When I was a child, computers were a constant presence. I learned my ABCs on a large Atari, observed my father operate his videography business using a Commodore Amiga, and navigated the early internet on our family’s PC towers. However, during that time, technology was still a specialized pursuit. Even while attending college in the late 1990s and early 2000s, many of my peers thrived without personal computers.

Nowadays, my students experience a vastly different landscape. Technology permeates every aspect of life, with contemporary devices designed to seize our fleeting moments of attention. For Gen Z and Gen Alpha, smartphones and tablets have always been integral to existence. These gadgets serve as primary instruments for entertainment, education, and even emotional relief. When the COVID-19 pandemic emerged, it thrust them deeper into the digital sphere, making technology seem both a salvation and a snare.

It’s simple to fault young individuals for their screen obsession, but I discern a more nuanced reality. My students recognize their reliance on technology. Many express discomfort about it and are concerned that their younger siblings are even more trapped in the digital labyrinth.

A few years back, I understood I could take action. I opted to prohibit all electronic devices—laptops, tablets, phones, headphones—from my classroom. It became an experiment for myself and my students: What occurs when we eliminate the digital divide between us and others, and between us and our thoughts? And what lessons can we learn about approaching the buzz surrounding generative AI?

From Enthusiast to Skeptic

My connection with technology can be traced back to that classic Atari. I’ve always been captivated by gadgets. When I acquired my first iPhone in 2008, it felt like a transformative moment. My wife and I were residing in New York City at that time, and my entire family drove down from Boston to witness the occasion. We made a pilgrimage to the Apple Store on Fifth Avenue, marveling beneath the radiant glass cube as I joined the ranks of Apple enthusiasts.

From then on, I upgraded my iPhone annually. It became a tradition, as routine as the beginning of a new academic year. I also purchased early models of the iPad, AirPods, and the Apple Watch. At that time, every Steve Jobs keynote seemed to promise world-changing revelations.

However, in the 2010s, something shifted. New tech launches began to feel less thrilling and more like superficial hype. As a professor and a parent, I started recognizing the drawbacks of our perpetually connected lives. The youth around me were fixated on their devices, fearing exclusion if they weren’t perpetually online—and they resented it. Many shared concerns about their screen time akin to those of their parents.

So even prior to the recent AI surge, I had begun to question the assumption that increased technology equates to progress.

What Happens When We Disconnect?

One day in the spring of 2019, I surveyed my class and perceived a multitude of students fixated on their laptop displays. I wasn’t lecturing—they were supposed to engage in discussion. That moment lingered in my mind. It was evident that a change was necessary.

That autumn, I implemented a new guideline in my syllabus: no laptops, phones, tablets, headphones, or AirPods in class. I encouraged students to bring notebooks and pens instead. I explained my rationale, cited pertinent research, and provided exceptions for emergencies. Should someone need to receive a call, they could step out quietly without repercussions.

I felt apprehensive. Would students object? Would enrollment decline? To my astonishment, there was minimal resistance. The transition was initially jarring—many students struggled to endure even 75 minutes without their phones. But gradually, most grew to appreciate the respite. It permitted them to disconnect and concentrate, to be present and reflective.

Now, I frequently begin class by distributing a printed article—typically a recent opinion piece—and instructing students to read it with a pen in hand. They annotate the text and then compose a brief response in their notebooks. In those initial weeks, I notice students fidgeting with their hands, unaccustomed to writing manually. However, once they complete their responses, we plunge into discussion—and without digital diversions, they genuinely listen to one another.

Not every student is consistently engaged. Some appear weary or disinterested. Yet even that is an improvement over distraction. I refer to it as “productive boredom.” Without a screen to rely on, students confront their own thoughts. I ask them, “When was the last time your sole task was to think?”

What This Reveals About AI

This unplugging experiment has influenced my perspective on the emergence of AI in education. Since the debut of ChatGPT in 2022, higher education has been inundated with discussions of an AI revolution—or, as I sometimes term it, an