The billionaires made a promise — now some want out

In 2010, Warren Buffett and Bill Gates launched a disarmingly simple campaign aimed at the world’s wealthiest people called the Giving Pledge: a public commitment to give away more than half their fortune during their lifetime or upon their death.

The year seemed to call for it. Tech was minting billionaires faster than any industry in history that decade, and the question of how those fortunes would impact society was just beginning to take shape. “We’re talking trillions over time,” Buffett told Charlie Rose in 2010. The trillions materialized; the giving, not so much.

The numbers no longer surprise anyone paying attention. The top 1% of American households now hold roughly as much wealth as the bottom 90% combined — the highest concentration the Federal Reserve has recorded since it began tracking wealth distribution in 1989. Globally, billionaire wealth has grown 81% since 2020, reaching a whopping $18.3 trillion, even as one in four people worldwide don’t regularly have enough to eat.

This is the world in which a small group of extraordinarily wealthy people are debating whether to honor — or walk away from — a voluntary and unenforceable promise to give away half of what they have.

The Giving Pledge’s numbers, reported on Sunday by The New York Times, show a steady decline. In its first five years, 113 families signed the Pledge. Then 72 over the next five, 43 in the five after that, and just four in all of 2024.

The roster currently includes Sam Altman, Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan, and Elon Musk — some of the most powerful people in the world — and yet, in Peter Thiel’s words to The New York Times, it is a club that’s “really run out of energy.”

“I don’t know if the branding is outright negative, but it feels way less important for people to join,” Thiel told the Times.

The language of doing good has been wearing thin in Silicon Valley for years. Back in 2016, the HBO series “Silicon Valley” was so relentless in mocking the industry — with characters constantly insisting they were “making the world a better place” — that it reportedly changed actual corporate behavior.

One of the show’s writers, Clay Tarver, told The New Yorker that year: “I’ve been told that, at some of the big companies, the P.R. departments have ordered their employees to stop saying ‘We’re making the world a better place,’ specifically because we have made fun of that phrase so mercilessly.”

It was hilarious. But the idealism being satirized was also partly real, and what replaced it isn’t so funny. Veteran tech investor Roger McNamee, in the same piece, recalled asking Silicon Valley creator Mike Judge what he was really going for. Judge answered, “I think Silicon Valley is immersed in a titanic battle between the hippie value system of the Steve Jobs generation and the Ayn Randian libertarian values of the Peter Thiel generation.”

McNamee’s own read on things was less diplomatic: “Some of us actually, as naïve as it sounds, came here to make the world a better place. And we did not succeed. We made some things better, we made some things worse, and in the meantime, the libertarians took over, and they do not give a damn about right or wrong. They are here to make money.”

A decade later, today the libertarians McNamee was describing are in the Cabinet.

Not everyone agrees on what “giving back” even means. To the increasingly significant libertarian wing of tech, the entire framework is wrong: Building companies, creating jobs, and driving innovation are the real contributions, and the pressure to layer philanthropy on top is, at best, a social convention; at worst, a shakedown dressed up as virtue.

Few figures capture the current mood quite like Thiel, who never signed the Pledge himself and is no fan of Bill Gates (he has reportedly called Gates an “awful, awful person“). In fact, Thiel tells the Times he has privately encouraged around a dozen signers to undo their commitments, and has even gently pushed those already wavering to make their exits official.

“Most of the ones I’ve talked to have at least expressed regret about signing it,” Thiel said, calling the Giving Pledge an “Epstein-adjacent, fake Boomer club.”

He has urged Musk to unenroll, for example, arguing his money would otherwise go “to left-wing nonprofits that will be chosen by” Gates. When Coinbase CEO Brian Armstrong quietly let his letter disappear from the Pledge website in mid-2024 without a word of public explanation, Thiel sent him a congratulatory note.

But Thiel also told the Times something worth a harder look: Those who stay on the Pledge’s public roster feel “sort of blackmailed” — too exposed to public opinion to formally renounce a non-binding promise to give away vast sums of money.

It’s a claim that’s difficult to square with the public behavior of some of the people Thiel has in mind. Musk has shown little interest in managing his public image, and at this point, a majority of Americans already view him unfavorably. Zuckerberg spent nearly a decade facing some of the most sustained regulatory and public hostility any tech exec has endured, and came out the other side more sure of himself, not less.

Meanwhile, a different picture is forming on the ground. GoFundMe reported that fundraisers for basic necessities — rent, groceries, housing, fuel — surged 17% last year, with the top keywords in campaigns including “work,” “home,” “food,” “bill,” and “care.”

And when the 43-day federal shutdown halted food stamp distribution last fall, related campaigns jumped six-fold. “Life is getting more expensive and folks are struggling,” the company’s CEO told CBS News, “so they are reaching out to friends and family to see if they can help them through.”

Whether these trends are connected to decisions made in philanthropy boardrooms is a matter of debate, but the coincidence is hard to ignore.

It’s worth separating the fate of the Pledge from the fate of philanthropy more broadly. Some of the wealthiest people in tech are still giving; they’re just doing it on their own terms, through their own vehicles, toward their own chosen ends.

At the start of 2026, the Chan Zuckerberg Initiative (CZI) cut about 70 jobs — 8% of its workforce — as part of a move away from education and social justice causes, and prioritizing its Biohub network, a group of nonprofit, biology-focused research institutes operating across several cities. “Biohub is going to be the main focus of our philanthropy going forward,” Zuckerberg said last November.

The CZI cuts look, at least on paper, less like the couple is retreating from philanthropy than recalibrating their approach. The Zuckerbergs have, after all, committed to give away 99% of their lifetime wealth through the Pledge.

Not everyone is redefining the terms, either. Gates last year said he’d give away virtually all his remaining wealth — more than $200 billion — through the Gates Foundation over the next two decades, and the foundation would close permanently on December 31, 2045. Invoking Carnegie’s old line that “the man who dies thus rich dies disgraced,” he wrote that he was determined not to die rich.

This standoff between concentrated wealth and everyone else isn’t new. Wealth last concentrated at such levels during the original Gilded Age, the 1890s through the early 1900s, and the correction didn’t come from philanthropists. It came from trust-busting, the federal income tax, the estate tax, and eventually the New Deal. It arrived as policy that was driven by political pressure too powerful to be ignored. The institutions that forced that correction — a functional Congress, a free press, an empowered regulatory state — look considerably different today.

What isn’t in dispute is the pace of change. These fortunes have been built in years, not generations, while the safety net was being cut. The wealth gained by the world’s billionaires in 2025 alone would have been enough to give every person on earth $250 and still leave the wealthiest more than $500 billion richer, according to Oxfam’s 2026 global inequality report.

The Giving Pledge was always, as Buffett said from the start, just a “moral pledge”: no enforcement, no consequences, no one to answer to but yourself. That it once carried weight says something about the era that produced it.

The fact that Thiel now frames staying on the list as a form of coercion — and that the Times found that argument worth reporting at length — says something about the one we’re in right now.