When 63% of employees can smell AI-generated praise from their managers, we’ve automated away the last thing that made work bearable: the brief moment of being genuinely seen.

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PROLOGUE

There’s a particular species of American professional who has learned to identify AI-generated text the way a sommelier identifies corked wine—not through analysis, but through an immediate, almost physical revulsion. They sit in cubicles across Dallas and Denver and Columbus, in buildings designed by people who’ve never worked in buildings, under lighting that makes everyone look slightly unwell. They’ve developed the posture: shoulders forward, neck craned, the modern genuflection before the screen.

James is one of them. Twenty-eight, fourth year at the company, still believes—on good days—that hard work gets noticed. He drinks coffee that’s always slightly wrong: too hot, then too cold, never the temperature he actually wants it. His cubicle is E-17, a designation that sounds vaguely dystopian but is actually just alphabetical. He knows all forty people on this floor by sight. Maybe twelve by name. Three well enough to complain to about the coffee.

He’s good at his job in the way that doesn’t get you promoted but keeps you employed. He ships projects on time. Responds to emails within the hour. Says yes when Todd asks if he can “jump on something real quick” that turns into seventy-hour weeks. He’s been doing this long enough to recognize the specific disappointment that arrives in an Outlook notification on a Thursday afternoon, though he hasn’t yet learned to stop clicking.

His mouse hovers over the email. Subject line: “Congratulations on Your Q4 Performance!”

He still hopes, which is either admirable or pathetic depending on whether you’re an optimist about the American workplace or have ever actually worked in one.

He clicks.

The AI Congratulations Letter I Can Smell From Here

James knows by the second sentence.

Thursday, 2:47 PM, Dallas. Cubicle E-17 in a floor plan designed by someone who’s never worked in a cubicle. His Outlook dings. Subject: “Congratulations on Your Q4 Performance!”

From: Todd Brennan (Manager)

He clicks because part of him—the part that still believes in things—thinks maybe this time it’ll be different.

“Dear James, I wanted to take a moment to express my sincere appreciation for your outstanding contributions this quarter.”

His eyes stop moving.

Not because he’s moved. Because his body knows before his brain catches up. There’s a specific wrongness to AI text that you don’t read—you feel. Like biting tinfoil. Like shaking a hand that’s slightly too cold. The sentences are grammatically perfect in a way humans never are. “Your exemplary dedication has not gone unnoticed.”

By whom? By a fucking chatbot?

He worked 70-hour weeks for three months. Shipped Hartwell two weeks early. Personally salvaged Miller when Todd was too busy in “leadership offsites” to return calls. And his reward is an email that reads like a Terms of Service update gained sentience and learned to compliment people.

The fluorescent lights hum their 60-cycle frequency above forty people performing productivity in silence. James leans back—that specific squeak of a $200 office chair bought in bulk—and feels nothing. Not rage. Not disappointment. Just… nothing. Room-temperature water for the soul.

He scrolls down. “Your innovative problem-solving and collaborative spirit have made a measurable impact.”

Measurable.

That’s the tell. Humans don’t say “measurable impact” when they mean something. They say “you saved our asses” or “holy shit, I don’t know how you pulled that off.” They don’t sound like a quarterly business review fucked a fortune cookie.

Three cubicles over, Sarah gets the same email. Different name in the salutation. Same “exemplary dedication.” Same “measurable impact.” She’s been here six years. She worked through her father’s funeral in November because the deadline couldn’t move. She closes the email without reading past the second paragraph.

What’s there to read? She already knows how it ends. With nothing.

Here’s what they tell you: AI makes work more efficient. Managers are drowning—Slack, Zoom, too many direct reports, too many asks. Forty-five percent of employees have used AI to write recognition messages. If a tool helps time-strapped bosses send more appreciation to more people, isn’t that good? Democratization of gratitude. Scale the sincerity. Everyone gets acknowledged.

You’re supposed to nod along with this. It makes sense in a PowerPoint. Managers are overwhelmed. If we want people to feel valued, and managers don’t have time to value everyone personally, isn’t robot-value better than no value?

This is the part where you agree because the logic is airtight and you’re a reasonable person.

But then you get the email.

And you know.

You know in your stomach, in that pre-verbal place where your body understands things your brain hasn’t processed yet. You know because the prose is too smooth. Because it uses words like “exemplary” that no one under 60 uses in conversation. Because there’s a sentence—always one sentence—that could’ve been written about literally anyone in the building.

“Your collaborative spirit continues to inspire the team.”

Which team? Inspire them to do what? When? The sentence has the shape of meaning but the substance of vapor. It’s a Mad Lib where every blank got filled with corporate synonyms for “you exist and we’re legally required to acknowledge that sometimes.”

Sixty-three percent of employees say they fear AI will make recognition less personal.

They’re not wrong. They’re exactly right. The moment you realize your congratulations was written by the same bot that wrote everyone else’s, it doesn’t just become worthless. It becomes insulting. At least being ignored is honest. You can metabolize honest. You can say “okay, that’s where I stand” and move on.

But this? Being thanked by an algorithm? That’s a new species of invisible. You’ve been seen by something that can’t see. Appreciated by a process that can’t appreciate. The form is there—subject line, salutation, compliment, sign-off—but the substance got scooped out and replaced with autocomplete.

One employee—interviewed about workplace AI, anonymous because of course anonymous—said: “If I sniffed out AI on a congratulatory note, that would probably be a big turn off.”

Sniffed out.

Like robot-gratitude has an odor. A stench. The smell of processed sentiment. Of industrial caring. Of a manager who cared so little about saying thank you that they outsourced it to a system that can’t care at all.

James can smell it from here.

He closes the email. Opens it again. Reads it one more time to make sure he’s not being paranoid.

Nope. It’s definitely AI. The tells are everywhere once you know what to look for:

• Zero contractions (humans use them constantly)
• Sentences that start with participial phrases (“Having observed your commitment…”)
• The word “moreover” (nobody says moreover)
• Bullet points listing his “key strengths” that could apply to anyone
• A closing paragraph that somehow sounds both effusive and empty: “Your continued excellence sets a standard for the entire organization.”

The entire organization. All 347 people. His work—his specific work, the late nights, the salvaged accounts, the problems he solved that Todd doesn’t even know about because Todd is too busy being in meetings about the importance of face-time—has been reduced to a template variable.

[NAME], you are [POSITIVE_ADJECTIVE]. Your [WORK_QUALITY] has been [INTENSITY_MODIFIER] [POSITIVE_ADJECTIVE]. Keep up the [POSITIVE_ADJECTIVE] work.

He thinks about replying. “Thanks.” Or maybe something passive-aggressive: “Thanks, really feels personal.” Or maybe just the truth: “Did you write this?”

But what’s the point? Todd probably doesn’t even remember sending it. Probably has a system: Open ChatGPT. “Write a congratulations email for high performer Q4. Tone: appreciative but professional. Length: 3 paragraphs.” Copy. Paste. Replace NAME. Send. Next report. Next email. Next automated gesture of humanity.

Todd probably thinks he’s being efficient. Probably thinks he’s solved the problem of not having enough time to recognize his team. He used to send nothing—now he sends something! Progress!

Except it’s not progress. It’s the opposite of progress. It’s the automation of the last thing that shouldn’t be automated. The small moments. The “hey, I saw you stayed late, appreciate it.” The “nice job on that presentation.” Even if it was rushed. Even if it was half-assed. At least it was from a human who briefly held the thought of you in their mind.

That was the whole thing. That one second where you existed in someone’s consciousness as more than a line item. That was what made it worth something.

Now we’ve automated that second away.

Sarah leaves at 5:30. Drives home to Plano, to a rental with laminate countertops and a fridge that hums too loud. She tells her partner Marcus about the email while opening an $11.99 bottle of wine that tastes like it costs $11.99.

“I mean, it’s nice he sent something,” she says, even though she doesn’t believe it.

Marcus, who works in software and has different fluency with these failures: “But he didn’t send it.”

“He… initiated it.”

“Did he? Or did he think ‘I should send recognition emails’ and then let the robot do the thinking?”

She drinks her wine. It tastes like acidity and artificial fruit flavor and disappointment. “I don’t know why it bothers me. It’s just an email.”

But she does know. It bothers her because she buried her father in November and came back to work three days later because “we’re really counting on you, Sarah.” It bothers her because she’s given six years to a company that just proved her work is worth exactly as much effort as everyone else’s work, which is to say: worth the time it takes to fill in a name field.

It bothers her because the email is honest in a way the old system wasn’t. It’s saying the quiet part loud: You are fungible. Your work is important but you are not. We will replace you with a machine learning model the moment it becomes cost-effective, and we’ll send you a nice note about it written by a different machine learning model.

Marcus refills her glass. “You should quit.”

“And go where? This is everywhere now.”

She’s right.

Here’s the synthesis: We did this to ourselves.

Not consciously. Not explicitly. But through a thousand small decisions where we chose efficiency over authenticity. Scale over specificity. Performance over presence. We built org charts where managers have thirty direct reports and no time to know any of them. We created systems where output matters but humans don’t. Where appreciation is a KPI to be tracked, optimized, automated.

We agreed that “employee recognition” is important. So important that we measure it. Track it. Hire consultants to improve it. Install platforms to scale it. We turned gratitude into a metric, and then we’re surprised when the metric became empty.

This is late capitalism’s magic trick: it takes the things that make us human—connection, recognition, meaning—and monetizes them so thoroughly that we forget what they were for. Then, when efficiency demands we automate them, we do. And we call it progress.

The AI congratulations email isn’t a bug. It’s the system working exactly as designed.

Because here’s what we actually believe, revealed in our actions: recognition is a box to check. A process to complete. A task to be automated away so managers can focus on “higher-level work.” The message we’re sending—the real message beneath the robot prose—is you are not worth my time. You’re worth the 0.3 seconds it takes to type your name into a prompt.

This is the innovation. The efficiency gain. We’ve found a way to scale indifference.

And the darkest part? It’s working. Sarah didn’t quit. James didn’t push back. They absorbed it. Metabolized it. Lowered their expectations one more notch. Because what’s the alternative? Make a thing about it? Seem difficult? Ungrateful?

You take what you get. You say thank you for the automated thank you. You participate in the charade where everyone pretends that form and substance are the same thing.

Until you forget they’re not.

James comes back Friday. The office is half-empty—work-from-home day—and the fluorescent lights are somehow worse when there are fewer people to absorb them. He logs in. Three emails from Todd.

Two about project timelines.

One: “Thanks for jumping on that Miller thing yesterday. Saved us.”

Eleven words. Grammatically imperfect. Hastily typed between meetings. But specific. About a specific thing James did. Written by an actual human who briefly thought about James as a human.

It hits different.

James types back: “No problem.”

Two words. Not poetry. Not meaningful in any grand sense. But real. Two people acknowledging each other in the thirty seconds Todd had before his next call. In the tiny gaps where actual humans still exist before the automation swallows those too.

The other email—the AI one, the “exemplary dedication” one—sits in his inbox. He’ll never respond to it. What would he say? “Thanks for the robot compliment”?

He wonders how long before even the eleven-word emails disappear. Before someone builds an AI that detects when team members do something noteworthy and auto-sends a brief, casual acknowledgment that sounds plausibly human. Before we automate away the last inefficient, costly, irreplaceable moments of actual recognition.

He wonders if we’ll notice when it happens.

Probably not. We’ll just adjust. Lower expectations another notch. Accept less. Pretend it’s the same.

That’s the real horror. Not that we’ll rebel. That we won’t.

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You cannot automate meaning.

This should be obvious. But late capitalism has a way of making the obvious negotiable. Every time you try to automate meaning—birthday wishes, condolences, congratulations, love—you don’t create efficiency. You create a new flavor of nothing.

The word sounds dramatic. But what else do you call it when the forms of connection persist but the substance is gone? When you receive praise that required no thought, no time, no actual appreciation? When sincerity becomes a performance that can be outsourced to statistics?

This is the workplace in 2026: We’ve never sent more recognition. Employees have never felt less recognized. Engagement scores are up. Actual engagement is dead. We’ve optimized humanity into a metric and the metric into a lie.

The AI congratulations email is just the latest iteration. Same logic that gave us:

• Automated birthday emails from HR (not from anyone who knows you)
• Machine-generated anniversary messages (celebrating your loyalty to an entity that would eliminate you tomorrow if the spreadsheet demanded it)
• Algorithmic performance reviews (where your human complexity becomes a number and three auto-generated “development areas”)

Each innovation makes work more efficient and humans more replaceable. Each one chips away at the thing that made work bearable: occasional genuine recognition from another human who briefly acknowledged you exist.

James closes his laptop at 5:00 PM. Exactly 5:00. Not a minute later.

He walks to his car—a 2019 Civic with a check engine light he’s been ignoring for six months—and sits in the Texas heat. It presses against him like a presence. Like something that wants something from him.

He’s not thinking about the email anymore. He’s not thinking about work at all. He’s thinking about nothing, which is maybe its own form of self-defense. If you feel nothing, nothing can hurt you. If you expect nothing, you can’t be disappointed.

This is the real automation. Not of gratitude. Of expectation. Of hope. Of the part of you that still believes someone might see you.

We’re automating our humanity away one email at a time, and calling it progress.

James starts the engine. The check engine light glows on the dashboard like an accusation. He ignores it.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring things.

You get good at what you practice.

EPILOGUE

James still works at the company. Still sits in E-17. The fluorescent lights still hum their sixty-cycle accusation. The coffee is still wrong.

The AI email sits in his inbox, three weeks old now, neither deleted nor archived. Just there. He passes it sometimes while searching for something else—a small memorial to the day he stopped expecting his manager to see him. Not dramatically. Not with any grand realization. Just the quiet adjustment of someone who’s learned that disappointment is more manageable when you don’t call it that.

Todd still sends emails. Some of them are even personal now—brief, misspelled, human. “Good work on Peterson.” “Thanks for covering.” Small words that cost almost nothing but mean slightly more than nothing, which turns out to be enough. The bar has been lowered so far that eleven words typed between meetings feels like grace.

Last Thursday, someone three cubicles over got promoted. The announcement email was definitely AI—you could smell it through the screen. “We are thrilled to announce…” Nobody seemed to notice. Or maybe everyone noticed and nobody cared anymore, which amounts to the same thing.

James closed his laptop at exactly 5:00 PM and walked to his car, where the check engine light still glows its small persistent warning. He’s been ignoring it for seven months now. You get good at what you practice, and he’s been practicing not noticing things that require too much effort to fix.

The thing about adaptation is it happens so gradually you don’t feel yourself changing. You just wake up one day in a world where robot congratulations are normal, and you can’t quite remember when you stopped being bothered by it.

Or maybe you remember exactly when. You just don’t talk about it.

Some disappointments are too small to name and too large to forget, so they just become part of the furniture. Like fluorescent lights. Like lukewarm coffee. Like emails from managers who’ve outsourced the last gesture that cost them nothing but time.

James drives home in traffic that never improves, to an apartment that costs too much, in a life that continues off the page where all lives continue—unresolved, unfinished, quietly adjusting to less.

The email never got a response.

Some things don’t need replies. They just need to be survived.

— The Seasoned Sage