A few weeks ago I wrote an article warning us of what could happen if we let AI take over our thoughts and actions. Whether we let that happen is entirely up to us. With AI doing the mundane work, we can create a reality in which everything we do has deep meaning and fulfillment and reimagine the very essence of work.
In Japanese, there are two beautiful words that capture a profound relationship between work and meaning:
Shokunin (職人) describes not merely a craftsperson, but someone who pursues mastery with deep pride and care. Their work is not simply to produce, but to honor the process itself.
Ikigai (生き甲斐) speaks to the "reason for being"—that intersection of what we love, what we are good at, what the world needs, and what can sustain us.
For much of human history, work carried a strong element of necessity. We worked to survive, to provide, to advance. The industrial age amplified this: efficiency, scale, and speed became the dominant virtues. We gained prosperity, but in doing so, we often marginalized the slow and the hand-crafted—the shokunin way of life. Somewhere along the way, ikigai for many of us was defined by a sterile organizational objective that decided what was important.
But now, with the rise of artificial intelligence, something extraordinary is stirring. If AI can shoulder much of the work that humans must do, perhaps we are approaching a new possibility: to refocus on the work we want to do. This is not a new concept. In the pre-AI world of the “Four hour workweek," Tim Ferriss showed us how to manage a corporate existence with four hours of highly productive effort and some strategic outsourcing. As he puts it, his bosses weren’t happy with his ideas, but with AI being accepted and even encouraged by today’s leaders, the outcome could be different.
We may be standing at the edge of a golden age of manual effort—for joy.
When I reflect on my own experiences, the memory that comes back most vividly is sitting at a drafting table, long before CAD systems. I had two semesters of engineering drawing in the first year of college. I recall using a heavy T-square, triangles, and French curves that magically allowed you to create any arc conceivable. Every line I traced was deliberate work. I felt deep satisfaction in the pride of doing it well, especially rendering a tricky shape.
Later, as technology advanced, it became easier—more efficient—to let machines do more of the work. Design software replaced drawing tables. CNC machines replaced hand tools. AI now can write code, draft documents, even generate art. Just to be clear, I am not against this progress, I am a big believer in vibe coding and vibe manufacturing for everyday applications.
Yet part of me still yearns for the tactile, human effort. For the feeling of wood underhand when woodworking, the smell of paper when sketching, the quiet concentration of writing a program line by line, thinking deeply about each decision rather than relying on auto-complete.
And perhaps, paradoxically, AI itself is offering us a way back.
Industrialization brought tremendous material abundance, but it often came at the cost of artisanship. In the rush to optimize production, we separated thinking from doing, creativity from making. Factories, assembly lines, and now digital automation prized output over craft. But if machines now can fulfill the basic demands of productivity—writing routine reports, diagnosing simple problems, designing standardized products—then what becomes of us?
We become free.
Free to draw not because we must draft blueprints, but because we love putting pencil to paper. Free to build furniture not for subsistence, but for the pleasure of shaping wood with our own hands. Free to write not to hit deadlines, but to explore ideas. Free to code not out of necessity, but as an art form.
It is a profound re-centering of human activity from survival and efficiency toward curiosity, craft, and joy. Work itself is reimagined.
As adults, what should we do in the face of this unfolding reality? I believe we should lean into it. We should cultivate manual skills again, not because we have to, but because they connect us to a timeless human essence. Draw, carve, sew, write, build. Embrace the slow work of creation where the process itself is the reward. Let AI be our partner, not our replacement—handling the necessary, while we return to the meaningful.
And for our children? We must rethink how we prepare them. In a world rich with digital intelligence, our educational systems must teach them not just to consume technology, but to manage it discerningly.
We should teach them foundational manual skills—reading, writing (perhaps even start teaching cursive again), mental math, basic carpentry, mechanical understanding—so that their minds and hands remain connected. At the same time, we must equip them to be fluent with digital tools: to be thoughtful prompt engineers, wise interpreters, and creative partners with AI.
Bring back shop class, but teach it alongside AI ethics. Revive handwriting, but pair it with code writing. Honor both the tangible and the digital, so they grow up with the wisdom to know when to automate—and when to create by hand.
If the industrial age separated thinking from doing, perhaps this new era can reunite them. The world does not need less humanity because of AI; it needs more. More curiosity. More craft. More joy in the work of our own hands.
Maybe, just maybe, the golden age of artisanship is about to begin—not because we have to, but because we can finally afford to make something simply for the love of it.
