Choosing nothing is a choice

There is a small record shop in Al Quoz where the owner keeps perhaps four hundred albums. He has listened to every one. When someone asks for something to play on a long drive, he does not hand over a catalogue. He pulls out three, explains why, and puts one back if the customer frowns.

On a phone, the same customer can reach almost every song ever recorded. Nobody picked them. They arrive in an order set by a formula nobody outside the company has read, and the company will say, if asked, that it does not take sides. Whatever gets played most rises. The listeners decide.

That sounds generous. Leaving the choosing to the crowd feels fairer than one man's taste in a small room.

But refusing to choose is also a choice. Deciding that everything gets a place and that popularity sorts it is a view about what matters, and a strong one. It says that whatever spreads fastest deserves to be heard first, and that knowing a subject, or having a long record of getting it right, counts for nothing in the ranking.

The shop owner chose because he had to. He only had so many racks. Every library, every bookseller, every radio presenter had the same constraint and answered it with judgment, and over time people learned whose judgment to trust.

Endless space removes the reason to choose. It does not remove the need.

When the stakes are low, the crowd is a fine guide to a playlist. When they are not, most people still want someone who has looked, decided, and is willing to be held to it.