五月底,在雅典与尼尔·里默的一次对谈中,他说了一些让我久久难以忘怀的话。在那座城市一场充满活力的新兴科技节上,谈及围绕人工智能积累的财富时,他表示“强烈感觉到将会出现某种形式的再分配”。他继续说道:“要么是自愿的,要么是非自愿的,但一定会发生,我希望是自愿的。”他告诉我,并补充说他认为科技领袖“可以在推动这一进程方面发挥主导作用。”
这番话出自大多数人之口,听起来不过是标准的民粹主义论调。但出自里默——Index Ventures 的联合创始人,这家公司是过去三十年最成功的风投机构之一——之口,这似乎是一句令人震惊的公开表态。
里默于 2021 年退出了日常投资工作,如今大部分时间待在雅典——他妻子的故乡,也是他的孩子们珍视其希腊护照的地方。他穿着一件皱巴巴的纽扣衬衫和牛仔裤来参加我们的采访,而不是像许多同行那样穿着半拉链衫和精致针织衫。然而,Index 近年来的回报却异常出色:自成立以来,该公司已从外部投资者那里筹集了约 150 亿美元,而去年包括 Figma 的 IPO 以及谷歌收购网络安全公司 Wiz 在内的退出项目,据报为 Index 带来了约 90 亿美元的收益。
里默找到了回馈社会的方式。他是 Endeavor Greece 的董事会成员,该机构为新兴市场的创业者提供指导;并在 2019 年至 2025 年间担任人权观察组织董事会主席。2021 年底,他与父亲及两位兄弟向麦吉尔大学捐赠了 1300 万美元,用于翻新一栋校园建筑(现为里默楼),并创立了一个新的原住民研究与知识研究所。
与此同时,平心而论,他关于财富再分配的评论出现在一个颇为微妙的捐赠时机。沃伦·巴菲特和比尔·盖茨于2010年发起的“捐赠誓言”,旨在促使亿万富翁将半数财富捐给慈善事业,如今正变得越来越无关紧要。据《纽约时报》3月的一篇报道(该报道强调了慈善在科技界部分最富有群体中已变得多么过时),该誓言在头五年有113个家庭签署,随后降至72个,再降至43个,而整个2024年仅有4个家庭签署。(该报道指出:“全球首富埃隆·马斯克曾表示,他的企业‘本身就是慈善’。”)
这一趋势似乎并不局限于“捐赠誓言”。根据《斯坦福社会创新评论》的数据,2024年美国慈善捐赠总额创下5925亿美元的纪录,但实际进行捐赠的美国人数量已连续五年下降,仅2024年一年就下降了4.5%。2000年时,有三分之二的家庭进行捐赠;如今大约只有一半。美国银行和礼来家族学院的数据显示,即使是富裕家庭的捐赠比例也从2017年的90%下滑至去年的81%。
这一模式同样出现在Index自身的投资组合中,其中包括Anthropic。Business Insider最近询问财务规划师亚历克斯·卡斯韦尔,他那些新近致富的客户——其中许多是与有效利他主义相关的Anthropic员工——是否承诺捐出大部分财富。卡斯韦尔告诉Business Insider,Anthropic会为员工将其股权最多25%捐赠给慈善机构提供配捐,他的一些客户也确实使用了这一政策,但大多数人根本没有将慈善纳入他们的规划;他们专注于天使投资或创办自己的公司。“这是我看到的比慈善意愿更普遍的现象,”他告诉该媒体。
毫不意外,自愿捐赠的缺失如今正与试图通过立法强制实现这一结果的努力相碰撞。加州选民将在今年决定是否对州内的亿万富翁征收一次性的5%财富税。包括谷歌创始人谢尔盖·布林和拉里·佩奇在内的一些人,已经将主要住所迁至南佛罗里达州以求稳妥。
据报道,OpenAI 正考虑在 2027 年上市,而讽刺的是,原因之一可能是,如果该税收法案通过,将根据个人截至今年年底的全球资产来计算其净资产。
毫不意外的是,任何如此大规模的财富再分配措施都面临大量反对,包括来自州长加文·纽森的反对,也包括一些经济学家的反对——他们指出,自 1990 年以来,许多工业化国家在目睹本国富裕居民纷纷外逃后,已经废除了类似的财富税。
其他备选方案同样充满争议。据报道,OpenAI 曾讨论过向联邦政府提供 5% 的股权,CEO 山姆·奥尔特曼将此构想描述为与公众分享 AI 的收益,但批评者认为这不过是为在华盛顿换取政治庇护。无论哪种情况,硅谷向来不乐见美国政府成为股东。资深投资人罗洛夫·博塔去年在与本刊编辑的一次单独会面中调侃道:“(有些)世界上最危险的话就是:‘我是政府派来帮忙的。’”
值得思考的是,在这些机制之外还存在着多少财富。在 SpaceX 上个月 IPO 后,马斯克的净资产刚刚超过 1 万亿美元,使他成为首位达到这一里程碑的人。《福布斯》仅在 2026 年的排名中就统计出 45 位新的 AI 亿万富翁,其总资产达 2.9 万亿美元,而这还是在 Anthropic 或 OpenAI 尚未上市的情况下。在同一篇关于 Anthropic 员工的 BI 报道中,BI 指出,一旦 Anthropic 和 OpenAI 完成 IPO,两家公司的员工合计将持有足以买下旧金山都会区近三分之一住房的财富。
这感觉前所未有,但这是否代表了一个历史性的极端值,仍存在争议。美国最富有的 1% 家庭所持有的财富份额在去年第三季度达到 31.7%,这是自 1989 年美联储开始追踪该数据以来的最高纪录,大致相当于前 10% 之外其余 90% 家庭所持财富的总和。
这仍低于1916年镀金时代巅峰时期前1%人群所掌控的45%。但若将视角聚焦于最顶尖的极少数人,情况则截然不同。著名经济学家加布里埃尔·祖克曼计算得出,在镀金时代鼎盛时期(约1910年),美国最富有的四大家族财富总和相当于美国GDP的4%。而如今,同样位于金字塔尖的这一小撮人——已从当年的四户增至十九户——其财富占比达到了14%。
赖默提出的两条路径——自愿或强制——在美国财富集中度上一次达到如此水平时已有先例。1889年,在第一个镀金时代的高峰期,安德鲁·卡内基发表了一篇文章,主张富人应将其财富视为一种信托基金,在有生之年用于公共福祉,并称死时仍富有是一种耻辱。这篇名为《财富的福音》的文章,成为了现代慈善事业的奠基性文献,也是“捐赠誓言”的思想源头。
然而,这并未能长久地阻挡另一条路径。到20世纪30年代中期,路易斯安那州参议员休伊·朗凭借一项名为“共享财富”的计划赢得了全国性的追随者,要求对富人征收重税,以资助为每个美国人提供有保障的收入。由于担心失去工薪阶层对朗的支持,富兰克林·罗斯福推动通过了被媒体称为“劫富济贫税”的法案,将最高边际所得税率提高至79%。虽然其再分配力度不及朗的期望,但它仍是美国历史上最清晰的例证,表明当自愿捐赠未能充分解决底层积聚的压力时,政治力量推动的再分配便会到来。
这些对赖默来说并非新闻,他的职业生涯一直扎根于科技行业。在他看来,更令人好奇的是“科技公司的道德核心”——这种着迷可以追溯到他1984年作为斯坦福大学本科生的时候,当时苹果公司为学生提供了第一代Macintosh电脑的折扣,而史蒂夫·乔布斯和苹果的其他创始人,用他的话说,是“英雄”,因为他们创造了他认为真正对世界有益的东西。
他说,如今令他感到困扰的是,听到自己的孩子们谈论某些科技公司时,就像上一代人谈论国防承包商或烟草制造商一样。
批评者可能会指出,里默——作为Anthropic及其他科技公司的投资者——正是他所说的最终需要被分享的那笔意外之财的直接受益者。但他更希望看到自己的同行受益者选择主动返还部分资金,而不是被迫交出。实现这一目标有容易的方式和困难的方式,而里默押注于人们会在历史替他们做出选择之前,主动选择那条容易的路。
In late May, Neil Rimer said something during a sit-down I had with him in Athens that I haven’t been able to shake. At a vibrant new tech festival in the city, talking about the wealth piling up around AI, he said he has “a strong sense that there will be some sort of a redistribution.” He continued on. “It’ll either be voluntary or it’ll be involuntary, but it’ll happen, and I hope it’s voluntary,” he told me, adding that he thinks tech leaders “can play a leading role in seeing that through.”
Coming from most people, that would sound like standard-issue populism. Coming from Rimer, a co-founder of Index Ventures, one of the most successful venture firms of the last three decades, it seemed a striking thing to say out loud.
Rimer stepped back from day-to-day investing in 2021, and these days spends much of his time in Athens, where his wife is from and where his children treasure their Greek passports. He turned up to our interview in a rumpled button-down and jeans, not the quarter-zips and fine knitwear that mark so many of his peers. Yet Index’s returns in recent years have been exceptional: the firm has raised roughly $15 billion from outside investors since its founding, and last year’s exits including Figma’s IPO and Google’s purchase of the cybersecurity firm Wiz reportedly netted Index roughly $9 billion.
Rimer has found ways to give back. He sits on the board of Endeavor Greece, which mentors entrepreneurs in emerging markets, and chaired the board of Human Rights Watch from 2019 to 2025. In late 2021, he and his father and two brothers gave $13 million to McGill University to renovate a campus building, now the Rimer Building, and found a new Institute for Indigenous Research and Knowledges.
In the meantime, his comment about redistribution comes at an odd moment, to be charitable, for giving. The Giving Pledge, the promise Warren Buffett and Bill Gates launched in 2010 to get billionaires to commit half their fortunes to charity, is becoming increasingly irrelevant. One hundred and thirteen families signed in its first five years, then 72, then 43, then just four in all of 2024, per a New York Times report in March that underscored how out-of-fashion philanthropy has become among some of the richest people in tech. (Noted that piece: “Elon Musk, the world’s wealthiest person, has said that his businesses ‘are philanthropy.’”)
The pattern appears to hold beyond the Pledge. Total American charitable giving hit a record $592.5 billion in 2024, but the number of Americans actually giving has fallen for five straight years, down 4.5% in 2024 alone, according to the Stanford Social Innovation Review. Two-thirds of households donated in 2000; roughly half do now, and Bank of America and Lilly Family School data shows even affluent-household giving has slipped, from 90% in 2017 to 81% last year.
The pattern shows up in Index’s own portfolio, too, which includes Anthropic. Business Insider recently asked a financial planner, Alex Caswell, whether his newly wealthy clients, many of them Anthropic employees tied to effective altruism, were pledging to give away the bulk of their fortunes. Anthropic matches employee donations of up to 25% of their equity to charity, and some of Caswell’s clients have used it, he told BI, but most weren’t building philanthropy into their plans at all; they were focused on angel investing or starting their own companies. “That’s what I’m seeing more than the desire to become philanthropic,” he told the outlet.
Unsurprisingly, the absence of voluntary giving is now running up against attempts to legislate the outcome instead. California voters will decide this year on a 5% one-time wealth tax that targets the state’s billionaires. Some, including Google founders Sergey Brin and Larry Page, have already moved their primary residences to South Florida to be on the safe side.
OpenAI is reportedly considering going public in 2027, and cynically, one reason among others may be that the tax, if passed, will calculate net worth based on an individual’s worldwide assets as of the end of this calendar year.
As unsurprisingly, there is plenty of opposition to any kind of wealth-redistribution measure of this scale, including by Governor Gavin Newsom, and including by economists who point out that many industrialized countries have repealed similar wealth taxes since 1990 after watching their wealthy residents skedaddle.
Other options on the table are as controversial. OpenAI has reportedly discussed handing the federal government a 5% equity stake, an idea CEO Sam Altman has framed as sharing AI’s upside with the public, but critics see it instead as a way to buy political cover in Washington. In either case, Silicon Valley has never been eager to put Uncle Sam on the cap table. Joked veteran investor Roelof Botha during a separate sit-down with this editor last year: “[Some] of the most dangerous words in the world are: ‘I’m from the government, and I’m here to help.’”
It’s worth thinking through how much wealth sits outside these mechanisms. Musk is worth just over $1 trillion, after SpaceX’s IPO last month made him the first person to reach that mark. Forbes counted 45 new AI billionaires in its 2026 rankings alone, worth a combined $2.9 trillion, and that’s before either Anthropic or OpenAI has gone public. In that same BI story about Anthropic employees, BI notes that once Anthropic and OpenAI complete their IPOs, their combined employees will hold enough wealth to buy nearly a third of all homes in the San Francisco metro area.
It feels unprecedented, but whether it represents an historic extreme is a matter of some debate. The share of wealth held by the top 1% of U.S. households hit 31.7% in the third quarter of last year, a record since the Federal Reserve began tracking the data in 1989, and roughly equal to what the other 90% of households outside the top decile held combined.
That’s still below the 45% the top 1% commanded at the Gilded Age peak in 1916. But narrow the lens to the tippy top, and the picture flips. Renowned economist Gabriel Zucman calculates that at the height of the Gilded Age, around 1910, America’s four largest fortunes were worth a combined 4% of U.S. GDP. Today, that same sliver of the population — now 19 households instead of four — is worth 14%.
Rimer’s two paths, voluntary or forced, have precedent from the last time American wealth concentration reached this level. In 1889, at the peak of the first Gilded Age, Andrew Carnegie published an essay arguing that a rich man should treat his fortune as a trust to be distributed for the public good within his own lifetime, calling it a disgrace to die wealthy. That essay, “The Gospel of Wealth,” became the founding document of modern philanthropy and the intellectual ancestor of the Giving Pledge.
It didn’t hold off the other path for long, though. By the mid-1930s, Louisiana Senator Huey Long had built a national following behind a program called Share Our Wealth, demanding steep taxes on the rich to fund a guaranteed income for every American. Worried about losing working-class support to Long, Franklin Roosevelt pushed through what the press called the “soak-the-rich tax,” raising the top marginal income tax rate as high as 79%. It redistributed less than Long wanted, but it remains the clearest example in American history of politically forced redistribution arriving once voluntary giving failed to adequately address the pressure building underneath it.
None of this is news to Rimer, who has spent his career in tech. What’s more curious to him is “the moral center of tech companies,” a fascination he traced to being a Stanford undergrad in 1984, when Apple discounted the first Macintosh for students and Steve Jobs and Apple’s other founders were, in his words, “heroes” for building something he felt was genuinely good for the world.
What troubles him now, he said, is hearing his own children talk about certain tech companies the way an earlier generation talked about defense contractors or cigarette makers.
Critics may note that Rimer — as an investor in Anthropic and other tech companies — is a direct beneficiary of the windfall he says will eventually need to be shared. But he’d rather see his fellow beneficiaries choose to give some of the money back than have it taken from them. There’s an easy way to do this and a hard way, and Rimer is betting on people picking the easy one before history picks it for them.