Machines Like Me is not a bad novel. Nor is it good, but somewhere in between. It exists in some literary limbo where the novels of Julian Barnes sulk like abandoned children.
Engaging in this kind of discussion invariably places you in the role of some kind of curmudgeonly old Luddite, brandishing a prophetic end-of-days fist at deaf-eared youngsters taking another hit of the technological crack-pipe. I hereby revoke all claims to prophecy, but the wizened and cranky demeanour might serve.