia-Ukraine war, AI-assisted drone warfare is so widespread that analysts have described the fighting as a “battle of the algorithms” (lawfaremedia.org). Both sides use AI for reconnaissance drones, loitering munitions, and targeting systems, turning parts of the conflict into a high-tech duel of automated systems. The result is faster, more relentless fighting—and a preview of a future in which human soldiers are monitored by autonomous swarms making split-second decisions. It aligns with the image of war machines strewn across the landscape: technology dominates the outcome and leaves devastation behind. The novel’s silent battlefields, “littered with gigantic combat drones” (simonstalenhag.se), vividly illustrate the consequences of AI-assisted warfare. Military thinkers today worry that once we cross the threshold into fully autonomous combat, we may face an uncontrollable escalation or unforeseeable ramifications. One Lawfare analysis puts it this way: “Warfare is increasingly becoming a ‘battle of algorithms,’” (lawfaremedia.org) a trend that could outstrip humanity’s ability to control or morally comprehend the conflict.
Beyond drones, AI-driven cyberwarfare presents another parallel. While “The Electric State” focuses on physical robots, the idea of a self-propagating “hive mind” in the story (a networked AI consciousness emerging from the VR system) can be likened to runaway digital threats in our world. AI is increasingly used to automate cyberattacks, generate sophisticated malware, and even produce deceptive deepfake videos for propaganda. The risk is more subtle but no less dystopian: an AI that can learn and execute cyberattacks might cripple critical infrastructure or spread disinformation at a scale and speed no human troll farm could match. Defense analysts note that new AI techniques used in conflicts “could manipulate and corrupt the integrity of key civilian datasets,” effectively weaponizing information (cigionline.org). It’s another form of algorithmic warfare, potentially just as destabilizing—imagine an AI shutting down power grids or hacking fleets of autonomous vehicles all at once. While Stålenhag’s novel depicts the devastation after a robot war, it’s clear that if humans relinquish control of warfare to intelligent machines, we might not easily recover from the fallout. By 2025, as defense departments draft “ethical AI” principles for the battlefield (annenberg.usc.edu), “The Electric State” stands as a creative but cautionary projection of where these paths might lead if things go wrong. It pushes us to consider whether we would recognize the “point of no return” in military AI—or realize we’ve crossed it only when our society lies in ruins.
Automation and Work: Economies on the Brink
In Stålenhag’s America, the economy has all but collapsed under the weight of technological disruption and societal neglect. Although the novel does not delve into the details of economic mechanisms, the landscapes of deserted highways and shuttered malls evoke a country where traditional livelihoods and industries have broken down. We see echoes of this today. Over the past decade, automation and artificial intelligence have reshaped labor markets, fueling debates about job displacement, inequality, and the future of work. Are our high-tech societies sowing the seeds of their own downfall—much like in “The Electric State”—by rendering human workers obsolete and widening social divides?
There is ample evidence that automation has already displaced many jobs—particularly routine and manufacturing roles, as well as mid-level office jobs—even though it boosts productivity and creates wealth for some. One landmark MIT study found that for every additional robot per 1,000 workers in the U.S., employment in the affected area dropped significantly, and wages declined (mitsloan.mit.edu). On a national scale, the study’s model suggested that introducing industrial robots led to a net loss of up to 400,000 jobs and stunted wage growth for workers without college degrees. These are dramatic shifts. From Detroit’s assembly lines to Amazon’s warehouses, tasks once performed by humans—welding a car chassis, sorting packages—are now done faster and more cheaply by machines. While new tech and engineering jobs have emerged, they often require advanced skills or degrees, leaving many workers behind. Economists note that since the 1980s, digital automation has increased labor market inequality, eroding production and office jobs and polarizing wages (brookings.edu). Highly skilled professionals who can work alongside machines are advantaged, while those who can be replaced by them face unemployment or lower-paid service work.
If unmitigated, this phenomenon can have dystopian consequences: entire communities hollowed out, workers rendered economically superfluous, and social safety nets stretched thin. It’s easy to picture how Stålenhag’s futuristic United States might have reached such a sorry state—perhaps the “high-tech consumer society” was great for corporations but left millions jobless or addicted to escapist tech (like Neurocaster VR) as a distraction. In the real 2020s, we see early signs of social strain from these trends. Regions heavily reliant on manufacturing, such as parts of the U.S. Midwest, suffer population decline and despair as factories automate or relocate abroad. A 2022 Brookings analysis found that workers directly displaced by machines often struggle to find equivalent new jobs and that automation’s gains are not evenly distributed (brookings.edu). Those with added credentials enjoy rising incomes, while others face stagnant wages or chronic unemployment. This growing gap manifests in political and cultural fault lines—for example, communities hit hardest by automation and job loss have shown higher levels of populist anger and distrust of institutions, reflected in voting patterns and polling data over the past decade.
Moreover, the accelerating development of AI in white-collar fields—such as algorithms performing legal document review, AI assistants handling customer service, or software writing basic news articles—hints that even cognitive roles are not immune. By 2025, generative AI technologies can write emails, draft proposals, and analyze data, complementing but also replacing parts of creative and professional work. Think tanks like the World Economic Forum have predicted that, by the end of the decade, automation could displace millions of jobs even as it creates new roles—a turbulent period of transition. The fear of a “jobless future” is no longer confined to science fiction; it has seeped into political discourse, inspiring ideas such as universal basic income or job guarantee programs to address the possibility that advanced economies might not have enough traditional work for everyone.
Although “The Electric State” focuses on one girl’s journey, the backdrop of economic breakdown is clear: families shattered by the war industry (Michelle’s grandfather died after being irradiated working on war drones (astoundingbeyondbelief.tumblr.com)), veterans discarded after service as drone pilots (her mother was “addicted” to military-supplied drugs, then later ostracized), and likely corporations pushing technology without regard for social impacts. It paints a picture of self-destructive capitalism: “a civilization … crumbling by its own hand, driven into the abyss by capitalism.” This critique strongly parallels current warnings about unfettered capitalism in the tech age. Who reaps the benefits of AI and automation? If they accumulate in the hands of a few tech giants and investors while many remain underemployed, the social contract frays. In the 2010s and early 2020s, corporate profits and productivity rose while average incomes stagnated and millions were left in precarious jobs—a disconnect that fueled unrest. The novel’s desolate American West can be read as an extrapolation of Rust Belt decline or the opioid-ravaged towns of the 2010s, with the tech industry’s disruptions scaled to national levels. It cautions that we risk a future in which shiny technology coexists with widespread despair and decay if society fails to find a fairer way to integrate automation.
One hopeful perspective is that history shows previous waves of automation eventually led to new industries and job opportunities (albeit after painful adjustments). Some economists argue that AI will augment human labor and could ultimately create more jobs than it destroys. Recent analyses suggest AI may boost productivity and enable new tasks—provided workers are retrained and the gains are shared (brookings.edu, chicagobooth.edu). However, “The Electric State” serves as a cautionary tale of failing to manage that transition. The silent towns and consumer-waste dumps hint that society chased short-term conveniences and profits—rolling out Neurocaster entertainment tech and replacing workers with drones—until it all collapsed. The lesson for 2025 is that we must proactively address the impact of automation—through education, social safety nets, and perhaps rethinking the value of work—to avoid a dystopia in which, much like in the novel, people find more purpose in a virtual life than in a reality that has left them behind.
Digital Isolation and the Paradox of Hyperconnectivity
One of the most poignant themes in “The Electric State” is digital isolation—the notion that technology intended to connect or entertain can fragment society and leave individuals desperately lonely or detached from reality. In the novel’s backstory, a virtual reality system called Neurocaster becomes wildly popular. Originally a military interface for drone pilots, it’s eventually commercialized and becomes the ultimate entertainment device, “replacing almost every other form of entertainment” (thedirect.com). In 1996, a software update (“Mode Six”) proves terrifyingly addictive: users jack in and experience pure bliss while their consciousness slowly merges with a vast network (the “Hive Mind”) (thedirect.com). People quite literally get lost online—their bodies left in a comatose state while their minds fuse with the digital collective. Stålenhag uses this sci-fi idea to amplify trends we already see today: screen addiction, social media escapism, and the way a “connected” society can paradoxically become more isolated and fragmented.
In the real world of the 2010s and 2020s, we have witnessed an alarming surge in loneliness and social withdrawal, even as digital connectivity has reached new heights. Billions of people remain in constant touch via smartphones and social media, yet reported levels of loneliness, anxiety, and depression—especially among adolescents and young adults—have soared. Public health experts are now calling loneliness a crisis on par with significant public health challenges, with profound impacts on mental and physical well-being (news.umich.edu). In hyperconnected industrial societies, entire segments of the population feel isolated. Commentators note the irony: “In an era of hyperconnectivity, loneliness has been declared a global epidemic.” (news.umich.edu). We’re surrounded by digital chatter and “friends,” yet many of us lack genuine companionship and support. This has been dubbed the paradox of hyperconnectivity: technology ostensibly unites us, but in practice can leave us alienated.
Empirical studies back this up. Recent long-term research finds that heavy social media use over time correlates with increased feelings of loneliness (news.web.baylor.edu). In a nine-year study tracking thousands of adults, both passive scrolling and active posting on social platforms were tied to intensifying loneliness, suggesting that even when we are “engaging” online, it may not fulfill deeper social needs. One of the study’s authors described a “feedback loop:” lonely individuals turn to social media for connection, but excessive social media “only stokes the flame of loneliness,” making them feel more isolated in the long run. In short, digital links without real intimacy can feel hollow.
Stålenhag’s depiction of Neurocaster addicts as “twitching, comatose creatures” roaming around with their minds lost in VR (astoundingbeyondbelief.tumblr.com) is a chilling metaphor for our smartphone “zombies”—people physically present but mentally absorbed in a digital realm. While current technology does not literally enslave the mind, the pull of algorithmically optimized feeds and immersive virtual experiences (from endless TikTok scrolling to multiplayer online games and emerging metaverse platforms) is powerful enough that some do indeed “live” more in virtual spaces than in their immediate environment. Japan’s hikikomori phenomenon (young people who withdraw entirely into their rooms, often with the internet/gaming as their main outlet) or the global concern over children’s screen time highlight this tendency. By 2025, VR headsets and augmented reality have become more mainstream, and there is growing worry that dependence on these technologies may deepen isolation. We may not be plugging our brains into a Hive Mind mainframe as in “The Electric State,” but we do tether ourselves to Wi-Fi and cellular networks that mediate much of our reality.
Furthermore, the Hive Mind concept in the novel—a kind of runaway social network that erodes individual identity—echoes how social media algorithms create echo chambers and herd behavior. Online, people often cluster in like-minded communities that reinforce their views (the “hive mind” effect), sometimes at the expense of independent thought. The result can be polarization (more on that later) and a sense that authentic interpersonal connections are replaced by groupthink or curated online personas. Michelle, the protagonist, witnesses an “apocalypse without humans seeing it”—cities not only emptied by population decline but made silent because the remaining people are so immersed in virtual existence that they’ve practically abandoned the physical one. That overstatement maps onto the feeling you get when you enter a café where every patron is glued to a phone, or attend a family gathering where everyone is scrolling through different feeds. Digital isolation means you can be among others and still feel completely alone.
The COVID-19 pandemic in 2020–2021 underscored this paradox. As physical lockdowns separated people, many turned to Zoom, social networks, and online communities. In many ways, these were lifelines—yet by the end of 2020, widespread “Zoom fatigue” and emotional burnout were everywhere. A Pew report found Americans deeply split by their online sources of information, living in “profoundly different realities” (pewresearch.org), and many felt more disconnected than ever despite constant digital contact. In subsequent years, leading public health officials warned that social isolation (even when mediated by technology) could have dire health outcomes—some studies equate chronic loneliness with smoking 15 cigarettes a day in terms of morbidity. This prompted countries like the UK to appoint a “Minister for Loneliness,” recognizing that despite our technical prowess, modern society is failing to meet basic social needs.
In “The Electric State,” those who resist using the Neurocaster—like Michelle—are ironically the loneliest, because almost everyone else has succumbed to it. She is “one of the few wandering a silent world” and experiences the end of society largely alone (astoundingbeyondbelief.tumblr.com). That strikes at the emotional heart of our modern dystopian condition: the fear that, although our technology offers endless entertainment and connectivity, it starves us of genuine human bonds and meaning. The novel offers a grim resolution—the Hive Mind basically consumes the population—whereas we still have a chance to course-correct. Awareness of the problem is a start. By 2025, there is growing advocacy for digital well-being, from movements urging regular offline breaks to design efforts geared toward healthier tech use to renewed emphasis on community activities. The question is whether these can counter the powerful commercial incentives for tech platforms to capture our attention. “The Electric State” is a stark reminder that preserving human connection is vital as technology advances—a society that loses it might survive physically, but in many ways, it’s already collapsed.
A Nostalgic Aesthetic: Longing for the Past in Uncertain Times
A striking aspect of “The Electric State”—in both the book and what we’ve seen of the film—is its nostalgic aesthetic. Stålenhag deliberately sets the story in the 1990s, evoking images of small-town America: diners, motels, desert highways, old consoles, and payphones—even if these are juxtaposed with surreal sci-fi wreckage. This blend of a retro setting and futuristic technology creates a unique atmosphere sometimes called “dystopian nostalgia.” The characters drive an ’80s-era vehicle through landscapes strewn with outdated machinery, and even the advanced robots look chunky and analog in his illustrations. Similarly, the Russo brothers have described the film’s tone as akin to the 1980s Amblin films—those Spielberg-produced adventures mixing wonder with coming-of-age sentimentality (Official Press Notes). This nostalgic framework is not just stylistic but corresponds to a broader phenomenon in contemporary culture and politics: in times of uncertainty and rapid change, societies often retreat into nostalgia, seeking comfort and meaning.
Over the past decade, nostalgia in media has exploded. Hollywood churns out reboots, sequels, and period pieces at an unprecedented rate. Popular shows like “Stranger Things” lovingly revive the 1980s, while fashion and music constantly recycle past trends. Even tech has undergone a retro revival—vinyl and cassette sales have soared, and classic video games are reissued on modern consoles (humanflourishinglab.org). This nostalgia boom is not mere sentimentality; analysts argue it’s a response to an unsettling present. As one cultural observer noted in 2022, “Nostalgia seems to have grown in importance over the past few years—from political slogans that appeal to an idealized past to the re-release of old video games… Demand for ‘old music’ spiked dramatically during the pandemic; cassette and vinyl sales are booming.” When the future feels threatening (due to economic instability, global pandemics, climate anxieties), looking back to supposedly simpler times provides reassurance. The rise of a nostalgic aesthetic is a kind of coping mechanism—a collective longing for the familiar amid rapid change.
This is especially prominent among younger generations. Paradoxically, Generation Z, which never experienced the ’80s or ’90s firsthand, often embraces vintage style and media most enthusiastically. Social media (TikTok, Instagram) accelerates nostalgia cycles, as teenagers discover and romanticize bygone cultural moments with astonishing speed (phys.org). A scholar researching Gen Z noted that this cohort faces “major uncertainties about the future”—growing up amid social upheaval, a climate crisis, and a pandemic—so they “long for culture from eras they haven’t directly experienced,” using nostalgia as a “time machine” to escape current pressures (phys.org). Indeed, 48% of Gen Z in a survey expressed worry that life is moving “too fast” around them. Nostalgia gives them “warm, cozy feelings” of safety and comfort otherwise lacking in today’s chaotic world. Tellingly, the heroine of “The Electric State,” Michelle, is not lamenting a lost future; she’s anchored by memories of her past—even if those memories hold trauma and loss—suggesting that nostalgia can be selective or even illusory.
In politics, nostalgia has become a potent—and double-edged—tool. In the past 10 years, populist movements frequently invoke a return to an idealized past. The most famous example is Donald Trump’s “Make America Great Again,” an explicit reference to an earlier era. Researchers have found that “nostalgia is linked to support for populist and far-right parties” in various countries (academic.oup.com). In particular, Trump’s rhetoric leaned heavily on national nostalgia, promising a return to booming factories, traditional social orders, and a pre-globalized, monocultural America—essentially “a return to times that have been lost” (pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov). Such nostalgia politics often resonates with frustration, implying things were better “back then” and have been ruined by corrupt elites or outsiders. It’s a powerful motivator because it taps into people’s emotions and sense of identity. Indeed, scholars discovered that “national nostalgia” (a sentimental longing for an idealized national past) correlated with growing prejudice and populist support in the U.S., aiding Trump’s rise (pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov). Nostalgia in this context can oversimplify the complex causes of current problems by suggesting that turning back the clock would fix them.
Yet as comforting as nostalgia can be, it carries risks. One is that it can whitewash the problems of the past or promote “restorative” nostalgia—a backward-looking attitude opposing necessary progress. The world of “The Electric State” is literally built on “the discarded junk” of a high-tech society (simonstalenhag.se), with people retreating into memories or VR because they see no future. It’s dystopian precisely because there’s no forward momentum, only decay and retrospection. Likewise, a society that indulges in excessive nostalgia may neglect pressing issues (like climate change or inequality) in favor of chasing an unattainable yesteryear. Commentators warn that modern nostalgia can become escapist, a way not to face the uncertainties of the future. As one Oxford scholar put it, nostalgia thrives in times of uncertainty, but “modern dystopia serves as a reset, wiping everything away… without having to imagine the steps in between” (climate-fiction.org, cambridgescholars.com)—meaning it can be more of a flight from reality than a constructive approach.
By 2025, the interplay of nostalgia and uncertainty is palpable. We oscillate between excitement about the future (with new technologies, social reforms, etc.) and anxiety about it, often seeking refuge in retro culture or nationalist visions of past glory. “The Electric State” captures this mood. It’s a science fiction story that looks both backward and forward: it employs a 1990s setting to comment on present-day technological anxieties. The Russo brothers explicitly noted that grounding the film in the ’90s provides “some distance to process all of these really complex ideas about technology that we’re diving headfirst into right now” (Official Press Notes). In other words, the nostalgic frame helps us digest critiques of contemporary tech problems; we can examine our own era by looking at an alternate version of a past era. This creative tactic underscores that nostalgia isn’t purely a sanctuary; it can also be a tool for reflection. By reimagining the past, we may better understand our present.
The motif of nostalgic aesthetics in “The Electric State” aligns with a widespread cultural impulse in the 2010s and 2020s: gazing back to cope with an uncertain future. Whether it’s retro fashion, rebooted franchises, or political slogans, nostalgia is the collective conscience’s band-aid. It can foster hope and unity (through shared memories) but also distort reality. Stålenhag’s work offers a nuanced view—he uses the stylistic charm of nostalgia while exposing that neither the past nor the present is ideal, urging us not to lose ourselves in longing for what was but to confront what lies ahead. Ultimately, a “hollow core of civilization” cannot be filled by memories alone (simonstalenhag.se). We must build something new, learning from the past without becoming captive to it.
Conclusion:
The Electric State doesn’t depict a distant nightmare—it amplifies trends we’re already witnessing. Autonomous weapons are no longer hypothetical, digital networks distort our perception of reality, and nostalgia-driven escapism influences both pop culture and politics. But dystopias aren’t just warnings; they challenge us to confront the present with greater awareness. As long as we still have a choice, we must ask ourselves: where are we headed, and are we willing to let technology and societal inertia decide for us?
More about “The Electric State” in my book “Dystopias”.
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The Electric State by Simon Stålenhag (Author)
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