There’s nothing wrong with modern voting technology.
The problem is the way that we administer elections,
precinct by precinct, district by district, state by state,
hoping all the counting errors are uniformly distributed,
so that we are summing up to be a nation, united.
The problem is that any technology can be corrupted —
even the most primitive of paper ballot processes —
but high tech permits massive single point failure —
a single intent to corrupt can shift all the votes,
in precincts, in districts, in states, in the nation.
In considerably more primitive political systems,
it’s the military that usually overthrows democracy —
but high tech permits a simple capitalist coup d’etat —
traces of which we have seen in the last decade —
and about which our nation has done nothing.
Conclusion: democracy is increasingly an illusion,
illusory as its promise has ever been,
and given the other uses of high tech,
by GoP operatives, and right-wing thugs,
to deprive people of access to the ballot,
by requiring, for instance, photo IDs.
Votes can be counted, flawlessly!
Also, you may be interested in Range Voting.
See also this example.
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
William Butler Yeats