At last. The long-awaited solution to all our nuclear fusion woes has arrived. Not through stubborn physics, painful iteration, or decades of material science—but through a publicly traded company. One that will pool cash, issue shares, and confidently knock over the last dominoes on the road to free, clean, limitless energy.
Why didn’t we think of that before?
Every time I see someone propose solving a centuries-old, physics-defying problem with a public offering, a small, knowing smile creeps across my face. Because I know a Ponzi scheme when I see one—even when it wears a lab coat.
The structure is always the same. You collect deposits from myriads of small investors who have no direct representation inside the institution. No meaningful oversight. No control levers. Not even access to unfiltered, verifiable information about what is actually being done with their money. Then you install a layer of paid management, generously compensating itself with bonuses for hyped “breakthroughs” that nobody can touch, smell, measure, or independently verify. Above them sits a supervisory board composed of the same species of professional manager—imported wholesale from other large public entities.
What could possibly go wrong?
It’s a siphon. A finely engineered one. Designed to capture the current fear of energy poverty and the intoxicating euphoria surrounding new technologies, and skim money off both. Fusion hasn’t failed commercially so far because of a lack of vision, funding, or corporate structure. It hasn’t worked because physics does not cooperate. Nature, stubbornly, refuses to be impressed by press releases.
Fusion is not “almost there.” It’s not waiting for the right capitalization model. It simply isn’t meant to be—at least not in the form we fantasize about. We already have fission, a technology that still has enormous untapped development potential. But that isn’t glamorous enough. It doesn’t feel like magic. It doesn’t flatter our ego.
We want something that feels like sorcery. We want to play God.
Those skimming the cash don’t care whether fusion ever works. They just want to feel like gods themselves. And when the scheme eventually collapses under the weight of reality, they want to be safely retired—preferably somewhere Caribbean—watching the wreckage from a distance, cocktail in hand.