Qualcomm has just notified the California Employment Development Department that it's eliminating 1,258 positions within the state, according to Bloomberg. That's around 2.5 percent of the company's entire workforce, which is approximately 50,000 strong, but the job cuts will only affect workers from Qualcomm's San Diego and Santa Clara, California offices. Based on Bloomberg's report, no position is safe: More than 750 of the affected employees will reportedly come from the chipmaker's engineering team, including director-level personnel. The remaining affected roles will come from across different departments and will include internal technical and accounting staff. 

The chipmaker is required by law to notify the California agency of impending job cuts. But since many other places don't have the same rule, it's unclear if Qualcomm is planning to eliminate positions in other offices within and outside the US. It's worth noting that these job cuts, while unfortunate, don't come as a surprise: The company announced in its quarterly earnings report (PDF) released in August that it was going to take "additional restructuring actions."

Back then, the chipmaker had admitted that it expects these "restructuring actions" to consist "largely of workforce reductions." It said that the move will enable it to make "continued investments in key growth and diversification opportunities" in the face of "continued uncertainty in the macroeconomic and demand environment." As Bloomberg notes, Qualcomm still makes most of its money from smartphone sales, and market performance continues to decline. In fact, analysts said global smartphone shipments for the year are on track to be the worst in a decade. Qualcomm itself could see its revenue shrink by roughly 19 percent in the current fiscal year.

The company will start removing personnel sometime in mid-December, and it expects to be done with the restructuring changes it has to make in the first half of fiscal year 2024.

You didn't actually believe all those founder's myths about tech billionaires like Bezos, Jobs and Musk pulling themselves up by their bootstraps from some suburban American garage, did you? In reality, our corporate kings have been running the same playbook since the 18th century when Lancashire's own Richard Arkwright wrote it. Arkwright is credited with developing a means of forming cotton fully into thread — technically he didn't actually invent or design the machine, but developed the overarching system in which it could be run at scale — and spinning that success into financial fortune. Never mind the fact that his 24-hour production lines were operated by boys as young as seven pulling 13-hour shifts.

InBlood in the Machine: The Origins of the Rebellion Against Big Tech — one of the best books I've read this year — LA Times tech reporter Brian Merchant lays bare the inhumane cost of capitalism wrought by the industrial revolution and celebrates the workers who stood against those first tides of automation: the Luddites.

Hachette Book Group

Excerpted from Blood in the Machine by Brian Merchant. Published by Hachette Book Group. Copyright © 2023 by Brian Merchant. All rights reserved.

The first tech titans were not building global information networks or commercial space rockets. They were making yarn and cloth. A lot of yarn, and a lot of cloth.

Like our modern-day titans, they started out as entrepreneurs. But until the nineteenth century, entrepreneurship was not a cultural phenomenon. Businessmen took risks, of course, and undertook novel efforts to increase their profits. Yet there was not a popular conception of the heroic entrepreneur, of the adventuring businessman, until after the birth of industrial capitalism. The term itself was popularized by Jean-Baptiste Say, in his 1803 work A Treatise on Political Economy. An admirer of Adam Smith’s, Say thought that The Wealth of Nations was missing an account of the individuals who bore the risk of starting new business; he called this figure the entrepreneur, which translated from the French as “adventurer” or “undertaker.”

For a worker, aspiring to entrepreneurship was different than merely seeking upward mobility. The standard path an ambitious, skilled weaver might pursue was to graduate from apprentice to journeyman weaver, who rented a loom or worked in a shop, to owning his own loom, to becoming a master weaver and running a small shop of his own that employed other journeymen. This was customary.

In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as now in the twenty-first century, entrepreneurs saw the opportunity to use technology to disrupt longstanding customs in order to increase efficiencies, output, and personal profit. There were few opportunities for entrepreneurship without some form of automation; control of technologies of production grants its owner a chance to gain advantage or take pay or market share from others. In the past, like now, entrepreneurs started small businesses at some personal financial risk, whether by taking out a loan to purchase used handlooms and rent a small factory space, or by using inherited capital to procure a steam engine and a host of power looms.

The most ambitious entrepreneurs tapped untested technologies and novel working arrangements, and the most successful irrevocably changed the structure and nature of our daily lives, setting standards that still exist today. The least successful would go bankrupt, then as now.

In the first century of the Industrial Revolution, one entrepreneur looms above the others, and has a strong claim on the mantle of the first of what we’d call a tech titan today. Richard Arkwright was born to a middle-class tailor’s family and originally apprenticed as a barber and wigmaker. He opened a shop in the Lancashire city of Bolton in the 1760s. There, he invented a waterproof dye for the wigs that were in fashion at the time, and traveled the country collecting hair to make them. In his travels across the Midlands, he met spinners and weavers, and became familiar with the machinery they used to make cotton garments. Bolton was right in the middle of the Industrial Revolution’s cotton hub hotspot.

Arkwright took the money he made from the wigs, plus the dowry from his second marriage, and invested it in upgraded spinning machinery. “The improvement of spinning was much in the air, and many men up and down Lancashire were working at it,” Arkwright’s biographer notes. James Hargreaves had invented the spinning jenny, a machine that allowed a single worker to create eight threads of yarn simultaneously—though they were not very strong—in 1767. Working with one of his employees, John Kay, Arkwright tweaked the designs to spin much stronger threads using water or steam power. Without crediting Kay, Arkwright patented his water frame in 1769 and a carding engine in 1775, and attracted investment from wealthy hosiers in Nottingham to build out his operation. He built his famous water-powered factory in Cromford in 1771.

His real innovation was not the technology itself; several similar machines had been patented, some before his. His true innovation was creating and successfully implementing the system of modern factory work.

“Arkwright was not the great inventor, nor the technical genius,” as the Oxford economic historian Peter Mathias explains, “but he was the first man to make the new technology of massive machinery and power source work as a system — technical, organizational, commercial — and, as a proof, created the first great personal fortune and received the accolade of a knighthood in the textile industry as an industrialist.” Richard Arkwright Jr., who inherited his business, became the richest commoner in England.

Arkwright was the first start-up founder to launch a unicorn company, we might say, and the first tech entrepreneur to strike it wildly rich. He did so by marrying the emergent technologies that automated the making of yarn with a relentless new work regime. His legacy is alive today in companies like Amazon, which strive to automate as much of their operations as is financially viable, and to introduce surveillance-intensive worker-productivity programs.

Often called the grandfather of the factory, Arkwright did not invent the idea of organizing workers into strict shifts to produce goods with maximal efficiency. But he pursued the “manufactory” formation most ruthlessly, and most vividly demonstrated the practice could generate huge profits. Arkwright’s factory system, which was quickly and widely emulated, divided his hundreds of workers into two overlapping thirteen-hour shifts. A bell was rung twice a day, at 5 a.m. and 5 p.m. The gates would shut and work would start an hour later. If a worker was late, they sat the shift out, forfeiting that day’s pay. (Employers of the era touted this practice as a positive for workers; it was a more flexible schedule, they said, since employees no longer needed to “give notice” if they couldn’t work. This reasoning is reminiscent of that offered by twenty-first-century on-demand app companies.) For the first twenty-two years of its operation, the factory was worked around the clock, mostly by boys like Robert Blincoe, some as young as seven years old. At its peak, two-thirds of the 1,100-strong workforce were children. Richard Arkwright Jr. admitted in later testimony that they looked “extremely dissipated, and many of them had seldom more than a few hours of sleep,” though he maintained they were well paid.

The industrialist also built on-site housing, luring whole families from around the country to come work his frames. He gave them one week’s worth of vacation a year, “but on condition that they could not leave the village.” Today, even some of our most cutting-edge consumer products are still manufactured in similar conditions, in imposing factories with on-site dormitories and strictly regimented production processes, by workers who have left home for the job. Companies like Foxconn operate factories where the regimen can be so grueling it has led to suicide epidemics among the workforce.

The strict work schedule and a raft of rules instilled a sense of discipline among the laborers; long, miserable shifts inside the factory walls were the new standard. Previously, of course, similar work was done at home or in small shops, where shifts were not so rigid or enforced.

Arkwright’s “main difficulty,” according to the early business theorist Andrew Ure, did not “lie so much in the invention of a proper mechanism for drawing out and twisting cotton into a continuous thread, as in . . . training human beings to renounce their desultory habits of work and to identify themselves with the unvarying regularity of the complex automaton.” This was his legacy. “To devise and administer a successful code of factory discipline, suited to the necessities of factory diligence, was the Herculean enterprise, the noble achievement of Arkwright,” Ure continued. “It required, in fact, a man of a Napoleon nerve and ambition to subdue the refractory tempers of workpeople.”

Ure was hardly exaggerating, as many workers did in fact view Arkwright as akin to an invading enemy. When he opened a factory in Chorley, Lancashire, in 1779, a crowd of hundreds of cloth workers broke in, smashed the machines, and burned the place to the ground. Arkwright did not try to open another mill in Lancashire.

Arkwright also vigorously defended his patents in the legal system. He collected royalties on his water frame and carding engine until 1785, when the court decided that he had not actually invented the machines but had instead copied their parts from other inventors, and threw the patents out. By then, he was astronomically wealthy. Before he died, he would be worth £500,000, or around $425 million in today’s dollars, and his son would expand and entrench his factory empire.

The success apparently went to his head — he was considered arrogant, even among his admirers. In fact, arrogance was a key ingredient in his success: he had what Ure described as “fortitude in the face of public opposition.” He was unyielding with critics when they pointed out, say, that he was employing hundreds of children in machine-filled rooms for thirteen hours straight. That for all his innovation, the secret sauce in his groundbreaking success was labor exploitation.

In Arkwright, we see the DNA of those who would attain tech titanhood in the ensuing decades and centuries. Arkwright’s brashness rhymes with that of bullheaded modern tech executives who see virtue in a willingness to ignore regulations and push their workforces to extremes, or who, like Elon Musk, would gleefully wage war with perceived foes on Twitter rather than engage any criticism of how they run their businesses. Like Steve Jobs, who famously said, “We’ve always been shameless about stealing great ideas,” Arkwright surveyed the technologies of the day, recognized what worked and could be profitable, lifted the ideas, and then put them into action with an unmatched aggression. Like Jeff Bezos, Arkwright hyper-charged a new mode of factory work by finding ways to impose discipline and rigidity on his workers, and adapting them to the rhythms of the machine and the dictates of capital — not the other way around.

We can look back at the Industrial Revolution and lament the working conditions, but popular culture still lionizes entrepreneurs cut in the mold of Arkwright, who made a choice to employ thousands of child laborers and to institute a dehumanizing system of factory work to increase revenue and lower costs. We have acclimated to the idea that such exploitation was somehow inevitable, even natural, while casting aspersions on movements like the Luddites as being technophobic for trying to stop it. We forget that working people vehemently opposed such exploitation from the beginning.

Arkwright’s imprint feels familiar to us, in our own era where entrepreneurs loom large. So might a litany of other first-wave tech titans. Take James Watt, the inventor of the steam engine that powered countless factories in industrial England. Once he was confident in his product, much like a latter-day Bill Gates, Watts sold subscriptions for its use. With his partner, Matthew Boulton, Watts installed the engine and then collected annual payments that were structured around how much the customer would save on fuel costs compared to the previous engine. Then, like Gates, Watts would sue anyone he thought had violated his patent, effectively winning himself a monopoly on the trade. The Mises Institute, a libertarian think tank, argues that this had the effect of constraining innovation on the steam engine for thirty years.

Or take William Horsfall or William Cartwright. These were men who were less innovative than relentless in their pursuit of disrupting a previous mode of work as they strove to monopolize a market. (The word innovation, it’s worth noting, carried negative connotations until the mid-twentieth century or so; Edmund Burke famously called the French Revolution “a revolt of innovation.”) They can perhaps be seen as precursors to the likes of Travis Kalanick, the founder of Uber, the pugnacious trampler of the taxi industry. Kalanick’s business idea — that it would be convenient to hail a taxi from your smartphone — was not remarkably inventive. But he had intense levels of self-determination and pugnacity, which helped him overrun the taxi cartels and dozens of cities’ regulatory codes. His attitude was reflected in Uber’s treatment of its drivers, who, the company insists, are not employees but independent contractors, and in the endemic culture of harassment and mistreatment of the women on staff.

These are extreme examples, perhaps. But extremity is often needed to break down long-held norms, and the potential rewards are extreme, too. Like the mill bosses who shattered nineteenth-century standards and traditions by automating cloth-making, today’s start-up founders aim to disrupt one job category after another with gig work platforms or artificial intelligence, and encourage others to follow their lead. There’s a reason Arkwright and his factories were both emulated and feared. Even two centuries later, the most successful tech titans typically are.

You didn't actually believe all those founder's myths about tech billionaires like Bezos, Jobs and Musk pulling themselves up by their bootstraps from some suburban American garage, did you? In reality, our corporate kings have been running the same playbook since the 18th century when Lancashire's own Richard Arkwright wrote it. Arkwright is credited with developing a means of forming cotton fully into thread — technically he didn't actually invent or design the machine, but developed the overarching system in which it could be run at scale — and spinning that success into financial fortune. Never mind the fact that his 24-hour production lines were operated by boys as young as seven pulling 13-hour shifts.   

In Blood in the Machine: The Origins of the Rebellion Against Big Tech — one of the best books I've read this year — LA Times tech reporter Brian Merchant lays bare the inhumane cost of capitalism wrought by the industrial revolution and celebrates the workers who stood against those first tides of automation: the Luddites. 

Hachette Book Group

Excerpted from Blood in the Machine: The Origins of the Rebellion Against Big Tech by Brian Merchant. Published by Hachette Book Group. Copyright © 2023 by Brian Merchant. All rights reserved.

The first tech titans were not building global information networks or commercial space rockets. They were making yarn and cloth. 

A lot of yarn, and a lot of cloth. Like our modern-day titans, they started out as entrepreneurs. But until the nineteenth century, entrepreneurship was not a cultural phenomenon. Businessmen took risks, of course, and undertook novel efforts to increase their profits. Yet there was not a popular conception of the heroic entrepreneur, of the adventuring businessman, until long after the birth of industrial capitalism. The term itself was popularized by Jean-Baptiste Say, in his 1803 work A Treatise on Political Economy. An admirer of Adam Smith’s, Say thought that The Wealth of Nations was missing an account of the individuals who bore the risk of starting new business; he called this figure the entrepreneur, translating it from the French as “adventurer” or “undertaker.” 

For a worker, aspiring to entrepreneurship was different than merely seeking upward mobility. The standard path an ambitious, skilled weaver might pursue was to graduate from apprentice to journeyman weaver, who rented a loom or worked in a shop, to owning his own loom, to becoming a master weaver and running a small shop of his own that employed other journeymen. This was customary. 

In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as now in the twenty-first century, entrepreneurs saw the opportunity to use technology to disrupt longstanding customs in order to increase efficiencies, output, and personal profit. There were few opportunities for entrepreneurship without some form of automation; control of technologies of production grants its owner a chance to gain advantage or take pay or market share from others. In the past, like now, owners started small businesses at some personal financial risk, whether by taking out a loan to purchase used handlooms and rent a small factory space, or by using inherited capital to procure a steam engine and a host of power looms.

The most ambitious entrepreneurs tapped untested technologies and novel working arrangements, and the most successful irrevocably changed the structure and nature of our daily lives, setting standards that still exist today. The least successful would go bankrupt, then as now. 

In the first century of the Industrial Revolution, one entrepreneur looms above the others, and has a strong claim on the mantle of the first of what we’d call a tech titan today. Richard Arkwright was born to a middle-class tailor’s family and originally apprenticed as a barber and wigmaker. He opened a shop in the Lancashire city of Bolton in the 1760s. There, he invented a waterproof dye for the wigs that were in fashion at the time, and traveled the country collecting hair to make them. In his travels across the Midlands, he met spinners and weavers, and became familiar with the machinery they used to make cotton garments. Bolton was right in the middle of the Industrial Revolution’s cotton hub hotspot. 

Arkwright took the money he made from the wigs, plus the dowry from his second marriage, and invested it in upgraded spinning machinery. “The improvement of spinning was much in the air, and many men up and down Lancashire were working at it,” Arkwright’s biographer notes. James Hargreaves had invented the spinning jenny, a machine that automated the process of spinning cotton into a weft— halfway into yarn, basically— in 1767. Working with one of his employees, John Kay, Arkwright tweaked the designs to spin cotton entirely into yarn, using water or steam power. Without crediting Kay, Arkwright patented his water frame in 1769 and a carding engine in 1775, and attracted investment from wealthy hosiers in Nottingham to build out his operation. He built his famous water-powered factory in Cromford in 1771. 

His real innovation was not the machinery itself; several similar machines had been patented, some before his. His true innovation was creating and successfully implementing the system of modern factory work. 

“Arkwright was not the great inventor, nor the technical genius,” as the Oxford economic historian Peter Mathias explains, “but he was the first man to make the new technology of massive machinery and power source work as a system— technical, organizational, commercial— and, as a proof, created the first great personal fortune and received the accolade of a knighthood in the textile industry as an industrialist.” Richard Arkwright Jr., who inherited his business, became the richest commoner in England. 

Arkwright père was the first start‑up founder to launch a unicorn company we might say, and the first tech entrepreneur to strike it wildly rich. He did so by marrying the emergent technologies that automated the making of yarn with a relentless new work regime. His legacy is alive today in companies like Amazon, which strive to automate as much of their operations as is financially viable, and to introduce highly surveilled worker-productivity programs. 

Often called the grandfather of the factory, Arkwright did not invent the idea of organizing workers into strict shifts to produce goods with maximal efficiency. But he pursued the “manufactory” formation most ruthlessly, and most vividly demonstrated the practice could generate huge profits. Arkwright’s factory system, which was quickly and widely emulated, divided his hundreds of workers into two overlapping thirteen-hour shifts. A bell was rung twice a day, at 5 a.m. and 5 p.m. The gates would shut and work would start an hour later. If a worker was late, they sat the day out, forfeiting that day’s pay. (Employers of the era touted this practice as a positive for workers; it was a more flexible schedule, they said, since employees no longer needed to “give notice” if they couldn’t work. This reasoning is reminiscent of that offered by twenty-first-century on‑demand app companies.) For the first twenty-two years of its operation, the factory was worked around the clock, mostly by boys like Robert Blincoe, some as young as seven years old. At its peak, two-thirds of the 1,100-strong workforce were children. Richard Arkwright Jr. admitted in later testimony that they looked “extremely dissipated, and many of them had seldom more than a few hours of sleep,” though he maintained they were well paid. 

The industrialist also built on‑site housing, luring whole families from around the country to come work his frames. He gave them one week’s worth of vacation a year, “but on condition that they could not leave the village.” Today, even our most cutting-edge consumer products are still manufactured in similar conditions, in imposing factories with on‑site dormitories and strictly regimented production processes, by workers who have left home for the job. Companies like Foxconn operate factories where the regimen can be so grueling it has led to suicide epidemics among the workforce. 

The strict work schedule and a raft of rules instilled a sense of discipline among the laborers; long, miserable shifts inside the factory walls were the new standard. Previously, of course, similar work was done at home or in small shops, where shifts were not so rigid or enforced. 

Arkwright’s “main difficulty,” according to the early business theorist Andrew Ure, did not “lie so much in the invention of a proper mechanism for drawing out and twisting cotton into a continuous thread, as in [. . .] training human beings to renounce their desultory habits of work and to identify themselves with the unvarying regularity of the complex automation.” This was his legacy. “To devise and administer a successful code of factory discipline, suited to the necessities of factory diligence, was the Herculean enterprise, the noble achievement of Arkwright,” Ure continued. “It required, in fact, a man of a Napoleon nerve and ambition to subdue the refractory tempers of workpeople.” 

Ure was hardly exaggerating, as many workers did in fact view Arkwright as akin to an invading enemy. When he opened a factory in Chorley, Lancashire, in 1779, a crowd of stockingers and spinners broke in, smashed the machines, and burned the place to the ground. Arkwright did not try to open another mill in Lancashire. 

Arkwright also vigorously defended his patents in the legal system. He collected royalties on his water frame and carding engine until 1785, when the court decided that he had not actually invented the machines but had instead copied their parts from other inventors, and threw the patents out. By then, he was astronomically wealthy. Before he died, he would be worth £500,000, or around $425 million in today’s dollars, and his son would expand and entrench his factory empire. 

The success apparently went to his head— he was considered arrogant, even among his admirers. In fact, arrogance was a key ingredient in his success: he had what Ure described as “fortitude in the face of public opposition.” He was unyielding with critics when they pointed out, say, that he was employing hundreds of children in machine-filled rooms for thirteen hours straight. That for all his innovation, the secret sauce in his groundbreaking success was labor exploitation. 

In Arkwright, we see the DNA of those who would attain tech titanhood in the ensuing decades and centuries. Arkwright’s brashness rhymes with that of bullheaded modern tech executives who see virtue in a willingness to ignore regulations and push their workforces to extremes, or who, like Elon Musk, would gleefully wage war with perceived foes on Twitter rather than engage any criticism of how he runs his businesses. Like Steve Jobs, who famously said, “We’ve always been shameless about stealing great ideas,” Arkwright surveyed the technologies of the day, recognized what worked and could be profitable, lifted the ideas, and then put them into action with an unmatched aggression. Like Jeff Bezos, Arkwright hypercharged a new mode of factory work by finding ways to impose discipline and rigidity on his workers, and adapting them to the rhythms of the machine and the dictates of capital— not the other way around. 

We can look back at the Industrial Revolution and lament the working conditions, but popular culture still lionizes entrepreneurs cut in the mold of Arkwright, who made a choice to employ thousands of child laborers and to institute a dehumanizing system of factory work to increase revenue and lower costs. We have acclimated to the idea that such exploitation was somehow inevitable, even natural, while casting aspersions on movements like the Luddites as being technophobic for trying to stop it. We forget that working people vehemently opposed such exploitation from the beginning. 

Arkwright’s imprint feels familiar to us, in our own era where entrepreneurs loom large. So might a litany of other first-wave tech titans. Take James Watt, the inventor of the steam engine that powered countless factories in industrial England. Once he was confident in his product, much like a latter-day Bill Gates, Watts sold subscriptions for its use. With his partner, Matthew Boulton, Watts installed the engine and then collected annual payments that were structured around how much the customer would save on fuel costs compared to the previous engine. Then, like Gates, Watts would sue anyone he thought had violated his patent, effectively winning himself a monopoly on the trade. The Mises Institute, a libertarian think tank, argues that this had the effect of constraining innovation on the steam engine for thirty years. 

Or take William Horsfall or William Cartwright. These were men who were less innovative than relentless in their pursuit of disrupting a previous mode of work as they strove to monopolize a market. (The word innovation, it’s worth noting, carried negative connotations until the mid-twentieth century or so; Edmund Burke famously called the French Revolution “a revolt of innovation.”) They can perhaps be seen as precursors to the likes of Travis Kalanick, the founder of Uber, the pugnacious trampler of the taxi industry. Kalanick’s business idea— that it would be convenient to hail a taxi from your smartphone— was not remarkably inventive. But he had intense levels of self-determination and pugnacity, which helped him overrun the taxi cartels and dozens of cities’ regulatory codes. His attitude was reflected in Uber’s treatment of its drivers, who, the company insists, are not employees but independent contractors, and in the endemic culture of harassment and mistreatment of the women on staff. 

These are extreme examples, perhaps. But to disrupt long-held norms for the promise of extreme rewards, entrepreneurs often pursue extreme actions. Like the mill bosses who shattered 19th-century standards by automating cloth-making, today’s start‑up founders aim to disrupt one job category after another with gig work platforms or artificial intelligence, and encourage others to follow their lead. There’s a reason Arkwright and his factories were both emulated and feared. Even two centuries later, many tech titans still are.

The social network X plans to compete with LinkedIn by offering job listings and more, CEO Elon Musk said in a new post. To aid in that, it has started gathering information about users' jobs and education histories, along with biometric data for "safety, security and identification purposes," according to a new policy spotted by Bloomberg. The company previously created an official @TwitterHiring account, TechCrunch reported last month. 

"People send me LinkedIn links sometimes, but the cringe level is so high that I just can’t bring myself to use it, so I ask for the resume or bio to be emailed," said Musk (who is often mocked for his own cringe-worthy posts). "We will make sure that the X competitor to LinkedIn is cool."

On top of work history and education, X is collecting biometric information, though it didn't say what kind. "Based on your consent, we may collect and use your biometric information for safety, security, and identification purposes," the updated privacy policy states. Twitter confirmed the update to Bloomberg, without elaborating more.

Some verified organizations including Workweek have been able to post job listings in the form of scrolling cards under their bios, as TechCrunch noted. According to a screenshot posted by user Nima Owji last month, "Twitter [X] will let verified organizations import all of their jobs to Twitter by connecting a supported ATS or XML feed." Those listings may only work in the US for now, as they don't appear for myself in Europe. 

Elon Musk previously hinted at the feature in May, and X purchased a job-matching tech startup called Laski in May — the company's first acquisition under Musk. Workweek CEO Adam Ryan said the job posting feature was included in X's $1,000 per month "verified for organizations" package. 

The job listings might eventually connect with the work history and education data gathered. "We may collect and use your personal information (such as your employment history, educational history, employment preferences, skills and abilities, job search activity and engagement, and so on) to recommend potential jobs for you [and] to enable employers to find potential candidates," the policy states. However, it may also be used "to show you more relevant advertising." 

Biometric data is also relevant to Elon Musk's stated goal of ridding the site of inauthentic accounts. Gathering that data may draw attention from regulators, though. X is already facing a proposed class action suit for biometric data captured without consent, reportedly from every photograph containing a face that is uploaded to X, according to a suit seen by Bloomberg.

In 2004, a young Hidetaka Miyazaki joined FromSoftware. Before becoming a household name in gaming circles, he cut his teeth working on the studio’s long-running Armored Core series, serving as a planner on 2005’s Armored Core: Last Raven and then as director on Armored Core IV and Armored Core:For Answer.

Following the success of Demon’s Souls and Dark Souls, FromSoftware went on to release two more Armored Core games, though Miyazaki wasn’t directly involved in those projects. Since then, the studio has been busy building on the Souls series, culminating with the runaway success of Elden Ring. Now, for the first time in nearly a decade, From is revisiting its mech franchise. Armored Core VI: Fires of Rubicon also marks the directorial debut of one of the studio’s most promising up-and-coming talents — Masaru Yamamura the lead game designer on Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice, and a designer on Bloodborne. Armored Core VI is not a Soulslike, but a lot of its best ideas feel informed by Sekiro and Bloodborne. And if it’s any indication of what’s to come, Yamamura has a long career ahead of him as one of the studio’s premier directors.

If you’re reading this review, there’s a good chance that, like me, you haven’t played an Armored Core game before. Even at its peak, the series never enjoyed the kind of global popularity Dark Souls achieved in the span of five years. But if you’re curious if there’s something here for you, the short answer is a resounding yes. However, as with almost all of From’s games, a little — okay, a lot — of patience goes a long way.

Here’s the thing you need to know about Armored Core VI: It is uncompromising. Like Sekiro before it, prepare to be frustrated until you wrap your head around how Yamamura wants you to approach combat. I’ll admit, I died about a dozen times to Armored Core VI’s first boss, which appears at the start of the game before I managed to eke out a victory. Even then, it took me several more hours before I felt like I had a narrow grasp of AC 6’s interlocking weapon, piloting and mech assembly systems.

Part of what makes From’s latest so intimidating is that there’s so much going on all at once. To give you a sense of the complexity involved, the game's mechs — called Armored Cores — can carry up to four weapons, and fire them independently of one another. Moreover, there are dozens of different weapons archetypes, each with its own set of tactical considerations. Missile pods, for instance, fire a salvo of rockets either at a single target or multiple enemies simultaneously. Since most feature a lengthy reload or cooldown animation, you can’t rely on any one weapon alone to win an encounter. Each requires thoughtful consideration and use, all while keeping a hulking robot skillfully evading fire.

Movement is everything in AC6. Armored Cores have three different boosts available: one to increase their regular traversal speed, one to dash away from attacks and one that allows them to catapult themselves at enemies and quickly cover a lot of ground. They can also jump, and ignite their boosters to fly.

All of an AC’s more advanced movement abilities consume energy, which is represented by a bar along the bottom of the interface. Landing on the ground will begin to quickly replenish that resource. Most enemies don’t have anywhere near the mobility of the player’s mech, but some can hit hard if they’re allowed to land a shot. There’s also a stagger mechanic within the game that applies to both the player and opponents. One difference between AC6 and From’s Soulsborne games is that dashing doesn’t give invincibility frames. As a newbie to the series, the need to consider spacing on top of reacting quickly added to the game’s learning curve.

Since you’re not tied to the ground like you would be in Dark Souls or Bloodborne, combat is far more vertical than in any of From’s other recent games. A lot of enemies have access to wide, horizontal sweeping attacks that you can’t avoid through lateral movement. Conversely, gaining the high ground on opponents is often the most effective way to dispatch them. Knowing when to take to the air is probably the most important skill to grasp in AC6, and, if you’re a Soulsborne veteran, likely the most difficult to learn as well.

How nimble an Armored Core is depends on the parts it’s built from, and with hundreds of options to choose from, there’s a lot of room for creativity. Some offer simple stat boosts while others change how a mech travels across the battlefield. For example, a set of quadruped legs allow an AC to hover in the air without consuming energy, a feature that’s useful for missions that require a lot of aerial combat. By contrast, a mech with tank treads isn’t great at getting off the ground, but it can drift after dashing and charge up a weapon without stopping.

Like I said, there’s a lot to learn and unpack. Thankfully, Armored Core VI is also one of FromSoftware’s more accessible games. After the initial hurdle of the first boss, the first few missions that follow are smaller in scale, and feature less formidable enemies. At the same time, the game offers training missions that are there to illuminate the finer points of Armored Core VI’s mechanics. At most, these take a few minutes to complete, and provide useful mech parts as rewards. It’s a structure I felt eased me into the game before throwing harder challenges my way.

Yamamura and company have also wisely done away with some of the series’ more hardcore elements. Past games featured a system that allowed the player to go into debt if they didn’t play well. That’s not something that’s present in AC6. I found I always had spare funds to modify my mech, thanks to the amount of credits the game doled out for completing missions and the ability to replay them for even more money. It also helps that every component available to purchase can be sold for the same price it costs to buy it. As a result, I found I was free to experiment with different loadouts to find the combination that suited my playstyle without having to consider a punishing in-game economy.

AC6’s mission structure also does a lot of heavy lifting to make the game more approachable. The inclusion of a checkpoint system meant I never lost much, if any, progress when I died (and I died a lot in my early hours). It’s also possible to modify a mech between deaths without restarting a mission. Unless I was chasing an ‘S’ ranking when replaying a mission, that meant I was free to use one mech to reach a boss and another to defeat it. In fact, the game encouraged me to do exactly that after dying multiple times in a row to one boss I encountered midway through chapter one.

Still, there were some frustrations. Boss battles felt overly difficult relative to every other enemy, perhaps to balance the game’s checkpoint system. Most opponents — including opposing Armored Cores — have a limited pool of attacks. Bosses throw out that script. To give you one example, Balteus, the final boss of the game’s first chapter, starts with a moveset that consists of about a dozen attacks, a few of which flood the arena with homing missiles. When the battle enters its second phase, Balteus’s moveset doubles and the boss becomes even more aggressive. It’s a punishing encounter and a brick wall of an early-game skill check.

Sometimes the controls also don’t feel up to the task of what AC6 is asking you to pull off. It’s especially noticeable if you go with what’s known in-game as a “double trigger” build, which involves equipping an Armored Core with a pair of weapons that ideally should be fired in unison.

By default, Armored Core VI maps all of a mech’s weapons to left and right triggers, alongside the bumper buttons. The right analog stick, meanwhile, controls the camera and the square or X button is for dashing. The game includes a target assist mode that locks the camera to a single target, but it’s not ideal to use when fighting more than one enemy. When I felt I struggled the most, it was because I had to give up control of the camera to boost away from an attack. It’s possible to remap the controls, but I didn’t find a configuration that worked as well as the default setup.

Those frustrations aside, I never felt like Armored Core VI was anything short of compelling. Even in its most challenging moments, the game gave me little victories to celebrate. It is an incredible achievement in game design and thematic cohesion, and, I think, a promise of what we can expect from FromSoftware’s next generation of talent.

Armored Core VI: Fires of Rubicon arrives on PlayStation, Xbox and PC on August 25th.

The following article contains spoilers for “Subspace Rhapsody.”

At some point in the ‘90s, it became law that all genre shows with a certain flexibility in their premise must do a musical episode. Xena, Ally McBeal, Buffy, Psych, Grey’s Anatomy and Scrubs have all done one, as has Supernatural, Once Upon a Time, 7th Heaven, Supergirl and The Flash. Now, it’s Strange New Worlds’ turn to make its characters spontaneously burst into song as it drops “Subspace Rhapsody” as the penultimate episode of its second season.

It’s clear from the start that Strange New Worlds was well-suited to do a musical given how broad its range is. In the last four weeks alone, we’ve had goofy comedy served up back to back with serious meditations on empathy and redemption. This is the first live action Trek of the streaming era to remember the franchise gets better when it allows itself to be goofy. The only surprise is that this is coming so early on its run; this is just the nineteenth episode of the series overall.

Musical episodes serve several purposes: It allows the cast to show off their hidden talents and lets the production crew indulge their latent musical theater nerd. They’re also, in many cases, a useful narrative crucible, forcing characters to reveal secrets they’d otherwise never let out. It’s an old trick to use the primary colors of a rousing number to drop something deep and dark on an audience. This comes in handy given the number of running storylines in the back of each episode, which get resolved more or less all in one go.

Michael Gibson/Paramount+

Uhura’s opening narration informs us the Enterprise has discovered a large subspace fissure. Spock believes it could be used to speed up communication over long distances, but despite several tries, he and Uhura can’t make it work. Not until Pelia suggests they test the system using music, so Uhura fires up Anything Goes and sends it into the ether. Before you can say that’s-a-good-macguffin, a large subspace wave hits the ship and sends everyone singing.

As this is happening, Pike and Batel – who I can’t believe Pike didn’t dump after arresting and prosecuting his first officer – argue about holiday destinations. Chapel has received word she’s been accepted for a prestigious fellowship with a high-profile academic. She’ll be away for a while but declines to share her news with Spock after the fraying of their relationship last week. And, to further complicate matters, James T. Kirk is back on board to shadow Una in preparation for his own promotion. But when they start spouting technobabble as lyrics and feeling the urge to dance, we’re straight into an acapella rendition of the theme tune.

I’ve pointed out, too frequently this year, the confidence Strange New Worlds has in its own execution. This is the second time in three weeks that it’s not just screwed with its format but also its packaging in the form of its opening credits. It’s evidence of a show that knows it has the patience from its audience to play around with its formatting.

Urged on by Pike, stuck firmly in his eyebrow-raising sick-of-this-malarkey mode, the team find they’re trapped in a state of quantum uncertainty. They’re in a universe that follows the rules of a musical, so when emotions are high, people are likely to burst into song. That’s bad for La’an, who is struggling to contain her feelings with her alternate-history beau on board, especially since she’s prohibited from talking about it. Pike, too, starts to confess his misgivings about the holiday he and Captain Batel have been planning. La’an gets a solo about being emotionally shut off from the rest of the crew, followed soon after with a duet with Una talking about why it’s good to open up.

The improbability field starts to expand, encompassing more starships in the area and reaching Klingon territory. They soon dispatch a cruiser to shut it down, but the Enterprise crew discover that shooting the fissure will release enough energy to wipe out the quadrant. Uhura posits that, if they’re in a musical, their behavior might have to follow the tropes of the genre. Armed with a tricorder, she drags Spock to the bar where he bumps into Chapel, who then dumps him with a full-cast song-and-dance number about the importance of her career. He responds by singing his own solo in engineering in which he talks about his abandonment of logic and reason for love, a mistake he won’t make again.

La’an, who has spent more and more time with Kirk, decides to open up a little bit only to find her advances rebuffed. Not because he doesn’t feel similarly, but because he’s in an on-again, off-again relationship with a scientist called Carol. And that Carol is currently pregnant with Kirk’s child, who we might not get to see again until Kirk looks a lot more like William Shatner. (This episode has more than a few moments where it’s consciously drawing attention to its “evolution” into The Original Series.)

Spock’s judgment may be clouded but Uhura, whose awareness of musical tropes has been key all episode, spots the solution. In order to pop the uncertainty field, the whole crew needs to do a big full-cast finale, but not before Uhura gets her own solo. At Pike’s urging, Uhura gets on the ship’s PA and inspires the whole crew – complete with dancing redshirts and balletic starship dances to produce a showstopper climax. We even get a blast of the Original Series’ theme to underpin their victory, while Spock goes off to smooth things over with the Klingons and get over his split with another round of heavy drinking.

Much as the ending is ostensibly happy, with everyone learning the lesson to be more honest and authentic with each other, there’s trouble on the horizon. Batel has to cancel her holiday with Pike, she’s being sent on a top secret mission which, I’m sure, is our lead in to the finale. Spock’s nursing his grief, and the rest of his supersized emotions, while La’an has to deal with the ramifications of her not-quite-requited love.

Michael Gibson/Paramount+

It’s almost pointless to try and judge a musical episode by the standards of its peers given how different it is from the norm. The script, credited to Dana Horgan and Bill Wolkoff, efficiently and effectively works in the musical universe concept without a lot of setup. Demott Downs’ direction blends the closed nature of Strange New Worlds’ standing sets with the necessary scope a musical demands. And the songs, from Letters to Cleo’s Kay Hanley and Tom Polce, are perfectly fine. Musical lovers will have a greater appetite for enjoying each track on a loop, but as a casual enjoyer of the artform, I’m not sure how many would enter my regular Spotify rotation.

Obviously, much of the dramatic weight of the episode hangs on the shoulders of the cast members who can sing. Christina Chong, Jess Bush, Rebecca Romijn, Ethan Peck and Celia Rose Gooding all get showpiece numbers and boy, can they all sing. But that’s not to shade the names not on that list, especially those who are getting by with the help of autotune. It’s hard enough to sing and dance even if you’ve got years of experience behind you, let alone if you’re dropped into the deep end in an acting job. Now, onward to the finale!

Will this pair of Hollywood strikes ever end? It looks like the big corporations are digging in for a long battle, illustrated by Netflix’s recent job posting for a machine learning platform product manager. The position pays an annual salary of $300,000 to $900,000 at a time when many actors make around $200 a day, according to this SAG-AFTRA contract. The role AI will play in creating future entertainment is a key item of debate for both striking parties.

The job listing indicates that the AI will be used to “create great content” and not just develop new algorithms to recommend shows and movies. The posting also alludes to a far-reaching effort by the streaming giant to integrate artificial intelligence in “all areas of the business.” A separate section on the company’s website goes on to say that Netflix uses AI “to optimize the production of original movies and TV shows.”

That’s not the company’s only AI-heavy job posting promising a giant payday. Netflix is also hiring a technical director for generative AI at its burgeoning gaming studio that pays an annual salary of up to $650,000, as reported by The Intercept. These efforts are already bearing fruit, as Netflix currently airs a Spanish reality dating series called Deep Fake Love that scans contestant’s faces to create AI-generated “deepfakes” and its gaming studio employs generative AI to compose narratives and dialogue.

This all comes after striking actors rejected a proposal from the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTP) that generously offered workers a one-time $200 day rate for performers to get scanned for future use as AI-enhanced CGI simulacrums forever, until the end of time. SAG-AFTRA says the company would “own that scan, their image, their likeness, and be able to use it for the rest of eternity in any project they want with no consent and no compensation.”

Cocoon is a game that makes perfect sense while you're playing it. That would be an unremarkable achievement if it wasn't also a game that forces you to use its levels to solve themselves. At Summer Game Fest 2023 I had around half an hour to play through the game’s opening, and it has stuck with me more than anything else I saw at the show.

Cocoon is the debut game from Geometric Interactive, a studio founded by former Playdead employees Jeppe Carlsen and Jakob Schmid. Carlsen was the lead gameplay designer of the award-winning puzzle platformers Limbo and Inside, and Schmid the audio programmer of Inside. The pair also collaborated on 140, a minimalistic indie platformer, and have been working on Cocoon with a small team in Denmark for over five years.

As in Limbo, Inside and 140, controls and interactivity in general are pared back to a minimum. On an Xbox controller, that means movement with an analog stick and interactions confined to a single button. The complexity comes from the environment, the narrative from exploration. It’s reminiscent of Tunic or Hyper Light Drifter in its lack of dialogue and tutorials.

Orbs are everything in Cocoon. They're assets that open doors, trigger switches, reveal hidden paths and solve puzzles, but they’re also levels themselves. Remember that scene in Men In Black where there’s an entire galaxy in a little marble on a cat's collar? Geometric Interactive has taken that idea and made it a core mechanic. Each orb is a distinct world with its own vibe, original puzzle mechanics and a boss fight. You can hop in and out of these worlds by placing an orb into sockets dotted around the game, and can even bring orbs into other orbs, which, given the abilities they unlock, will likely be critical to finding paths forward.

I say there’s a “boss fight” in every orb, but there is no conventional combat in Cocoon – there is just a single interaction button, after all. You defeat bosses by using something in the environment like a water spout or an exploding mine. These fights are also forgiving: I took a “hit” once, and it revealed a delightful mechanic: Instead of dealing damage or killing me, the boss booted me out of its world. I then had to traverse back to the fight to finish it off. Defeating the two bosses I found granted new powers of sorts, in classic Metroidvania style, which allowed progression to new areas and the discovery of more orbs.

There were other simple environmental puzzles to solve. One involved ascertaining the order in which to hit some switches, another had me pulling towers around to open a door. A slightly trickier one involved some doubling back to navigate a hidden path. Given this was the very start of the game, I’m sure the complexity will ramp up significantly. By the end of my playthrough, I was already jumping in and out of worlds in order to get orbs to where they needed to be. 

A colleague who was watching my demo said that they could tell I’ve "played a lot of these types of games” — thing is, I haven’t. Cocoon is a game where everything makes sense, but you can’t explain why. I'm sure, as in other puzzle adventures, I'll get stumped in some places, but exploring this world felt completely natural. After a while I stopped being surprised that everything I tried just worked. Solving puzzles became a flow state as I giddily wandered around carrying my precious orbs.

Cocoon is firmly at the top of my wishlist already, and it’s tough imagining anything overtaking it. It’s being published by Annapurna Interactive, and will come to Nintendo Switch, PC, PlayStation and Xbox consoles later this year.

Catch up on all of the news from Summer Game Fest right here!

It's been a packed few days of game announcements, but Summer Game Fest isn't done yet. Microsoft will host the awkwardly named Xbox Games Showcase Extended at 1PM ET and you can watch it below.

The stream perhaps won't be quite as newsworthy as the main Xbox showcase that took place on Sunday, but it seems like it'll have some juicy details. Microsoft says this presentation will include deeper dives into several of the first-party projects it showed off at the weekend, including Avowed, Towerborne, Senua’s Saga: Hellblade II, The Elder Scrolls Online: Necrom and the Dune expansion for Microsoft Flight Simulator.

This showcase will include gameplay walkthroughs, interviews and some behind-the-scenes features. We'll also get a look at some games from Microsoft's third-party partners, and some "special guests" will make appearances.

There are two more Summer Game Fest events taking place today after the Xbox affair. At 4PM ET, you'll be able to check out Dames 4 Games. This will feature "interviews with women who work in the industry, women who love gaming and those who aspire to make a change." The stream will include looks at several indie games.

At 6PM, you can tune into the Black Voices in Gaming stream. This will focus on projects from Black developers, games with Black protagonists and interviews with Black creators. You can catch both the Dames 4 Games and Black Voices in Gaming events on Guerrilla Collective's YouTube and Twitch channels.

Catch up on all of the news from Summer Game Fest right here!

After previewing new verification features last month, LinkedIn is now rolling them out to give job-seekers confidence that they're dealing with real companies and jobs. At the same time, the work-oriented social media site has introduced warnings for messages that may look like scams. The latter feature arrives amidst a spate of fake accounts on the site, according to LinkedIn's latest transparency report. 

The first type of verification tool is related to job postings, displaying information about the posters and their companies. For instance, it can display verifications for a company page and job poster work email, and whether their government ID was verified by CLEAR, the same company that gets people to the front of security lines and airports and other venues. 

LinkedIn

"When you see verifications on job posts, that means there is information that has been verified as authentic by the job poster, LinkedIn or one of our partners," the company wrote in a blog post. Verifying with CLEAR is free but requires sharing a US phone number and government ID. You can also confirm your employer via a verification code sent to your company email address, and some users can verify both their identity and employer via Microsoft Entra, for companies enrolled in the program. 

LinkedIn pointed out that it recently launched the About This Profile feature to show when a profile was created and last updated, and whether it has a verified phone number and/or work email associated with the account. The aim is to flush out fake accounts, but LinkedIn is also rolling out new messages that warn users about high-risk content. 

LinkedIn

"We now also alert you if messages on LinkedIn include high-risk content that could impact your security. For example, we will alert you if a message asks you to take the conversation to another platform, as that can sometimes be a sign of a scam. If something doesn’t feel right, these warnings will also give you the choice to report the content without letting the sender know," the company wrote. 

The new features arrive in the wake of LinkedIn's latest transparency report, which showed a large increase in scam accounts. Between July and December 2022, the company blocked more than 58 million accounts, up from 22 million in the previous six months. LinkedIn is even seeing profiles with fake photos created by AI, something it wrote about last year. Though it said its new "deep-learning-based model proactively checks profile photo uploads to determine if the image is AI-generated," a recent study identified over 1,000 active profiles using AI-generated photos, The Financial Times reported. 

LinkedIn noted that verifications on job posting have just started rolling out, so while you may not see them yet, the tools will be more prevalent as the company expands access. In the meantime, it recommends you check out its tips on how to spot and avoid suspicious job postings.