The Great Illusion of Elon Musk

How a Technocrat Mastered the Art of Patriotism to Protect His Empire

By Nick Holt

It’s breathtakingly ironic to see how many have fallen, often unwittingly, into the cult of Elon Musk.

Here is a man whose technocratic ambitions thrive on government largesse, who shifts his ideological posture with the dexterity of a Wall Street broker, and yet he has convinced millions that he is the champion of freedom.

It’s the kind of performance that borders on art.

The act began in earnest on November 27, 2022. Musk had just acquired Twitter, a move hailed as the liberation of public discourse. Then came the “bedside table” photo—a masterstroke of imagery.

On display were the props of a newly minted American patriot: a flintlock pistol, a painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware, and a Buddhist amulet. For good measure, there were four cans of Diet Coke—something to remind the viewer that Musk, for all his billions, is relatable.

To call it transparent would be generous. It was an insult to anyone paying attention. This wasn’t about showing us Musk’s bedside habits; it was about telling a story, carefully crafted to appeal to a specific audience.

The pistol and painting signaled patriotism, evoking the grit and glory of America’s founding. The amulet hinted at spirituality, a balance to the brute strength of the guns. And the Diet Coke? A familiar, quotidian touch—a nod to the everyman Musk claims to understand.

It worked. Conservatives, libertarians, and disillusioned centrists ate it up. Musk was lauded as a savior of free speech, a man unafraid to confront the establishment, a digital prophet who would lead America back to its ideals.

But this was the sleight of hand—the moment where the audience, desperate to believe, ignored the glaring reality.

The guns were replicas, like Musk’s supposed loyalty to their values. The painting of Washington crossing the Delaware? It might as well have been hung in a boardroom.

The setup was theater.

Musk wasn’t aligning himself with their cause; he was mirroring it. He was reflecting their hopes and frustrations back to them so convincingly that they forgot to ask what he actually stood for.

Elon Musk’s political donations are a key part of his strategy to ensure that his businesses benefit from favorable policy environments.

Over the years, Musk has made contributions across the political spectrum, but his donations have always aligned with his industries’ needs—electric vehicles, space exploration, and renewable energy.

His financial support for political candidates and causes is not an act of philanthropy but a calculated move to maintain access to government contracts, subsidies, and regulatory frameworks.

In the mid-2000s, Tesla and SolarCity relied on federal incentives to survive. Musk backed clean energy advocates—Democrats, mostly—who championed the tax credits that propped up his businesses.

Tesla’s rise was not fueled by free markets but by government largesse, and Musk’s donations were part of the machinery that made it possible.

As his empire grew, Musk evolved into a political pragmatist. He played both sides. He backed Chuck Schumer, a Democrat pushing climate policy, and Republicans promising deregulation and tax relief. It wasn’t about loyalty.

It was about leverage. By 2020, Musk’s donations leaned harder toward Republicans as his frustration with regulations, lockdowns, and California’s business climate boiled over.

Then came 2024: $100 million to Trump. Some called it bold. It wasn’t. It was business—the largest transaction yet in Musk’s ongoing campaign to buy policy and protect his empire.

His allegiance is not to liberty or founding ideals but to his own empire. Tesla, for all its innovation, depends on tax credits and regulatory concessions. SpaceX runs on billions in Pentagon and NASA contracts.

Musk understands, as all tycoons do, that dominance depends on political influence. Trump offered power; Musk took it.

The market understood. After Trump’s victory, Tesla shares surged 40%, driven by expectations of deregulation. Musk’s AI venture, xAI, soared to a $50 billion valuation. SpaceX cemented its role as a linchpin in the privatized space race. Musk’s $100 million had already paid dividends.

None of this was coincidental.

Musk does not donate out of principle. He donates to buy outcomes. His $100 million wasn’t loyalty; it was leverage—a down payment on deregulation, subsidies, and contracts. This is how power works.

Billionaires don’t support candidates. They invest in them. And Musk plays this game better than anyone.

Conservatives and Trump supporters see Musk as an ally—as one of their own. They venerate him as a free speech warrior, a patriot, a visionary. And they’ve been hoodwinked.

Musk is not on their side. He is not on anyone’s side but his own. The bedside table photo was a metaphor for his brand of deception—showing you the hand you want to see while keeping the real cards hidden. It was sleight of hand, a performance. A mask. And a mirror.

The brilliance of Musk’s manipulation is its simplicity. He doesn’t need your trust. He doesn’t need your agreement. He only needs you to believe that he shares your goals, your frustrations, your fight. Once you believe that, your loyalty comes cheap.

But the loyalty is one-sided. Trump’s supporters see Musk’s $100 million as allegiance. It’s not. It’s a transaction.

Trump gets the borrowed aura of innovation Musk provides, while Musk fortifies his empire—Tesla, SpaceX, xAI—beyond reach. It’s a dangerous bargain. When Musk no longer needs them, Trump’s base will be left holding nothing.

Let’s be clear about Musk. He’s not the savior of free speech or the defender of liberty. He’s a businessman—pragmatic, calculating, ruthless. In a system where money dictates policy, the smartest move is to buy a stake in the process.

If that means posing as a patriot, he’ll do it. If that means playing kingmaker, he’ll do that too. Musk wraps himself in Washington’s legacy while his empire feeds on the subsidies and contracts Washington provides.

It’s about control and opportunism. Musk may have some abstract notion of freedom, but in the end, he believes only in himself. If you’ve mistaken his performance for patriotism, you’ve given him exactly what he wanted.

The bedside table wasn’t a declaration of principle.

It was a warning. And you missed it.