Whether the Autopilot system was truly active, overridden, or malfunctioning likely won’t be resolved until investigators finish combing through the vehicle’s data logs.
Read more The lawsuit, led by a Detroit pension fund, alleges Uber’s board and management has cut too many compliance corners, resulting in thousands of lawsuits.
Read more The loop takes agentic AI a step further by authorizing a swarm of agents to work continuously in the background, endlessly.
Read more This story originally appeared in The Algorithm, our weekly newsletter on AI. To get stories like this in your inbox first, sign up here.
For those of you enjoying your summer unaware of Anthropic’s latest feud with the US government, here’s a recap: In April the company said it had built an AI model called Mythos that was so good at working with code it could pose a global cybersecurity threat. Anthropic gave access to a small group of cybersecurity experts so they could see what they were up against. Then it released a modified version called Fable which it said was safer to the public on Tuesday, June 9. That Friday, the federal government told the company it was a threat to national security and placed export controls on the new release. Anthropic revoked access to both models hours later.
People worried about catastrophic effects of AI—broadly labeled “doomers”—have said for years that the technology poses a threat to humanity and published proposals for how the government should intervene in its development. The doomers just got their government intervention—not over a bioweapon or rogue AI, but in response to an AI model that’s basically just really good at coding. And the result so far looks less like a safety plan than like a superficial reaction.
There’s plenty to dissect about what happened in those few days that led to such drastic action from the government, and it’s notable that Amazon CEO Andy Jassy was the one who told government officials that Fable would be dangerous (Amazon is both invested in Anthropic and building its own competing AI models). It’s also possible this will be a short-lived ban from the government that doesn’t survive legal scrutiny (it’s not clear that Anthropic’s offering access to Fable really counts as “exporting” it, for example).
But there are ripple effects happening already.
For one, this is making a whole lot of people not want to rely on American AI companies. TheFrench politician Bruno Retailleau described it as a “wake-up call” that should motivate Europe to build more AI. But any vision of turning Paris into Silicon Valley—touted by many other European leaders following the shutdown of Anthropic’s models—is complicated by one big thing: China.
Open-source models from China are very capable and incredibly cheap, and they can be downloaded to run on anyone’s servers with no rules or guardrails. (This makes them attractive to companies that don’t want access turned off on the basis of a decision from the White House—but equally attractive to cybercriminals, the type that Anthropic hoped to fend off by building safety guardrails into its models.)
It’s possible that companies, including those in the US and Europe, will decide that working with Chinese models is just easier, as the skyrocketing of shares in the Chinese startup Zhipu suggests. Playing this forward, is it possible the government’s next drastic decision will be to say that US companies using models from China pose a threat to national security? I wouldn’t write it off.
Second, it’s possible that shutting off access to Anthropic’s models will leave the country morevulnerable to cybersecurity attacks, not less. Leading cybersecurity experts have said as much in an open letter to the government, writing that access to Anthropic’s models was helping researchers prepare defenses, and that the company’s models are no more dangerous than other leading models that are widely available. Such is the risk of applying the concept of nonproliferation to software—trying to control and restrict dangerous AI models in the manner of the uranium used for nuclear weapons.
The third thing worth watching is how US lawmakers will react. Remember that following Anthropic’s last feud with the government over how the Pentagon could or could not use its models, a slate of new bills was introduced that would define the limits of military AI.
Right now, the biggest players shaping how AI gets used are the companies and the White House. There’s been much talk about more federal AI regulation, and polling suggests most Americans want it. Lawmakers are still figuring out whether to form rules on how kids use chatbots and are far from a clear answer on the extent to which the government should vet the safety of AI models. But with every drastic action from the White House, the pressure for regulations rises.
To state the obvious, predictions are hard when the administration’s attitudes toward AI change with the wind. When President Trump took office, he threw out the restrictive rulebook for how to make AI safe and promised to get out of the way of tech companies. The White House has now called the most valuable AI startup a risk to national security once in the spring, and again in summer. What will fall bring?
This is today’s edition of The Download, our weekday newsletter that provides a daily dose of what’s going on in the world of technology.
Inside the world’s deepest and longest subsea road tunnel
—Niall Firth
I’m currently around 1,000 feet beneath the North Sea, in a dark, dank cave. It smells weird. And I’m increasingly aware of the pressure from millions of tons of seawater just above my head.
I’m under the iconic fjords of Norway to visit what will soon become the world’s longest and deepest subsea road tunnel—an exceptional engineering feat that will carry drivers deep beneath the North Sea.
I’m here to understand how you make a 16.6-mile highway that sits 1,280 feet below the sea at its deepest point. And also—at a time when it can feel hard to get anything done—to reassure myself that ambitious engineering is still possible. That we can still make things.
Step inside Norway’s Rogfast tunnel and see how engineers are making it happen.
This story is from the next edition of our magazine, which is all about engineering. Subscribe now to get a copy when it lands on Wednesday!
Want to get a data center online quickly? Give it some flex.
The AI boom is putting unprecedented pressure on the electric grid. But rather than rushing to build new power plants, companies could find part of the solution right under our noses—or, more precisely, in the transmission lines under our feet and above our heads.
If data centers can limit the power they draw during high-demand stretches, they won’t need to wait for big infrastructure upgrades or build their own off-grid generation.
The idea of flexibility isn’t entirely foreign to grid operators. But a new generation of software could make the process faster, smarter, and more precise for the AI era.
Find out how the challenge of powering AI could lead to a smarter, more flexible grid.
—Amos Zeeberg
The must-reads
I’ve combed the internet to find you today’s most fun/important/scary/fascinating stories about technology.
1 SK Hynix has overtaken Samsung as South Korea’s most valuable company
It’s also now the world’s most valuable memory chipmaker. (Reuters $)
+ And one of the biggest beneficiaries of the global AI boom. (BBC)
+ AI’s need for memory chips is set to skyrocket device prices. (WSJ $)
2 Trump says he no longer views Anthropic as a national security threat
“Well, not now, but a week ago, maybe,” he told The Axios Show. (Axios)
+ He praised the response of Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei. (Reuters $)
+ Anthropic’s IPO outcome could depend on the midterms. (WSJ $)
+ A culture war tactic against Anthropic has backfired. (MIT Technology Review)
3 SpaceX has received the lowest possible ESG rating
Index provider MSCI gave the company a triple C. (Financial Times $)
+ Russia got the same score after invading Ukraine. (Business Times)
+ Elon Musk previously called ESG metrics the “Devil Incarnate.” (CNBC)
4 A Tesla on Autopilot allegedly crashed into a Texas home and killed a woman
The driver said his Tesla Model 3 was in self-driving mode. (NYT $)
+ Tesla’s AI trainers don’t trust its self-driving tech. (Reuters $)
5 Polymarket reportedly paid creators to post fake betting videos
Clips showed them winning big on bets they would have really lost. (WSJ $)
+ Polymarket bets on an Iran deal are fueling insider-trading fears. (Bloomberg $)
6 Physicists have proposed that black holes don’t exist
They may be something much stranger: “gravastars.” (404 Media)
+ This is the first ever photo of a black hole. (MIT Technology Review)
7 A daring space rescue mission is set to launch this week
A spacecraft will try to lift an observatory into a safer orbit. (Space)
+ We’re putting more stuff into space than ever. (MIT Technology Review)
8 Nothing’s next budget phone has been cancelled due to “RAMageddon”
The company said memory prices pushed costs too high. (The Verge $)
+ Buying a used phone makes more sense than ever. (Wired $)
9 A viral doomsday scenario aims to pierce Europe’s AI complacency
It envisions the US and China tearing Europe into pieces. (Guardian)
10 Scientists have invented a way to brew espresso with ultrasonic waves
No hot water required. (Wired $)
Quote of the day
“Even before we start reaping the benefits of AI in our devices, we are already paying the bill.”
—Francisco Jeronimo, an analyst at IDC, tells CNBC that consumers are covering the costs of the ongoing memory shortage.
One More Thing
BRIAN OTIENO
How mobile money supercharged Kenya’s sports betting addiction
As the lorry he’d flagged down lurched through Kenya’s western highlands, Bill Kirwa’s Infinix smartphone dinged with a notification. The bet of 3,500 shillings he’d placed with mobile money—then worth approximately $35—had just turned into nearly $8,500.
Kirwa, now 26, put the windfall to good use, purchasing a car that enabled him to drive for Wasili, an Uber-style ride-hailing service. But he continued gambling, and over time, his losses mounted. In just a few years, he’s effectively erased his big win.
Kirwa’s experience is hardly unique. Across Africa, the rapid spread of smartphones and mobile money has fueled an explosion in online gambling. But nowhere is the craze as acute as it is in Kenya. Find out why.
—Jonathan W. Rosen
We can still have nice things
A place for comfort, fun, and distraction to brighten up your day. (Got any ideas? Drop me a line.)
+ A clever Bengal cat has seemingly learned to understand English—and talk back.
+ This list of the 100 greatest bird names lovingly captures the quirks of avian taxonomy.
+ Darth Vader’s weird chestplate transforms into a cassette player in these reworked Star Wars clips.
+ Trace the history and evolution of heavy metal music through the interactive genres and playlists of Map of Metal.
It’s cold, it’s very, very noisy, and—if I can be quite honest with you—I’m not feeling super relaxed.
I’m currently around 300 meters, or 1,000 feet, beneath the North Sea, in a dark, dank cave. It smells weird. And I am increasingly aware of the pressure from millions of tons of seawater just above my head, pushing down with a force of more than 500 pounds per square inch. Picture a baby rhino standing on a postage stamp.
Only fabulous engineering is keeping me from being crushed, drowned, disappeared. My safety goggles are foggy.
Just a few hundred meters away, someone is about to blow up a giant rock wall. Luckily, earlier that day I was given a full safety briefing, and I’ve got a special hard hat on. “Don’t worry—if you don’t make it, we’ll have your stuff sent back to your office,” geologist Anne-Merete Gilje tells me, straight-faced. Ah, Norwegian humor.
“It’s kind of a lifestyle. You have to be a little bit crazy to work underground all the time.”
Niclas Brusehed, tunnel foreman, Implenia
I’m in this odd situation under the iconic fjords of Norway to visit what will soon become the world’s longest and deepest subsea road tunnel, called Rogfast (short for “Rogaland Fixed Link”). I want to understand how you make something as audacious as a 26.7-kilometer (16.6-mile) highway that sits 390 meters (1,280 feet) below the sea at its deepest point. And also—at a time when it can feel hard to get anything done, especially in the US—to reassure myself that ambitious engineering is still possible. That we can still make things.
The Norwegians already have the world’s longest subsea tunnel, the 14.4-kilometer Ryfylke, though Rogfast will dwarf it. Their expertise has attracted attention from Japan, Spain, Morocco, and even a number of US states, whose representatives were due to visit the site in May, just weeks after I went. They, too, want to know how Norway does it.
The answer: tons of explosives.
The entire endeavor feels like an obstinate refusal to give in to physics and geology. “It’s always exciting,” Niclas Brusehed, a tunnel foreman at Implenia, a Swiss firm involved in the project, tells me. “Every blast creates a new world.” There’s not just the blasting of the tunnel itself—although that is an epic project on its own—but an immense logistics challenge involving huge ventilation shafts, extreme pressure, underground roundabouts, and the complex Norwegian geology. Oh, and the water. So much water.
“This is the longest continuous blast on the sea,” says John Olaf Østerhus, assistant project manager at Implenia. “Never been done before. We can’t buy a book to see how we do this.”
All right, time to fish my phone out of my safety suit—don’t want to forget this.
On another planet
Arriving at the rock face where the tunnel hits seabed feels like being on the moon. It’s a huge slab of stone at the end of a long, dark, wet, wide passageway that’s lit (barely) by electric lights. Giant vehicles carting tons of rocks rumble past periodically, and we pull to the side of the road to let them by.
COURTESY OF NORWEGIAN PUBLIC ROADS ADMINISTRATION
Workers clock in for 12-hour shifts, 6 a.m. until 6 p.m., deep in the bowels of the Earth where no natural light can reach. Twelve days on, 16 days off. They eat their lunch at a table in this damp cave surrounded by portacabins plastered with safety notices. “It’s kind of a lifestyle,” says Brusehed, laughing. “You have to be a little bit crazy to work underground all the time.”
These crazy engineers are here to make tunnels the Norwegian way. The nation frequently uses what’s known as the drill-and-blast method instead of the tunnel-boring machines that are more typical elsewhere. This approach offers more flexibility for long, complex operations with varied rock types. Each blast adds about five to six meters to the tunnel.
Rogfast is being built inward from the ends to speed things up. The construction company Skanska is leading from the north, coming from the island of Vestre Bokn; Implenia has joined a company called Stangeland to tunnel from Randaberg in the south, which is where I am. Both teams use multiple laser scans each day to consistently measure their orientation and check that the tunnel is exactly where it should be. The two ends should meet sometime in 2029, with no more than just a few centimeters of deviation.
COURTESY OF NORWEGIAN PUBLIC ROADS ADMINISTRATION
Norway has constructed more than a thousand kilometers of tunnels over the past several decades. The depth and length of these make the best efforts to date of Elon Musk’s Boring Company—a mere 2.7-kilometer tunnel in Las Vegas that is just 3.6 meters wide—look rather pathetic. The country’s spectacular setting makes such builds necessary; while Norwegians are proud of having the second-longest coastline in the world after Canada, getting up and down the west coast requires multiple ferry rides between islands, which can move extra slowly when the weather’s bad.
After it’s completed, which is scheduled to happen in 2033, Rogfast should help eliminate two ferry routes and cut the five-hour journey between the southwestern cities of Stavanger and Bergen by 40 minutes. It will funnel four lanes of traffic deep beneath the fjords of Boknafjord and Kvitsøyfjord, and at one section a relatively scant 50 meters of rock will separate the drivers speeding through the tunnel from the bottom of the North Sea. There are also, delightfully, two undersea roundabouts located 220 meters below sea level.
But the first job is to contend with all that water.
The never-ending battle
Subsea tunneling is defined by a constant, ultimately unwinnable battle with the ocean. The sheer weight of the sea above you, and the crushing pressure, means the water will always find a way in. “It’s the volume and the pressure that’s the biggest risk,” says Ole Magne Rønning, project leader for Implenia/Stangeland.
So before tunnel engineers blow stuff up, they need to check for leaks. Into the rock face ahead of them, they drill a number of narrow holes that go 25 to 30 meters deep to see how much water comes through. Even a small probe can unleash a torrent within seconds, says Rønning. When road traffic eventually rumbles through these tubes, water will still trickle from the rocks; it will be redirected into mini reservoirs dotted throughout the tunnel network before being pumped back out.
Since stopping the water entirely is impossible, the game is instead to push it away as best you can. If the leakage in front of the rock face exceeds a certain limit—around four liters per hole per minute—then the next stage is “grouting”: pumping a mixture of cement-like sludge into new holes that fan out in the ceiling above and around the face. Ideally, you address the leaks that are ahead of you; “it’s a lot more difficult to stop a leak that’s behind you,” says Rønning.
At one point deep below the sea, I chat with Tarald Johan Nomeland, the project’s grouting specialist. He’s big and bearded, perhaps one of the most Norwegian-looking men I’ve ever met. He stands, towering above me, and shakes my hand in his giant bear-like paw. Grouting is in Nomeland’s family; his dad did it too. He loves it. “There’s not necessarily just one solution to a problem,” he says, eyes flashing with delight as he describes fighting the interminable battle with the water. “There may be many solutions.”
The amount of grouting needed determines how fast the project can move. On the Skanska side, for example, some weeks the face moves 30 meters; others, as few as 10.
This isn’t made any easier by the rock itself. The seabed around Norway was shaped by glaciers during the Ice Age. As the ice retreated, it dragged softer rock with it, carving out the fjords for which the nation is so famous. But this legacy makes digging subsea tunnels particularly gnarly. Much of what’s left is the hard, difficult-to-break stuff.
And it’s not just one type of rock, either. There are “big wide areas where we don’t know what’s down there,” says Gilje, the geologist who is a project manager for the Norwegian Public Roads Administration, which is in charge of the entire project. Before any construction started, boats took core samples from the seabed along the planned tunnel route. Seismic surveys from the ocean surface—like those that look for oil in the region—helped fill in the gaps.
Each kind of rock presents its own challenges, so the engineers “have different techniques for different problems,” Gilje explains. For example, they found that one southern section contains a lot of phyllite. Phyllite is considered “nice” to work with. It is formed from a combination of shale, siltstone, and mud over time and is pretty compact, with few cracks to let water through. Its compact nature means it requires more explosives per blast, however. It also contains a lot of quartz, which is toxic when released into the air during blasting. So workers wear monitors to measure their exposure, and a curtain of water sprayed in front of the rock face helps prevent too much from drifting into the tunnel.
The northernmost part of the route, meanwhile, is made mostly of solid granite and a similar rock called gneiss. Both are hard but contain fractures that allow the seawater to trickle through.
The rock type can also change over just a short distance. So during the dig, every 80 meters or so, an engineer sends sound waves through the face to expose its secrets and help evaluate its structural integrity. The rock is graded on a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being the worst and least stable. “When you are reaching class 5, then it’s almost like soil. It’s not rock anymore,” says Rønning.
This investigation informs the kinds of structural supports each section will need—from steel rods that fan out above the rock face like an umbrella, for the strongest rock, to reinforced-concrete arches that hold up the weakest. To seal everything off, the team sprays a substance called “shotcrete,” liquid concrete mixed with reinforced-steel fibers, onto the walls throughout. A plastic membrane and concrete panels are fitted later.
“It’s going to be a very safe tunnel,” Gilje says. “It’s going to last for 100 years.”
Strange dangers
While I may not be brave, at least I don’t get seasick. Back at the surface, I board a small ferry that putters and sloshes its way from the mainland to Kvitsøy, a sparsely populated municipality made up of 365 separate islands and islets—something its 550 or so inhabitants are very proud of, even though most of these islands are uninhabited chunks of rock.
For the next few years, Kvitsøy’s population will experience a tiny boom as its largest island hosts a semipermanent encampment of contractors and engineers working on what is probably the most complex part of the Rogfast project: the giant ventilation shafts that will sit roughly halfway along the tunnel’s length to bring fresh air into the entire network, and remove the stale air in turn.
It’s also one of the reasons why road tunnels are much more complex than rail tunnels. Cars pump out fumes that have to be vented away. During construction, fresh air flows in via huge plastic tubes suspended from the ceiling, but eventually, Rogfast’s air will come in through two nine-meter-wide shafts that will bore down from Kvitsøy’s surface: one to bring it in, one to take it out.
COURTESY OF NORWEGIAN PUBLIC ROADS ADMINISTRATION
Creating these shafts is a wild process. First, narrow boreholes are drilled from the ground down into the tunnel 210 meters below the surface. A vertical drill rig is then pulled up through the hole from the bottom, widening the shaft to 2.4 meters as it ascends.
Then explosives are set off on the island’s surface, bashing down through the rock to widen the shaft. A large digger pushes the resulting debris down the narrower, not-yet-exploded length of shaft below, sending rocks barreling toward the tunnel at the bottom like socks tumbling down a laundry chute. Trucks haul away the fallen rocks. This process happens in stages, repeating at regular intervals, opening up the passage a bit deeper with each pass. Once it’s all done, steel rods are installed in the shaft’s walls to keep it secure.
Down below, I stand beneath one of the narrow guide holes for one of the two ventilation shafts. The ceiling soars overhead—a strangely beautiful cathedral, cragged and shadowed by lamplight.
Besides poisonous air, the epic nature of these engineering projects throws up other surprising dangers. For example, Rogfast will take about 30 minutes to drive through. It doesn’t seem that long, but the project’s designers worry that the monotonous environment may lull some drivers to sleep.
Engineers faced this problem with Ryfylke—which, as the current longest subsea road tunnel, has been a testing ground for its bigger sibling. It relieves the tedium with a large hall that opens up in the middle of the tunnel, lit by colored lights that change each day. When Rogfast is finished, artists will be invited to do something similar, using lights, colors, and shapes to keep drivers alert.
Then there are the environmental risks. What is there to do with all the loose rock created by the blasts? The engineers predict 8.5 million cubic meters’ worth. That’s enough to fill more than 2,500 Olympic-sized swimming pools. The solution is to bring it back to the surface, where it can be used to create new land. To do this, the project employs a giant barge designed to split open and dump 350 tons of rock in one go.
But adding more rock particles to the water can make it hard for fish to breathe, says Elizabeth Austdal Paulen, Implenia’s environment lead on the project and my fellow passenger on the windy (and soon to be redundant) ferry over to Kvitsøy. Her team monitors their levels in real time: If the particulate count is too high, the drops must pause until the new rock has settled on the seabed. The goal is to protect lobster fishing, a vital part of the local economy, and to safeguard the breeding time for cod, which was an issue when I visited.
Finally, of course, on top of all this are the many hazards for the people who are actually doing all this blasting and digging and hauling. Or, say, for the visitors who are finding their inner nine-year-old getting a little too giddy about what’s next.
Time to blow
Before I’m allowed underground, I must sit through a short safety briefing, where I learn there are multiple hazards when you’re that deep. Fires, for instance, can break out, exacerbated by the way the salt water affects electronics. Just a week earlier, a car caught fire somewhere deep within the network. “You have to be aware all the time,” says Anne Brit Moen, the project lead for Skanska. “It’s a very harsh, harsh climate.”
After the session, I’m given a hi-viz suit, the hard hat (which has built-in ear protectors), gloves, safety glasses, and reinforced boots. I get instructions on how to operate the oxygen mask that will be in the car with me, and a device to put in my pocket that will track my exact location on screens in the control room. The device also acts as a personal warning system: If it vibrates and a blue light appears, then a blast is imminent and I must get to safety; if it vibrates and glows red, umm, well, that’s bad news and it’s time to evacuate.
“If you’re the first to the rescue chamber, press the green button … close the hatch and sit down and be calm.”
Ketil Myklebost, project manager, Implenia
But let’s say I can’t—I’m too deep underground. Then there is a second, less fun option. I’m given instructions on how to access the rescue chambers. These metal boxes—about the size of a large van—can squeeze in around 16 people, and each contains chocolate, water, radio equipment, a defibrillator, and enough oxygen for 24 hours. I see them dotted throughout the tunnels as we drive through. Worst-case scenario, I’m supposed to get to the nearest one, sit tight, and hope to get rescued.
“If you’re the first to the rescue chamber, press the green button for 15 seconds to release pressure,” says Ketil Myklebost, a project manager at Implenia. “And then close the hatch and sit down and be calm.”
Calm, right. Okay.
In the hours before my visit, a huge drilling “jumbo” rig puts as many as 180 holes deep into the rock face. The number, angle, depth, and spacing of the holes is calculated in advance using software but finalized at the face—here, they’re almost six meters deep. At one point, I clamber up into the jumbo and inspect the pattern on its screen, matching it against what I can see on the huge rock face, which stands more than 12 meters tall and wide.
The holes have been stuffed with an explosive slurry. (Someone quips that if I get any on my clothes, I’ll be stopped at the airport as a terrorist. A Norwegian joke, again.) As I watch, workers in a kind of cherry picker fit each hole with a detonator and make sure they’re all connected to one another by wire, ready to be triggered remotely.
Then my personal safety device starts vibrating. When I take it out of my pocket, it’s blinking blue. Showtime.
How far back do I need to be? “It’s dangerous in this direction 500 to 600 meters, but if you’re around the corner you can be closer,” says Sveinung Brude, project manager for the Norwegian Public Roads Administration.
COURTESY OF NORWEGIAN PUBLIC ROADS ADMINISTRATION
I stand by the worker who will trigger the blast from what looks like a small briefcase with an antenna. Then he presses the button.
The shock wave hits me before I hear it. My chest vibrates. In the first few milliseconds, a propulsive thump briefly stuns my senses, followed immediately by a rolling, crumpled thunder.
Just a moment later—almost instantly, really—wind billows through the cavern. Rocks clatter as they crash off the walls. I try not to show any panic. (That was meant to sound like that, right?) A hush falls, and there’s just the tinkling of stones as they bounce and skip amid the rubble.
Dust rises into the air, and there is a strange smell.
Through my ear protection it sounds like the end of the world.
NORWEGIAN PUBLIC ROADS ADMINISTRATION
The explosion itself is a beautiful choreography: Blasts are initiated one after another, starting from the center. In video footage, you can just about hear the sequential pitter-patter of the charges as they go off. (In person, it’s a bit more all-at-once and overwhelming.)
Rogfast has just crept another few meters closer to completion.
I find myself grinning. Maybe there’s something extremely primal about being near an explosion? I’m not sure. I look down at my hand, where I have my phone out, recording the intensity of the moment.
Except … I wasn’t recording. The stupid rubber safety gloves I’m wearing must have stopped the command from going through.
Oh no. Oh no.
A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I, uh, blew it. “I WASN’T RECORDING!” I shriek.
“It’s better that way,” says Rønning, walking off into the gloom. “You’ll remember it.” How very Norwegian.
The platform is rolling out a test at Cannes, and said it plans to offer the feature to more users over the next few months.
The platform’s Manifestival features a tattoo studio, an Adobe partnership and an interactive display of key cultural trends.
Reddit’s free-form ads will enable advertisers to create more organic, engaging in-stream promotions.
Meta invested $900 million for 20% of the India-based fintech firm and tapped Kunal Shah to succeed Will Cathcart at the messaging app.