When American forces crossed into Venezuelan territory last night, the operation carried all the familiar trappings of American power projection—precision strikes, overwhelming force, the rhetoric of liberation. Yet the invasion itself may mark not the apex of American strength but rather its unraveling, a desperate lunge by an empire that has forgotten how to do anything except expand.

The invasion presents us with a peculiar interpretive challenge. On one hand, it appears to validate the Marxist critique of late capitalism: a system that, having exhausted domestic markets and facing diminishing returns, must continually seek new territories to exploit, new resources to extract, new populations to subordinate. Venezuela’s oil reserves—the largest in the world—make it an irresistible target for an economic order built on fossil fuel dependency and perpetual growth. From this perspective, the invasion is grimly logical, even predictable.

Yet there’s an alternative reading that’s equally compelling: this is precisely what empires do when they’re dying. History suggests that imperial overreach accelerates in proportion to internal decay. Rome’s most aggressive expansions came as political dysfunction consumed the Republic. The Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan even as its economic model was collapsing. Britain’s scramble for Africa coincided with the beginning of its long decline.

The invasion of Venezuela contains both truths simultaneously. It is capitalism doing what capitalism does—seeking profit through violence and extraction. But it’s also an empire exhibiting the characteristic blindness of terminal decline, unable to recognize that the very actions meant to preserve power actually hasten its dissolution.

Consider the strategic bankruptcy on display. The United States already struggles to maintain its commitments across multiple theaters. Its infrastructure crumbles. Its political institutions buckle under partisan warfare. Its population grows increasingly skeptical of foreign adventures. Into this context comes another occupation, another reconstruction, another decades-long commitment of blood and treasure in a region with a long memory of American intervention and no shortage of resistance movements.

The invasion also signals something deeper: the exhaustion of American soft power and with it, the tools that made the empire sustainable. Previous generations of American leaders understood that hegemony required consent as much as coercion—that the appearance of legitimacy mattered. The naked aggression of invading a sovereign nation for its resources, stripped of even the pretense of humanitarian concern or international consensus, reveals an empire that no longer cares to maintain its own mythology.

Perhaps most tellingly, the invasion seems to presume that control of resources equals power, a distinctly twentieth-century assumption in a world rapidly moving beyond it. Even as the United States seizes Venezuela’s oil fields, the global energy transition accelerates, driven not by American innovation but by Chinese manufacturing and European policy. The spoils of this war may prove pyrrhic before the occupation even ends.

The irony deepens when we consider what actually powers the future. Artificial intelligence—the technology reshaping global competition and economic dominance—runs on electricity, not petroleum. The data centers that host the world’s most advanced AI systems require massive amounts of clean, reliable power, preferably from renewable sources that won’t destabilize their operations or their balance sheets. China and Europe aren’t racing to control oil fields; they’re building solar arrays and nuclear reactors, securing the energy infrastructure that will matter in twenty years.

America’s fixation on Venezuelan oil thus reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of the emerging world order. We’re fighting yesterday’s resource wars while our competitors build tomorrow’s energy grid. The generals planning this invasion likely briefed their strategy using AI-powered analytics, oblivious to the contradiction: the tools of the future powered by renewable energy, deployed to seize the fuels of the past. It’s as if, at the dawn of the industrial age, a great power had invaded a nation to secure its horse pastures.

What we’re witnessing, then, is not contradiction but confluence—late capitalism’s extractive logic and imperial collapse are not opposing explanations but two aspects of the same phenomenon. The system cannibalizes because it’s dying; it’s dying because all it knows how to do is cannibalize. Last night’s invasion may have been inevitable, but not in the way its architects imagine.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

When American forces crossed into Venezuelan territory last night, the operation carried all the familiar trappings of American power projection—precision strikes, overwhelming force, the rhetoric of liberation. Yet the invasion itself may mark not the apex of American strength but rather its unraveling, a desperate lunge by an empire that has forgotten how to do anything except expand.

The invasion presents us with a peculiar interpretive challenge. On one hand, it appears to validate the Marxist critique of late capitalism: a system that, having exhausted domestic markets and facing diminishing returns, must continually seek new territories to exploit, new resources to extract, new populations to subordinate. Venezuela’s oil reserves—the largest in the world—make it an irresistible target for an economic order built on fossil fuel dependency and perpetual growth. From this perspective, the invasion is grimly logical, even predictable.

Yet there’s an alternative reading that’s equally compelling: this is precisely what empires do when they’re dying. History suggests that imperial overreach accelerates in proportion to internal decay. Rome’s most aggressive expansions came as political dysfunction consumed the Republic. The Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan even as its economic model was collapsing. Britain’s scramble for Africa coincided with the beginning of its long decline.

The invasion of Venezuela contains both truths simultaneously. It is capitalism doing what capitalism does—seeking profit through violence and extraction. But it’s also an empire exhibiting the characteristic blindness of terminal decline, unable to recognize that the very actions meant to preserve power actually hasten its dissolution.

Consider the strategic bankruptcy on display. The United States already struggles to maintain its commitments across multiple theaters. Its infrastructure crumbles. Its political institutions buckle under partisan warfare. Its population grows increasingly skeptical of foreign adventures. Into this context comes another occupation, another reconstruction, another decades-long commitment of blood and treasure in a region with a long memory of American intervention and no shortage of resistance movements.

The invasion also signals something deeper: the exhaustion of American soft power and with it, the tools that made the empire sustainable. Previous generations of American leaders understood that hegemony required consent as much as coercion—that the appearance of legitimacy mattered. The naked aggression of invading a sovereign nation for its resources, stripped of even the pretense of humanitarian concern or international consensus, reveals an empire that no longer cares to maintain its own mythology.

Perhaps most tellingly, the invasion seems to presume that control of resources equals power, a distinctly twentieth-century assumption in a world rapidly moving beyond it. Even as the United States seizes Venezuela’s oil fields, the global energy transition accelerates, driven not by American innovation but by Chinese manufacturing and European policy. The spoils of this war may prove pyrrhic before the occupation even ends.

The irony deepens when we consider what actually powers the future. Artificial intelligence—the technology reshaping global competition and economic dominance—runs on electricity, not petroleum. The data centers that host the world’s most advanced AI systems require massive amounts of clean, reliable power, preferably from renewable sources that won’t destabilize their operations or their balance sheets. China and Europe aren’t racing to control oil fields; they’re building solar arrays and nuclear reactors, securing the energy infrastructure that will matter in twenty years.

America’s fixation on Venezuelan oil thus reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of the emerging world order. We’re fighting yesterday’s resource wars while our competitors build tomorrow’s energy grid. The generals planning this invasion likely briefed their strategy using AI-powered analytics, oblivious to the contradiction: the tools of the future powered by renewable energy, deployed to seize the fuels of the past. It’s as if, at the dawn of the industrial age, a great power had invaded a nation to secure its horse pastures.

What we’re witnessing, then, is not contradiction but confluence—late capitalism’s extractive logic and imperial collapse are not opposing explanations but two aspects of the same phenomenon. The system cannibalizes because it’s dying; it’s dying because all it knows how to do is cannibalize. Last night’s invasion may have been inevitable, but not in the way its architects imagine.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​