English speakers know that their language is odd. So do people saddled with learning it non-natively. The oddity that we all perceive most readily is its spelling, which is indeed a nightmare. In countries where English isn’t spoken, there is no such thing as a ‘spelling bee’ competition. For a normal language, spelling at least pretends a basic correspondence to the way people pronounce the words. But English is not normal.

Spelling is a matter of writing, of course, whereas language is fundamentally about speaking. Speaking came long before writing, we speak much more, and all but a couple of hundred of the world’s thousands of languages are rarely or never written. Yet even in its spoken form, English is weird. It’s weird in ways that are easy to miss, especially since Anglophones in the United States and Britain are not exactly rabid to learn other languages. But our monolingual tendency leaves us like the proverbial fish not knowing that it is wet. Our language feels ‘normal’ only until you get a sense of what normal really is.

There is no other language, for example, that is close enough to English that we can get about half of what people are saying without training and the rest with only modest effort. German and Dutch are like that, as are Spanish and Portuguese, or Thai and Lao. The closest an Anglophone can get is with the obscure Northern European language called Frisian: if you know that tsiis is cheese and Frysk is Frisian, then it isn’t hard to figure out what this means: Brea, bûter, en griene tsiis is goed Ingelsk en goed Frysk. But that sentence is a cooked one, and overall, we tend to find that Frisian seems more like German, which it is.

We think it’s a nuisance that so many European languages assign gender to nouns for no reason, with French having female moons and male boats and such. But actually, it’s us who are odd: almost all European languages belong to one family – Indo-European – and of all of them, English is the only one that doesn’t assign genders that way.

More weirdness? OK. There is exactly one language on Earth whose present tense requires a special ending only in the third‑person singular. I’m writing in it. I talk, you talk, he/she talk-s – why just that? The present‑tense verbs of a normal language have either no endings or a bunch of different ones (Spanish: hablo, hablas, habla). And try naming another language where you have to slip do into sentences to negate or question something. Do you find that difficult? Unless you happen to be from Wales, Ireland or the north of France, probably.

Why is our language so eccentric? Just what is this thing we’re speaking, and what happened to make it this way?

English started out as, essentially, a kind of German. Old English is so unlike the modern version that it feels like a stretch to think of them as the same language at all. Hwæt, we gardena in geardagum þeodcyninga þrym gefrunon – does that really mean ‘So, we Spear-Danes have heard of the tribe-kings’ glory in days of yore’? Icelanders can still read similar stories written in the Old Norse ancestor of their language 1,000 years ago, and yet, to the untrained eye, Beowulf might as well be in Turkish.

The first thing that got us from there to here was the fact that, when the Angles, Saxons and Jutes (and also Frisians) brought their language to England, the island was already inhabited by people who spoke very different tongues. Their languages were Celtic ones, today represented by Welsh, Irish and Breton across the Channel in France. The Celts were subjugated but survived, and since there were only about 250,000 Germanic invaders – roughly the population of a modest burg such as Jersey City – very quickly most of the people speaking Old English were Celts.

Crucially, their languages were quite unlike English. For one thing, the verb came first (came first the verb). But also, they had an odd construction with the verb do: they used it to form a question, to make a sentence negative, and even just as a kind of seasoning before any verb. Do you walk? I do not walk. I do walk. That looks familiar now because the Celts started doing it in their rendition of English. But before that, such sentences would have seemed bizarre to an English speaker – as they would today in just about any language other than our own and the surviving Celtic ones. Notice how even to dwell upon this queer usage of do is to realise something odd in oneself, like being made aware that there is always a tongue in your mouth.

At this date there is no documented language on earth beyond Celtic and English that uses do in just this way. Thus English’s weirdness began with its transformation in the mouths of people more at home with vastly different tongues. We’re still talking like them, and in ways we’d never think of. When saying ‘eeny, meeny, miny, moe’, have you ever felt like you were kind of counting? Well, you are – in Celtic numbers, chewed up over time but recognisably descended from the ones rural Britishers used when counting animals and playing games. ‘Hickory, dickory, dock’ – what in the world do those words mean? Well, here’s a clue: hovera, dovera, dick were eight, nine and ten in that same Celtic counting list.

pretty soon their bad Old English was real English, and here we are today: the Scandies made English easier

The second thing that happened was that yet more Germanic-speakers came across the sea meaning business. This wave began in the ninth century, and this time the invaders were speaking another Germanic offshoot, Old Norse. But they didn’t impose their language. Instead, they married local women and switched to English. However, they were adults and, as a rule, adults don’t pick up new languages easily, especially not in oral societies. There was no such thing as school, and no media. Learning a new language meant listening hard and trying your best. We can only imagine what kind of German most of us would speak if this was how we had to learn it, never seeing it written down, and with a great deal more on our plates (butchering animals, people and so on) than just working on our accents.

As long as the invaders got their meaning across, that was fine. But you can do that with a highly approximate rendition of a language – the legibility of the Frisian sentence you just read proves as much. So the Scandinavians did pretty much what we would expect: they spoke bad Old English. Their kids heard as much of that as they did real Old English. Life went on, and pretty soon their bad Old English was real English, and here we are today: the Scandies made English easier.

I should make a qualification here. In linguistics circles it’s risky to call one language ‘easier’ than another one, for there is no single metric by which we can determine objective rankings. But even if there is no bright line between day and night, we’d never pretend there’s no difference between life at 10am and life at 10pm. Likewise, some languages plainly jangle with more bells and whistles than others. If someone were told he had a year to get as good at either Russian or Hebrew as possible, and would lose a fingernail for every mistake he made during a three-minute test of his competence, only the masochist would choose Russian – unless he already happened to speak a language related to it. In that sense, English is ‘easier’ than other Germanic languages, and it’s because of those Vikings.

Old English had the crazy genders we would expect of a good European language – but the Scandies didn’t bother with those, and so now we have none. Chalk up one of English’s weirdnesses. What’s more, the Vikings mastered only that one shred of a once-lovely conjugation system: hence the lonely third‑person singular –s, hanging on like a dead bug on a windshield. Here and in other ways, they smoothed out the hard stuff.

They also followed the lead of the Celts, rendering the language in whatever way seemed most natural to them. It is amply documented that they left English with thousands of new words, including ones that seem very intimately ‘us’: sing the old song ‘Get Happy’ and the words in that title are from Norse. Sometimes they seemed to want to stake the language with ‘We’re here, too’ signs, matching our native words with the equivalent ones from Norse, leaving doublets such as dike (them) and ditch (us), scatter (them) and shatter (us), and ship (us) vs skipper (Norse for ship was skip, and so skipper is ‘shipper’).

But the words were just the beginning. They also left their mark on English grammar. Blissfully, it is becoming rare to be taught that it is wrong to say Which town do you come from?, ending with the preposition instead of laboriously squeezing it before the wh-word to make From which town do you come? In English, sentences with ‘dangling prepositions’ are perfectly natural and clear and harm no one. Yet there is a wet-fish issue with them, too: normal languages don’t dangle prepositions in this way. Spanish speakers: note that El hombre quien yo llegué con (‘The man whom I came with’) feels about as natural as wearing your pants inside out. Every now and then a language turns out to allow this: one indigenous one in Mexico, another one in Liberia. But that’s it. Overall, it’s an oddity. Yet, wouldn’t you know, it’s one that Old Norse also happened to permit (and which Danish retains).

as if all this wasn’t enough, English got hit by a firehose spray of words from yet more languages

We can display all these bizarre Norse influences in a single sentence. Say That’s the man you walk in with, and it’s odd because 1) the has no specifically masculine form to match man, 2) there’s no ending on walk, and 3) you don’t say ‘in with whom you walk’. All that strangeness is because of what Scandinavian Vikings did to good old English back in the day.

Finally, as if all this wasn’t enough, English got hit by a firehose spray of words from yet more languages. After the Norse came the French. The Normans – descended from the same Vikings, as it happens – conquered England, ruled for several centuries and, before long, English had picked up 10,000 new words. Then, starting in the 16th century, educated Anglophones developed a sense of English as a vehicle of sophisticated writing, and so it became fashionable to cherry-pick words from Latin to lend the language a more elevated tone.

It was thanks to this influx from French and Latin (it’s often hard to tell which was the original source of a given word) that English acquired the likes of crucified, fundamental, definition and conclusion. These words feel sufficiently English to us today, but when they were new, many persons of letters in the 1500s (and beyond) considered them irritatingly pretentious and intrusive, as indeed they would have found the phrase ‘irritatingly pretentious and intrusive’. (Think of how French pedants today turn up their noses at the flood of English words into their language.) There were even writerly sorts who proposed native English replacements for those lofty Latinates, and it’s hard not to yearn for some of these: in place of crucified, fundamental, definition and conclusion, how about crossed, groundwrought, saywhat, and endsay?

But language tends not to do what we want it to. The die was cast: English had thousands of new words competing with native English words for the same things. One result was triplets allowing us to express ideas with varying degrees of formality. Help is English, aid is French, assist is Latin. Or, kingly is English, royal is French, regal is Latin – note how one imagines posture improving with each level: kingly sounds almost mocking, regal is straight-backed like a throne, royal is somewhere in the middle, a worthy but fallible monarch.

Then there are doublets, less dramatic than triplets but fun nevertheless, such as the English/French pairs begin and commence, or want and desire. Especially noteworthy here are the culinary transformations: we kill a cow or a pig (English) to yield beef or pork (French). Why? Well, generally in Norman England, English-speaking labourers did the slaughtering for moneyed French speakers at table. The different ways of referring to meat depended on one’s place in the scheme of things, and those class distinctions have carried down to us in discreet form today.

Caveat lector, though: traditional accounts of English tend to oversell what these imported levels of formality in our vocabulary really mean. It is sometimes said that they alone make the vocabulary of English uniquely rich, which is what Robert McCrum, William Cran and Robert MacNeil claim in the classic The Story of English (1986): that the first load of Latin words actually lent Old English speakers the ability to express abstract thought. But no one has ever quantified richness or abstractness in that sense (who are the people of any level of development who evidence no abstract thought, or even no ability to express it?), and there is no documented language that has only one word for each concept. Languages, like human cognition, are too nuanced, even messy, to be so elementary. Even unwritten languages have formal registers. What’s more, one way to connote formality is with substitute expressions: English has life as an ordinary word and existence as the fancy one, but in the Native American language Zuni, the fancy way to say life is ‘a breathing into’.

Even in English, native roots do more than we always recognise. We will only ever know so much about the richness of even Old English’s vocabulary because the amount of writing that has survived is very limited. It’s easy to say that comprehend in French gave us a new formal way to say understand – but then, in Old English itself, there were words that, when rendered in Modern English, would look something like ‘forstand’, ‘underget’, and ‘undergrasp’. They all appear to mean ‘understand’, but surely they had different connotations, and it is likely that those distinctions involved different degrees of formality.

Nevertheless, the Latinate invasion did leave genuine peculiarities in our language. For instance, it was here that the idea that ‘big words’ are more sophisticated got started. In most languages of the world, there is less of a sense that longer words are ‘higher’ or more specific. In Swahili, Tumtazame mbwa atakavyofanya simply means ‘Let’s see what the dog will do.’ If formal concepts required even longer words, then speaking Swahili would require superhuman feats of breath control. The English notion that big words are fancier is due to the fact that French and especially Latin words tend to be longer than Old English ones – end versus conclusion, walk versus ambulate.

The multiple influxes of foreign vocabulary also partly explain the striking fact that English words can trace to so many different sources – often several within the same sentence. The very idea of etymology being a polyglot smorgasbord, each word a fascinating story of migration and exchange, seems everyday to us. But the roots of a great many languages are much duller. The typical word comes from, well, an earlier version of that same word and there it is. The study of etymology holds little interest for, say, Arabic speakers.

this muttly vocabulary is a big part of why there’s no language so close to English that learning it is easy

To be fair, mongrel vocabularies are hardly uncommon worldwide, but English’s hybridity is high on the scale compared with most European languages. The previous sentence, for example, is a riot of words from Old English, Old Norse, French and Latin. Greek is another element: in an alternate universe, we would call photographs ‘lightwriting’. According to a fashion that reached its zenith in the 19th century, scientific things had to be given Greek names. Hence our undecipherable words for chemicals: why can’t we call monosodium glutamate ‘one-salt gluten acid’? It’s too late to ask. But this muttly vocabulary is one of the things that puts such a distance between English and its nearest linguistic neighbours.

And finally, because of this firehose spray, we English speakers also have to contend with two different ways of accenting words. Clip on a suffix to the word wonder, and you get wonderful. But – clip on an ending to the word modern and the ending pulls the accent ahead with it: MO-dern, but mo-DERN-ity, not MO-dern-ity. That doesn’t happen with WON-der and WON-der-ful, or CHEER-y and CHEER-i-ly. But it does happen with PER-sonal, person-AL-ity.

What’s the difference? It’s that -ful and -ly are Germanic endings, while -ity came in with French. French and Latin endings pull the accent closer – TEM-pest, tem-PEST-uous – while Germanic ones leave the accent alone. One never notices such a thing, but it’s one way this ‘simple’ language is actually not so.

Thus the story of English, from when it hit British shores 1,600 years ago to today, is that of a language becoming delightfully odd. Much more has happened to it in that time than to any of its relatives, or to most languages on Earth. Here is Old Norse from the 900s CE, the first lines of a tale in the Poetic Edda called The Lay of Thrym. The lines mean ‘Angry was Ving-Thor/he woke up,’ as in: he was mad when he woke up. In Old Norse it was:

Vreiðr vas Ving-Þórr / es vaknaði.

The same two lines in Old Norse as spoken in modern Icelandic today are:

Reiður var þá Vingþórr / er hann vaknaði.

You don’t need to know Icelandic to see that the language hasn’t changed much. ‘Angry’ was once vreiðr; today’s reiður is the same word with the initial v worn off and a slightly different way of spelling the end. In Old Norse you said vas for was; today you say var – small potatoes.

In Old English, however, ‘Ving-Thor was mad when he woke up’ would have been Wraþmod wæs Ving-Þórr/he áwæcnede. We can just about wrap our heads around this as ‘English’, but we’re clearly a lot further from Beowulf than today’s Reykjavikers are from Ving-Thor.

Thus English is indeed an odd language, and its spelling is only the beginning of it. In the widely read Globish (2010), McCrum celebrates English as uniquely ‘vigorous’, ‘too sturdy to be obliterated’ by the Norman Conquest. He also treats English as laudably ‘flexible’ and ‘adaptable’, impressed by its mongrel vocabulary. McCrum is merely following in a long tradition of sunny, muscular boasts, which resemble the Russians’ idea that their language is ‘great and mighty’, as the 19th-century novelist Ivan Turgenev called it, or the French idea that their language is uniquely ‘clear’ (Ce qui n’est pas clair n’est pas français).

However, we might be reluctant to identify just which languages are not ‘mighty’, especially since obscure languages spoken by small numbers of people are typically majestically complex. The common idea that English dominates the world because it is ‘flexible’ implies that there have been languages that failed to catch on beyond their tribe because they were mysteriously rigid. I am not aware of any such languages.

What English does have on other tongues is that it is deeply peculiar in the structural sense. And it became peculiar because of the slings and arrows – as well as caprices – of outrageous history.

Good public transit connects people to places. Ideally, this is done efficiently and sustainably, with transit routes and stations serving and connecting the most amount of people possible. But in reality, there's a lot of variation within and between cities in how effectively this is done.

To look at this, we've created maps of major rail transit lines and stations (rapid transit, regional rail, LRT) overlaid onto population density for 250 of the most populated urban regions around the globe. Click the dropdowns below to view how well transit systems serve their populations in different cities.

Each map has the same geographic scale, 100km in diameter, to be easily comparable with each other.

Using these maps, we've also computed several metrics examining characteristics of transit oriented development, and ranked how well cities perform relative to each other. Generally, the greater the density and proportion of the population that lives near major rail transit, the better.

Population data for these maps are from GlobPOP, and rail transit data are from OpenStreetMap. At the bottom of this page we describe these data sources, our methodology, and limitations in more detail.

City Rankings

Select by metric:

Select by region:

Data & Methods

Our list of cities came from a dataset from Natural Earth. We started with a list of the 300 most populated cities, but then manually removed cases where one city was essentially the suburb of another city at our scale (e.g. Howrah was removed since it is very close to Kolkata), as well as removed cities without any rail transit.

For each city, we then defined the urban region shown on the maps as a circle with a 50km radius from the centre point noted in the Natural Earth dataset. We chose to use a standard circle size for all regions to account for idiosyncrasies in how different parts of the world define metro areas. 50km is approximately the outer range that someone would commute to/from a city centre along a major rail corridor.

We sourced the population density data from GlobPOP which provides population count and density data at a spatial resolution of 30 arc-seconds (approximately 1km at the equator) around the globe. Our urban population density metrics are computed after removing areas where population density is less than 400km², to account for how regions vary in terms of how much agricultural land and un-habitable geography they have (e.g. mountains, water, etc. 400km² is the same threshold used by Statistics Canada to define populated places.

We downloaded rail and station data from OpenStreetMap (OSM) using overpass turbo with this query. We then calculated 1km buffers around each station and then estimated the population within the buffered area via aerial interpolation. OSM is crowd-sourced data, and while the quality and comprehensiveness of OSM data is quite good in most cities, there are several cities that have missing or incorrect data. If you see any errors, please update OSM! As OSM data is edited and improved, we'll aim to update our maps and metrics in the future.

There are two main limitations with this transit data: 1) it only includes rail transit, not Bus Rapid Transit (BRT), which in many cities provides comparable service to rail. 2) it does not account for frequency (i.e. headway) of routes. While many transit agencies share their routes and schedules in GTFS format, which includes information about frequency and often technology (bus, rail, etc.), we found that the availability of GTFS at a global scale was not available everywhere, particularly outside of Europe and North America.

Now of course, where people live is just one piece; the goal of transit is ultimately to take people where they want to go (work, school, recreation, etc.). It would be great to layer on employment and activity location data onto these maps to also look at the destination side of the equation as well as analyze connectivity of networks. Something to work on in the future!

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More information about this project, code, data, etc. are available on GitHub.

Four billion years ago, Earth was a fiery, tumultuous world of molten rock, volcanic eruptions, and toxic skies, with searing heat and the constant threat of asteroid impacts.

Thankfully, our planet has cooled off a bit since then. Nevertheless, the Earth still radiates vast amounts of geothermal energy. It’s a clean, limitless, always-on power source lying beneath our feet — we just have to dig for it. Or get robots to do the hard work for us. 

Borobotics, a startup from Switzerland, has developed an autonomous drilling machine — dubbed the “world’s most powerful worm” — that promises to make harnessing geothermal heat cheaper and more accessible for everyone. 

“Drilling will become possible on properties where it would be unthinkable today — small gardens, parking lots, and potentially even basements,” Moritz Pill, Borobotics’ co-founder, tells TNW.  

At just 13.5 cm wide and 2.8 metres long, the compact boring robot can silently burrow just about anywhere. It could make geothermal a viable backyard energy source.

The machine — nicknamed “Grabowski” after the famous cartoon mole — is the world’s first geothermal drill that operates autonomously, according to the startup. Sensors in Grabowski’s head mean it can detect which type of material it’s boring through. If it bumps into a water spring or gas reservoir on its way down, the robot worm automatically seals the borehole shut. And unlike the diesel-powered drills typical to the industry, the machine plugs into a regular electrical socket. 

However, Grabowski’s humble frame has a few drawbacks. The device is less powerful than bigger rigs. It’s also slower and can only dig to a maximum depth of 500 metres. But for Borobotics’ target market, that’s more than adequate, it says.

Limitless heat just below our feet 

While most geothermal startups look to produce utility-scale electricity by digging many kilometres below the Earth’s crust, Borobotics is going shallow. 

“In many European countries, at a depth of 250 metres, you have an average temperature of 14 degrees C,” says Pill. “This is ideal for efficient heating in winter, while still being cold enough to cool the building in summer.”

Borobotics wants to tap the burgeoning demand for geothermal heat pumps. These devices use a network of subterranean pipes to transfer heat from below the ground to a building on the surface. Under the right conditions, they double-up as air conditioning. 

Heating and cooling buildings accounts for half of global energy consumption, the lion’s share of which comes from burning fossil fuels like natural gas. 

To curb emissions, the EU has committed to installing 43 million new heat pumps between 2023 and 2030, as part of the bloc’s €300bn REPowerEU plan. 

The advantages are obvious. Heat pumps use electricity instead of fossil fuels to transfer heat or cold air. They are up to three times more efficient than the equivalent gas boiler. If they plug into a renewable energy source, even better. 

The EU backs both geothermal and air-source heat pumps, but the latter dominate thanks to lower costs and easier installation. That’s despite geothermal heat pumps being more efficient because they rely on stable subterranean heat rather than fluctuating outdoor temperatures.

“The potential of geothermal heat pumps to decarbonise Europe is substantial, as long as the cost comes down,” Torsten Kolind, managing partner at Underground Ventures, tells TNW. “The minute that happens, the market is open.”

Underground Ventures, based in Copenhagen, is the world’s first VC dedicated entirely to funding geothermal tech startups. The firm led Borobotics’ CHF 1.3mn (€1.38mn) pre-seed funding round, announced this week.

Due to their small size, Borobotics says its drill is “very resource efficient” to produce and maintain. What’s more, Grabowski’s autonomous capabilities, other than being cool, have a hidden advantage. 

Pill paints the following picture:

“A small team arrive to a site with a Sprinter van containing everything necessary to drill,” he explains. “They set the drill in half a day and from then on it works autonomously.” 

Pill predicts that one or two people will be able to handle 10-13 drill sites simultaneously. If correct, this means drilling companies can cover more ground in less time, even if Grabowski is a little more sluggish than its fossil-fuelled relatives. 

Given the EU’s chronic shortage of heat pump installers, an autonomous drilling robot may be a welcome helping hand.  

Despite the apparent potential, it’s still early days for Borobotics. Founded in 2023, the company is currently developing its first working prototype. Fuelled by its first major pot of funding, it looks to test the robot in real conditions this year. 

Geothermal tech is heating up   

In December, the International Energy Agency (IEA) released its first report on geothermal energy in over 10 years. In the report, the IEA predicted that geothermal could cater to 15% of global energy demand by 2050, up from just 1% today. 

Geothermal projects of old were largely state-led, and confined to volcanically active regions like Iceland or New Zealand where hot water bubbles at or near the surface. But the next wave of installations looks to be led by startups armed with state-of-the-art technology that allows them to dig deeper and more efficiently.

Geothermal energy startups attracted $650mn in VC funding in 2024, the highest value ever recorded, according to Dealroom data. One of those is US-based Fervo Energy, backed by Bill Gates’ Breakthrough Energy Ventures. Google has already plugged into Fervo’s geothermal plant in Nevada to power one of its data centres. Another upstart is Canada’s Eavor, which is currently building a giant underground “radiator” in Germany that could heat an entire town.

“The problem has always been geology and economics, but the advances of startups like Fervo and Eavor in recent years have changed the game,” says Kolind.

While US startups are leading the pack, Europe is well poised to compete. 

“Europe has excellent geothermal subsurface conditions, and, unlike America, it also has a strong tradition for district heating,” says Kolind. The investor believes it’s only a matter of time before Europe’s investors and policymakers go all-in on geothermal tech. 

“Unlike natural gas and coal, it is fossil-free. Unlike wind and solar, it is always-on. And unlike nuclear energy, it is geopolitically benign,” he says.

Can you imagine a company so powerful that it controls half of the world’s trade?

It actually happened. But only one time in history. It’s a remarkable story filled with lessons for those willing to learn them.

No business ever matched the power of the East India Company. It dominated global trade routes, and used that power to control entire nations. Yet it eventually collapsed—ruined by the consequences of its own extreme ambitions.

Anybody who wants to understand how big businesses destroy themselves through greed and overreaching needs to know this case study. And that’s especially true right now—because huge web platforms are trying to do the exact same thing in the digital economy that the East India Company did in the real world.

Google is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to the East India Company. And it will encounter the exact same problems, and perhaps meet the same fate.

The concept is simple. If you control how people connect to the economy, you have enormous power over them.

You don’t even need to run factories or set up retail stores. You don’t need to manufacture anything, or create any object with intrinsic value.

You just control the links between buyers and sellers—and then you squeeze them as hard as you can.

That’s why the East India Company focused on trade routes. They were the hyperlinks of that era.

So it needed ships the way Google needs servers.

The seeds for this rapacious business were planted when the British captured a huge Portuguese ship in 1592. The boat, called the Madre de Deus, was three times larger than anything the Brits had ever built.

But it was NOT a military vessel. The Portuguese ship was filled with cargo.

The sailors couldn’t believe what they had captured. They found chests of gold and silver coins, diamond-set jewelry, pearls as big as your thumb, all sorts of silks and tapestries, and 15 tons of ebony.

The spices alone weighed a staggering 50 tons—cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, pepper, and other magical substances rarely seen in British kitchens.

This one cargo ship represented as much wealth as half of the entire English treasury.

And it raised an obvious question. Why should the English worry about military ships—or anything else, really—when you could make so much money trading all this stuff?

Not long after, a group of merchants and explorers started hatching plans to launch a trading company—and finally received a charter from Queen Elizabeth in 1600.

The East India Company was now a reality, but it needed to play catchup. The Dutch and the Portuguese were already established in the merchant shipping business.

By 1603, the East India Company had three ships. A decade later that had grown to eight. But the bigger it got, the more ambitious it became.

The rates of return were enormous—an average of 138% on the first dozen voyages. So the management was obsessed with expanding as rapidly as possible.

They call it scalability nowadays.

But even if they dominated and oppressed like bullies, these corporate bosses still craved a veneer of respectability and legitimacy—just like Google’s CEO at the innauguration yesterday. So the company got a Coat of Arms, playacting as if it were a royal family or noble clan.

The company adopted the motto: Deus Indicat. Deo Ducente Nil Nocet. It translates as “God is our leader. When God leads, nothing can harm.”

When you consider all the brutal, terrible things this company did, you ‘re dumbfounded that they dared adopt that slogan—much like the “Don’t Be Evil” that once served as Google’s motto.

But their real god was profit maximization. Of course it was—when your return on investment is so high, you try to grow as fast as possible.

So the East India Company bought new ships. And they bought old ships, too. To accelerate their growth, they even started leasing ships.

They eventually created their own shipyards—just like web platforms nowadays that decide to make their own hardware. In business, this is called backward integration.

And, also like companies today, it sold shares on the stock exchange to finance these investments.

Soon the East India Company owned a fleet larger than most navies.

There are only two businesses that call their clients users—drug dealers and Internet businesses. The East India Company is a role model for both.

But it’s hard to control the world without getting your hands dirty. Google learned that—and ditched the company’s originating vision of “Don’t Be Evil.”

So the East India Company turned into a military force—ready to use violence whenever necessary. Just two years after its founding, the East India Company launched an attack on a Portuguese ship and seized its cargo. This was a faster way to make money than just trading.

Let’s be honest, they were now no better than pirates, extracting profits without adding value. In this way, they resemble a search engine that steals news from journalists to sell ads or uses AI knockoffs to take revenues from human creators.

But the company’s managers would tell you they didn’t have a choice. If you wanted to control the high seas, you either attacked or got attacked. There was no other option.

This always happens, sooner or later, when greed is unrestrained. Fair competition is too slow. You make money faster when you totally destroy all enemies.

So the East India Company eventually controlled more than a quarter of a million soldiers—at some points it had twice as many combatants under its command as the Royal British Navy.

It fought wars. It started wars. It ran blockades. It conquered territories, and subjugated the populace. Sometimes it forgot trade entirely, and just imposed taxes on the people it had captured.

And when you’ve done all that, why worry about other ethical considerations? At an early stage, the company began trading slaves. It continued doing so for the next two hundred years.

But opium was especially profitable. Like today’s web platforms, the East India Company learned that it could exploit addiction—if the client was hooked, you could squeeze even more cash out of them.

I note that there are only two businesses that call their clients users—drug dealers and Internet businesses. The East India Company is a role model for both.

But there’s a problem with greed and ambition pushed to such extreme limits. And the East India Company eventually paid a price for its evil ways.

The company was hated. Subjugated people fought back. Politicians also grew increasingly alarmed at a business that had more power than the government.

So they denounced the company’s corruption and abuses of monopoly power, and imposed restrictions. Constant overreaching also led to financial setbacks and reprisals from a growing number of enemies.

But the simpler explanation is karma is real.

Total domination never works in the long run. Just look at all the oppressors of the past—who believed that they had grown so strong, nobody could stop them. They never realize, until it’s too late, that creating so many enemies, day after day, is a bad long term strategy.

That’s why they get knifed by their former friends in the Roman Senate. Or get exiled to Elba. Or commit suicide in a Berlin bunker.

Retribution is inevitable. That’s because human beings are not like rats in a maze. If you push them too far, they will go to extreme lengths—even sacrifice their own lives—to get revenge.

It took a long time for the opponents of the East India Company to mobilize. But eventually hundreds of millions of people hated them. Even the government officials they had manipulated for so long started to push back—nobody wants to be bullied, and even David finds a way to take down Goliath.

The ultimate irony is that shares of the East India Company still exist today. And an Indian bought them up to gain control.

This is called getting the last laugh.

A comparison with Google is striking. And not just because an Indian-born exec is CEO.

Just like a shipping company that controls the port, Google’s search engine is the port of departure for digital voyages today. And like the East India Company, Google decided that it can exploit anybody who uses its port—and destroy them if they want.

So Google destroyed the journalism business. That’s why your neighborhood newspaper went broke—the folks in Palo Alto siphoned off all the advertising revenues. And they have killed off thousands of other businesses and jobs.

They didn’t need to do this. The same is true of shipping companies—they don’t try to subjugate nations anymore. They learned this lesson from the collapse of the East India Company. Google hasn’t learned its lesson—yet—and so it believes that controlling search gives it the right to dominate anything that is searched for.

I’ve argued elsewhere that AT&T could have done the same thing when it controlled the telephone system. But it didn’t.

AT&T operated with a code of ethics that Google abandoned years ago. Otherwise it would have been a parasite on every business that used a phone—demanding a cut of revenues from any transaction conducted via their network.

Google is shameless. If you pay them money, people can find your business. If you stop paying them money, you disappear from view. They want every business on the planet to pay for placement—from toys for tots to funeral homes for elders. Even essential services, such as healthcare, are expected to pay to play.

And it’s not just their search engine. They always invest in businesses that put them in the ‘trade routes’—controlling the linkages, and never getting involved in the creation of tangible value.

That’s their philosophy at YouTube, for example. Other people do the creating—Google just swallows up cash as the intermediary. And that’s also why they launched the Chrome web browser and Gmail. Even their map apps will destroy businesses that don’t play by their rules.

They want to stand between you and everything you interact with digitally—taking a cut of the action each time.

This is their true character: Google is a tolltaker on the digital roads, not an innovator in the physical world. We don’t call them trade routes anymore, but from Google’s perspective that’s what they are. Like the East India Company, this is where they exert force and seek to dominate.

They are like the bouncers at the door of the nightclub—but meaner and greedier than any bouncer you have ever seen. After all, no bouncer would ever assume that controlling the door allows you to bully the bar owner.

Like the East India Company, they now make every decision based on a never-sated ambition for more money and power. Even now—after the senior management is fabulously wealthy—they want more and more.

But users don’t like being used. And—also like the East India Company—Google now has enemies in government, who fear its monopolistic initiatives.

By the way, don’t try to learn about Google’s monopoly from Google. If you do a search, it only wants you to read articles about their responses, not the initial accusations.

In the days of the East India Company, this kind of abusive behavior was known as mercantilism. That was how you controlled the links back then.

What Google is doing is a new kind of digital mercantilism. As was true of its predecessor, this is an abuse of power.

While it’s working, it looks invincible. But a time of reckoning comes, sooner or later.

It comes when subjugated people push back. And Google is now manipulating more people than even the East India Company at the peak of its domination.

I’m not certain what the tipping point will be. But the governments of many (maybe even most) countries in the world now view Google as a hostile entity. And hundreds of millions of people feel the same way.

These things play out slowly, usually over the course of decades. But, meanwhile, the resistance gets stronger and stronger. And all the software in the world won’t be enough to stop the backlash that’s coming.

Author Annie Dillard wrote that “how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives”. So, how was it that I spent a large portion of my 20s​­ terrified of the big, long life I had before me? After Stanford University, I’d moved to New York to work at Google but I was depressed, anxious.

When I realised that many brilliant and accomplished people were also secretly miserable, just trying to make it through the day, I looked for terminology to describe this, but there was none. So I came up with my own: the underfulfilled overachiever, or UFOA. This describes a constant striver who is living a great‑­on‑­paper life, yet feels disconnected from their work, life and self. UFOAs see success as the organising principle of our lives. We call it by a catchy name: hustle culture. We brag about our intense busyness. Side hustles are a badge of honour. Going “above and beyond” in our jobs is routine. Our primary purpose, unabashedly, is achievement.

Most of us were shaped around expectations from the beginning. We praise kids for being “good students”, by which we don’t mean curious and engaged. We mean high grades and awards. Our education system is built on this principle. This means prioritising productivity – achievement’s codependent ­partner – above almost all else. The central question becomes: “How can I be the most productive today?”

But if this is supposed to guarantee our happiness, why do almost 50% of millennials report symptoms of depression and/or anxiety disorders and ­84% report burnout? And why are these numbers rising? Those are not metrics of success by anyone’s definition. Clearly, our system is broken. The problem is the expectation that with achievement comes fulfilment. It’s not about the most enjoyable way to get to work or being and feeling well during your day; it’s about what each choice can earn you.

The way we’ve been taught to “do” life is all wrong. “Destinational living”, by which we pursue recognisable outcomes based on the lie that these will guarantee security and happiness, is an “end justifies the means” philosophy. Destinational living says: “Decide what you want your life to look like, come up with a 10-​­year plan, and then work backward to determine the most advantageous place to start.” In the abstract, this is a lovely idea. There’s a reason why it’s the dominant cultural paradigm. It’s comforting to believe that the world is so predictable that we can plot it all out in­ advance. If only it were true.

Destinational Living means outsourcing our decision-making. What is impressive, what is ­valuable, is defined not by what matters to us personally but, rather, by what matters to others. In effect, we’re “life plagiarising”. It’s asking, “what did that person do to achieve such success?” and then turning around and saying, “OK, got it. Copy, paste”.

What most UFOAs eventually learn the hard way is that being, or appearing, successful (becoming a CEO, parent, spouse, homeowner) is a different experience from being fulfilled. Fulfilment is a deep sense of belonging to yourself.

Many UFOAs misdiagnose their problem as unreasonable expectations, or workaholism, assuming that they just have to “care less” about work. In 2022, “quiet quitting” –​­ doing the bare minimum required to keep a job – dominated headlines. While I support the sentiment, I’m not a fan of any strategy that is based on engaging less with your life. I’m pretty sure that is not the recipe for fulfilment.

There are also proponents of opting out altogether. There is a movement among young people in China called tang ping, or “lying flat” that is “a way of life [that includes] not getting married, not having children, not buying a house or a car, and refusing to work extra hours or hold a job at all”. I applaud anyone investigating alternative strategies. But ambition is a genuine part of who we are. Not to mention that living antithetically to the cultural system is still living defensively against, instead of for, something.

There’s another way and I call it directional living. Here’s the catch: I can’t find fulfilment for you. The good news is that it’s all up to you. Directional living is like the scientific method but for life. You begin with a ­hypothesis –​­ your best guess as to the direction of a loose “something bigger”. You conduct tests and collect data through your experiences, refining your life hypothesis as you go.

If you have a hypothesis that involves living on the beach, you may test that by renting a house on the coast for one month and collecting data on how right, or not, that is for you. The goal is not to permanently relocate but to find out whether you want to continue exploring that path. Success is in finding what’s true, not in proving your original theory correct.

I’ve found this idea speaks uniquely to UFOAs at this moment in time. The closest thing I have to a personal motto is a quotation that’s widely attributed to Carl Jung but that, as it turns out, he never actually said at all. “The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” My greatest hope for you is that you get to live this privilege fully.

Directional Living: Get Unstuck, Find Career Fulfillment and Discover a Life that’s Right for You by Megan Hellerer is out now

• Directional Living by Megan Hellerer (Penguin Books Ltd, £16.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.