Donald Gainsborough has spent decades navigating the intricate intersections of public policy and rural development, serving as a leading voice for how small-town governance responds to the rapid expansion of global technology infrastructure. As the head of Government Curated, he brings a sharp investigative lens to the friction between massive industrial investments and the preservation of local heritage. In our conversation, we explore the recent upheaval in the Driftless area, where a quiet town’s garage became the stage for a unanimous rejection of a billion-dollar data center. This case study serves as a masterclass in the power of local zoning, the technical anxieties surrounding massive energy consumption, and the growing demand for transparency in an era of non-disclosure agreements.
The discussion delves into the specific strategies rural boards use to stall industrial incursions, the environmental stakes of high-voltage power lines and aquifer usage, and the shifting economic priorities of citizens who value pastoral silence over tax windfalls. We also examine how regional coordination and new legislative proposals are beginning to strip away the secrecy that typically surrounds big-tech prospecting.
A small town recently used zoning laws to block a $1 billion project despite promises of $5.5 million in annual tax revenue. What specific risks to property values or local infrastructure outweigh these financial gains, and how do temporary bans serve as a strategic tool for rural communities?
When you stand in a place like Cassville, you aren’t just looking at a map; you are looking at a way of life defined by the rolling bluffs and the quiet majesty of the Mississippi River. For these residents, the prospect of $5.5 million in tax revenue feels like a hollow trade when weighed against the industrialization of 500 acres of pastoral landscape that has remained untouched for generations. There is a deep-seated fear that the hum of a massive facility will shatter the silence, devaluing nearby residential properties and turning a scenic retreat into a tech corridor. By implementing a temporary ban for up to two years, the town isn’t just saying “no”; they are buying the time necessary to draft regulations that reflect their own vision for the land rather than the developer’s. This strategic pause allows a small community to “beat them to the punch,” ensuring that land use changes, like converting a farm field into a data hub, cannot happen without a transparent, local approval process.
Developers often use non-disclosure agreements when scouting locations, which can leave residents in the dark about land use changes. How does this lack of transparency impact community trust, and what legislative steps are being taken to ensure locals have a seat at the table before sites are finalized?
The use of confidential non-disclosure agreements creates a vacuum of information that is almost always filled by anxiety and social media-driven speculation. In Cassville, the project was shrouded in such secrecy that even town supervisors felt they were operating in total darkness, unaware of who was knocking at their door or what specifically they intended to build. This erosion of trust is precisely why we are seeing a legislative backlash, with Wisconsin lawmakers now sponsoring bills to prevent developers from hiding behind NDAs when prospecting for these massive sites. By mandating transparency, the goal is to ensure that the community is not the last to know about a billion-dollar shift in their backyard. We are moving toward a model where residents in places like Port Washington are requiring voter approval for tax incentives, effectively forcing developers to make their case to the public long before the first shovel hits the ground.
Massive facilities can demand up to 500 megawatts of power, placing a significant burden on regional high-voltage transmission lines. How does this level of consumption affect the local electric grid’s stability, and what technical measures can prevent the potential contamination or depletion of a community’s primary aquifer?
The sheer scale of these projects is difficult to fathom, with some requiring between 400 to 500 megawatts of power—an amount that tests even the capacity of modern high-voltage transmission lines like the recently completed Cardinal-Hickory Creek line. When a single facility consumes as much energy as a small city, residents naturally worry that their own electric bills will spike or that the local grid’s stability will be compromised to serve a corporate giant. Beyond power, the threat to the water supply is a visceral concern in the Driftless area, where the bountiful aquifer is the lifeblood of the community’s wells. Technical measures like strict setback requirements, size restrictions, and heavy zoning regulations are being considered by neighboring counties to act as a shield against potential contamination. Locals are rightly skeptical that a developer’s appetite for water won’t eventually leave their own taps dry or their primary water source tainted by industrial cooling processes.
Resistance to tech infrastructure is growing across the Midwest, with some towns now requiring voter approval for tax incentives. Why is this industrial expansion increasingly viewed as a threat to the Driftless area’s landscape, and how are neighboring regions coordinating their regulatory approaches to manage these incursions?
The Driftless area is a unique geographical gem, and its temperate climate and lack of traditional land regulations make it a prime target for developers, yet those same qualities are what residents are now fighting tooth and nail to protect. There is a growing sense that these facilities are “power-hungry” intruders that offer very little—perhaps only 50 permanent jobs—in exchange for a permanent scar on the rolling bluffs and river vistas. We are seeing a ripple effect of resistance; as one town passes a ban, neighboring regions like Clayton County, Iowa, take notice and begin drafting their own zoning and size restrictions. This regional coordination is a defense mechanism against companies that look for the “lowest-hanging fruit” or the path of least resistance. By standardizing these hurdles across state lines, rural communities are creating a united front that tells big tech their landscape is not for sale at any price.
When a community chooses to protect 500 acres of pastoral land over 50 new jobs, it signals a shift in local priorities. Could you walk us through the long-term economic trade-offs of this decision and explain how developers might need to alter their outreach to succeed in rural environments?
Choosing to walk away from a $1 billion investment is a profound statement that “economic growth” is no longer a one-size-fits-all metric for success in rural America. For the people of Cassville, the trade-off involves sacrificing the immediate boost of $5.5 million in tax revenue to preserve the long-term integrity of their environment, which they believe sustains their property values and quality of life far more than 50 tech jobs ever could. Developers have historically relied on the promise of a tax windfall to clear the way, but they are finding that this approach fails when it lacks an emotional or cultural connection to the land. To succeed in the future, outreach must move away from the “chicken and ham” restaurant meetings and anonymous scouting toward genuine community partnership. They need to demonstrate an actual benefit to local infrastructure—perhaps by funding schools or public works—rather than just asking to plug into the grid and be left alone.
What is your forecast for data center development in rural America?
I anticipate a significant cooling period where developers will find it increasingly difficult to enter rural markets without facing the kind of organized, unanimous opposition we saw in that Cassville garage. As more towns adopt the “voter approval” model for incentives and state legislatures crack down on the secrecy of NDAs, the era of the anonymous billion-dollar land grab is likely coming to an end. We will see a shift where developers are forced to look at brownfield sites or pre-industrialized zones because the “pastoral” path is now fraught with legal and political landmines. Ultimately, the power is shifting back to the local boards; if a developer cannot prove they won’t contaminate the aquifer or strain the grid to its breaking point, they will find themselves perpetually blocked by the very people they intended to call neighbors.
