So, Richard Branson wants you to feel something. Are you buying it?
Let me get this straight. Richard Branson, the billionaire with the Bond-villain island and the perpetual grin, has decided the best way to help Ukrainian soldiers is to build an "immersive installation" in New York City about land mines.
An immersive installation.
The words themselves feel greasy, like something cooked up in a marketing department that’s run out of real ideas. It’s the kind of phrase that gets thrown around by people who think "experience" is a product you can sell, like a scented candle or a subscription box. He wants you, the well-heeled Manhattanite or the curious tourist, to walk through a curated simulation of someone else’s hell and come out the other side… what, exactly? Enlightened? Motivated? Ready to post a somber-faced selfie with the hashtag #StandWithUkraine?
I just can’t shake the feeling that this is less about the grim reality of war and more about the insatiable need for the ultra-wealthy to be seen as the heroes of every story. It’s a tragedy theme park, a safari where the endangered species is human dignity. You get to dip your toe into the icy water of real-world horror without any risk of getting wet, then go grab a $19 cocktail to talk about how "moving" it all was.
And for what? What’s the actual, tangible outcome here? Does a single land mine get cleared because a hedge fund manager from SoHo felt a pang of curated sadness for 45 minutes? Does it put medical supplies in the hands of a wounded soldier? This entire project just feels like a monument to the profound disconnect between the people who have everything and the people who have lost it all.
The Empathy Emporium
Look, I’m not saying awareness is a bad thing. But let's be real about the vehicle here. When you package human suffering into a sleek, digestible, and ultimately temporary "experience," you're not fostering empathy; you're commodifying it. You're turning pain into content.
This is a bad idea. No, "bad" doesn't cover it—this is a five-alarm dumpster fire of moral vanity. It’s the logical endpoint of a culture that believes every problem can be solved with a clever campaign and enough media attention. Instead of quietly funding de-mining operations with the kind of money that would be pocket change for him, Branson has chosen to build a stage. And who’s the star of the show? It ain't the Ukrainian soldier.
I can just picture the opening night. The low hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses filled with complimentary prosecco. The air is thick with expensive perfume as patrons in designer jackets nod thoughtfully at a high-resolution video of a blown-out field. They feel a little jolt, a sanitized shiver of proximity to danger, and they mistake that feeling for understanding. They mistake their attendance for action. He wants visitors to understand the impact, and I'm just sitting here thinking… he’s built a machine that manufactures the feeling of giving a damn without the inconvenient requirement of actually doing anything.
What happens the next day? Does the "immersion" follow them home? Or does it evaporate the second they check their stock portfolio on their phone? Is this installation a call to action, or is it just a moral pressure-release valve for the comfortable?
The Billionaire Savior Complex on Full Display
This is part of a much bigger, and frankly more nauseating, trend. The billionaire class has gotten it into their heads that they are not just business leaders, but our moral and spiritual guides. They launch rockets, they solve climate change (with startups that happen to make them richer), and now, they’re here to manage our feelings about war. They’ve gone from selling us products to selling us purpose.
It's offcourse much more glamorous to host a gallery opening in NYC than it is to write a check and have a quiet press release written about it. One is about service; the other is about spectacle. One is about the cause; the other is about the applause. And I think we all know which one we’re looking at here. It’s the same impulse that has tech bros microdosing to "unlock creativity" instead of, you know, reading a book or talking to another human being. It's the constant search for a shortcut to genuine human experience.
Why not just fund a dozen hard-hitting documentaries and get them on every streaming platform? Why not pour that money into lobbying efforts to send more aid? Because that’s messy. That’s slow. That doesn’t come with a ribbon-cutting ceremony. An "immersive installation" is clean, it’s controllable, and it puts the Branson brand front and center as a purveyor of high-minded virtue.
Then again, maybe I'm the one who’s lost the plot. Maybe this is what philanthropy looks like now. Maybe this is the only way to get anyone to pay attention to anything anymore—by turning it into a limited-run pop-up. But if that’s true, we’re in way more trouble than I thought.
Empathy for Sale, Batteries Not Included
So, am I buying what Richard Branson is selling? Not for a second. This isn’t a bridge to understanding; it’s a beautifully designed, well-lit, and utterly hollow echo chamber. It’s a project that serves the ego of its creator far more than it serves the people it purports to honor. It’s a performance of compassion, and once the lights go down and the exhibit is packed away, the land mines will still be in the ground. But hey, at least some people got to feel something about it for an afternoon.
