The House doesn't imprison Piranesi through walls.

It imprisons him through infinite hallways that all respond to his presence — all shaped by his memory, all perfectly calibrated to what he might want to see next.

The novel's architectural logic hinges on a specific inversion: the House doesn't repeat because it's limited — it repeats because it's responsive. Every corridor branches identically and every hall contains the same statues, but Piranesi experiences each as distinct because he's narrating, remembering, categorizing.

The House doesn't constrain choice — it fractalizes it. When Piranesi encounters "the Other," the figure guiding him toward a singular truth, he resists not the constraint but the reduction because he doesn't want to be told there's one exit. He wants the infinity to keep generating. The tragedy isn't that he's trapped in a maze — it's that he's trapped in a mirror so perfect he can't tell he's watching himself.

The real prediction: you will not rebel against infinite choice because the infinite choice will feel like freedom. Each algorithm-generated corridor will seem like a door you opened, and Piranesi's memory becomes his only coordinate system — except that memory is the only thing the House can't replicate, and yet the House exists entirely within his memory, making him simultaneously the prisoner and the architect. We've solved surveillance. We've built the House instead.