Longform

Fixed game

⚠️ This post is about politics. If you’d rather not receive these in your feed, I’ve set up a politics-free RSS feed.

Kamala Harris is now—albeit obliquely—acknowledging the possibility of court packing. That’s something.

I have the impression that I worry more about the Supreme Court than most people do. At least, I’ve been worried about it longer. And I’ve also believed, for the past fifteen years or so, that a lot of Americans don’t share that worry nearly enough.

I recall the day Anthony Kennedy stepped down the way people remember terrorist attacks or presidential assassinations, because that moment, a comparatively unappreciated event, was just as significant as the far more violent ones that would follow. The writing had been on the wall for years: things were going to change, sharply and for the worse. And they did.

It’s simple enough math. Presidents are gone in 4–8 years. By contrast, a single Supreme Court justice can influence national—and, by extension, global—affairs for generations. But while the current #SCOTUS’s excesses have become common conversation these days, there was a time when the prevailing opinion was that some matters, like Roe v. Wade, had been settled for good. No rational court, no matter how partisan, was going to tamper with that. It would shatter the sense of trust in the institution, the respect for precedent that everyone assumed was sacrosanct. American voters just wouldn’t stand for it.

I never bought that reasoning, because what pre-MAGA complacency didn’t consider was the possibility of a deeply irrational court that might not be concerned about American voters at all, especially if the opinions of those voters no longer mattered as much. And as American conservatism shifted in an ever-darker direction—Sarah Palin, the Tea Party, Donald Trump, and ultimately an entire Republican Party gone full-metal MAGA—followed by ominously vaporous platitudes from the resulting SCOTUS nominees and the inevitable final outcome that had, not so long ago, been considered unthinkable, I got at least as focused on Senate races as I was on presidential ones.

This is why, for years now, my ears always prick up whenever someone raises the possibility of court packing.


Court packing—forcibly modifying the composition of the Supreme Court—is a radical, nakedly partisan move. There is no way to do this without looking like you are rigging the system, because that is literally what you are doing. Understandably, court packing is a measure that a lot of people involved in politics, or writing about it, did not want to admit they were seriously considering.

Until recently. Mainly because there may not be any other options. Quoting Millhiser, “That price might be worth paying if the Supreme Court is so hostile to voting rights and to the Democratic Party that Democrats risk being shut out of power forever unless they change the makeup of the Court.”

My reaction was pretty much the same as when the Democratic Party finally started playing hardball regarding gerrymandering, which they should have been treating as a top-priority existential crisis since 2010: what took you so long?

The consequences of going down this road are not imaginary. Of course conservatives are going to respond by repacking the court, first chance they get. Of course conservative-dominated states are going to regard a packed court as illegitimate. Of course some of them are going to engage in terrorism.

What’s key here is that these outcomes are not hypotheticals that can be warded off by example-setting and good behavior. It couldn’t be clearer at this point that Republicans do not have one iota of compunction about doing all of those things anyway (and that’s assuming you don’t consider the current court to have already been packed. I do). This is no longer a question of whether or not to rig the system. It’s already rigged, just in favor of people who want to do bad things instead of good ones.

That is the problem when one half of a political system decides they are no longer part of that system. The transactional logic that governs civilization no longer applies. You can’t say “We need to obey the rules, because if we don’t, the other guys are going to disobey them worse.” Unabashed political breakdown is a radical binary; an event horizon at which tit-for-tat game theory ceases to matter.

If you’re still playing by the rulebook, and the other team is playing Calvinball, you are categorically losing.

Dicked over

Absolute gold from John Gruber, who coined the term dickover for something we have to see every day: popup modals.

I don’t need to go into why dickovers are gross. If you’ve seen one, you already know. The reasons are self-evident. But the core of why this junk isn’t just annoying but offensive—at least to me—lies in the mindset behind them. The people who deface their websites with dickovers are demanding something they have not earned yet: My desire to keep hearing from them.

Imagine meeting someone in real life and within ten seconds of small talk, they literally interrupt you mid-sentence to bluntly demand your contact information. You’re not going to promptly hand it over, excited at the possibility of long, meaningful conversations with your wonderful new friend. You’re going to stare at this person, awkwardly excuse yourself, and walk away thinking, Well, that was creepy.

I have never, once, joined a newsletter because of a popup ad (and yes, “plz join my mailing list” boxes qualify as ads). Why would I? I don’t know yet if this is someone I want to keep hearing from, and now they’ve given me a pretty powerful push in the opposite direction.

And when I do sign up for a newsletter—which I do, constantly—it’s because, after having taken a good long look at whatever is there, I find the work genuinely interesting. Often, like if someone posts about an ongoing personal project that sounds useful, I’ll go to their site with the existing intention of signing up. If I want your newsletter, I’ll find it. A static box at the end of an article, or placed in a footer, is fine.

And if I don’t want your newsletter, getting pushy about it is not going to shift things in your favor. Let’s be clear: A dickover is, fundamentally, an attempt at cheating. You’re trying to hustle a process that can’t be rushed, fast-tracking a connection with me not because you actually did something to deserve it, but just because you got in my face and demanded it.

Marketing ghouls who deal in terms like “growth hacking” will point to numbers that justify this approach. 1 Normal humans don’t care about your spreadsheets. They care about how you treat them, and they think entitled, pushy behavior is gross.


That’s another reason why I would advise anyone enamored with dickovers to reconsider that approach. Dickovers give the rest of us an impression of you—you personally—that does not reflect well on you. Impressions matter, and not just the ones in Google Analytics.

I’ve always believed that the things we create are inexorable reflections of who we are. How could they not be? The work we do, especially for ourselves, is unavoidably infused with our values, decisions, and personality; our psychological DNA.

Dickovers, like the popup-window ads you might remember from yesterday’s web, are a shabby, tasteless hack that indicates something about the decision-maker who chose to implement them. You’re knowingly giving your visitors—people who provide you with attention, patronage, and possibly even friendship/employment—a decidedly disrespectful experience, for your own benefit. That’s not cool.

Dickover apologists will engage in some hair-splitting at this point, trying to quantify—i.e. minimize or justify—the “bad experience” aspect vs. the revenue/benefits from juiced subscription stats. Again, they’re missing the point, in a way that only someone who understands data but not people will do. If someone spits in your face, you don’t care that it’s a small amount and wipes off easily enough. What you care about is that they spat in your face.

I lose respect (and, frankly, trust) for people and organizations who resort to things like that, and I’m a lot less interested in continuing to hear from someone who I have reason to not respect. Moreover, I’m also uninterested in having any kind of relationship, even a superficial one-way one, with someone who doesn’t respect me.

Gruber:

It’s a goddamn privilege for anyone to bestow your article, story, or product page with their attention. The gall, to deliberately interrupt them while they are in the middle of actively reading, to present them with a dickover. It is no different from snatching a physical copy of a book or magazine out of a reader’s hands in order to badger them for something other than the attention they were already granting your work, except that the physical act of snatching a publication from a reader’s hands would subject you to being punched in the face.

If people habitually treated each other the way websites habitually treat us, there would be fistfights.

  1. Numbers which may not actually justify that approach as much as you think. Gruber points out that stats can’t accurately convey the subsequent consumer hostility that results from overtly disrespectful behavior: “They don’t have analytics that measure that I now consider their website an antagonist to avoid at all costs.”