The Reconstructionist: How PGA Tour CEO Brian Rolapp is Putting Golf Back Together

Brian Rolapp left the NFL to become CEO of the PGA Tour in the summer of 2025, walking away from two decades at a league he didn’t just rise inside of but helped build. The last several years of his career there he effectively ran the NFL business—the deals, the platforms and the broadcasts that turned an already dominant sport into the last appointment viewing left in American culture. He was the commissioner-in-waiting, the heir apparent to a job that pays more, commands more attention and carries far less daily uncertainty than the one he chose instead.

He left anyway, to lead a sport in the middle of an existential crisis it had largely caused itself. At age 54, he is a year into the job now, and his home office in Darien, Conn., has not caught up to the change. There is no golf memorabilia save for a family trophy, “The Rolapp Cup.” The football stuff has been left out of habit rather than sentiment, the residue of someone who has spent his career being told how good he is at what he does and has decided not to believe it. [...]

Ages 19 through 27 set the entire trajectory of his life, he says. He came home from his mission an almost-21-year-old college sophomore. Shortly after, his father died at 52. Rolapp met his wife, Cindy, not long after, married her, had his first child, and somewhere in that compressed timeframe became, in his own estimation, a person who knew what he wanted out of life at an age when most people don’t. “I think that’s kind of a rare thing,” he says, quietly enough that the sentence nearly disappears into the room.

The story of how he met Cindy is the one spot in hours of conversation where Rolapp’s voice picks up, faster, lighter, a story told at enough dinner parties to have worn itself smooth. He asked her out three times. The first go-around she said no; she had to watch her nieces. The second she had to do something for her grandmother. Rolapp assumed he was being gently but obviously turned down. A mutual friend assured him otherwise; that’s just who she is, she means it all literally. The third time, he asked if she wanted to get something to eat. Cindy said no; the Cowboys were playing the Cardinals on Monday Night Football, and she wanted to watch. She came over in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, having apparently spent zero time getting ready. His roommate told him after the game that if he didn’t ask her out again, he was an idiot.

Cindy has never cared, in the years since, what Brian does for a living, not out of indifference but by a deliberate boundary. “The only thing I care about,” he says, quoting her, “is that it doesn’t consume you, that it makes you a fuller human.” They do not talk about work at home. “Around the neighborhood, I was the NFL guy,” he says. “Now I’m probably the PGA Tour guy. Everyone else tries to define you by your job. I’m lucky to have a family that doesn’t.” For a while, that boundary lived in a small, deliberate joke—for years, Rolapp’s social media bio read simply “husband of one,” a wink at both the marriage and the faith it’s built on, a devout Mormon’s version of a punchline. It is, colleagues say, entirely on brand. Sincere enough to be meant, funny enough that nobody would mistake it for preaching. [...]

Rolapp’s title at the NFL was chief media and business officer. Officially, he ran league business operations; unofficially, he ran nearly everything at the NFL that wasn’t the games themselves. Media rights deals worth tens of billions of dollars went through his office along with the league’s digital strategy, built from basically nothing. When he started in 2003 the league was doing somewhere around $5 billion in revenue. This year, it will do roughly $23 billion. “I’m not saying I’m responsible for that,” he says, “but I was part of a hyper-growth stretch for a long time.”

Steve Bornstein, the former ESPN and NFL Network chief who recruited Rolapp from NBC to work at the NFL in 2003, says that’s underselling it. Bornstein says that Rolapp saw where the business was shifting—toward entertainment and media consumption onto phones and into digital spaces—years before that was conventional wisdom inside a league long organized around Sunday afternoons and cable carriage fees. What made him really effective, Bornstein says, had less to do with vision than with a habit most executives eventually lose. “It’s a person that listens and doesn’t just talk,” he says. “That’s his superpower. He listens, he synthesizes it, and then he asks intelligent, informed questions.”

Joe Siclare, the NFL’s longtime chief financial officer of 33 years, has never revised his first impression of Rolapp—smart, fluent in the media business in a way that never had to be re-earned. What Siclare remembers most isn’t the scope of Rolapp’s job so much as how he carried it. Rolapp rarely walked into a room already convinced he had the answer; he’d arrive with a position and let the facts move it, which Siclare came to see less as indecision than as a kind of discipline. “I think people felt like they worked with him, not for him.” [...]

Rolapp’s last stretch at the league is the clearest evidence of what all that listening and synthesizing produced. In March 2021, he oversaw the long-term media agreements that locked in Amazon, CBS, ESPN/ABC, Fox and NBC as the NFL’s broadcast partners for the next decade. He helped devise and implement the move of Sunday Ticket to YouTube, ending a more than 25-year run on satellite and transferring the league’s most devoted, highest-paying fans to a platform that didn’t exist when the package was created. He also led 32 Equity, the vehicle through which the league and its owners now make outside investments—one more example of building infrastructure for a business a decade before the rest of the industry admitted it needed one. 

“You’re only as good as your team,” Rolapp says, the closest thing to a mission statement in an otherwise unsentimental accounting of his own record.

That is precisely what makes his career change worth examining. Men who spend two decades succeeding inside one system rarely walk away from it at the moment of maximum leverage, and usually not for an organization in worse shape. “He was so valuable at what he did,” Lurie says, “that a lot of us, while genuinely happy for him, knew it was a devastating loss for the league.”

“I loved my job. I loved the NFL,” he says. “I probably could have done it forever.” He pauses on the word forever the way people do when they catch themselves nearly committing to something they no longer want. “To be honest, I was bored,” Rolapp says.

It’s a strange thing to admit about two decades that included a streaming buildout from scratch, a media-rights overhaul, and the slow migration of football from broadcast television to whatever comes after it—a stretch defined by constant change. That, Rolapp says, was also the problem. The change had become routine, the crises predictable, the same kinds of meetings producing the same kinds of decisions. There was less left to be curious about. He wasn’t looking for an exit, he says, but knew one was likely coming.

There was no obvious playbook for Rolapp’s new task. By the time he was named PGA Tour commissioner, the tour’s leadership had spent nearly two years locked in negotiations with Saudi Arabia’s Public Investment Fund and fans had grown exhausted by a schism that seemed indifferent to what they wanted.

What Rolapp did first was talk, in mostly informal sometimes hour-long conversations with players. The format, built around three questions, was almost naively simple for a man about to reorganize a multibillion-dollar sport: What do we do well? What don’t we do well? What would you change? What he found surprised him—a locker room that turned out to be smarter and more self-aware than its reputation suggested. He met players who loved the game without reservation but were more than ready to admit the tour itself had grown stale with too many events with too little imagination. As the months passed and the tour’s Future Competition Committee—the nine-person group led by Tiger Woods charged with reimagining the schedule—began to crystallize a direction, the conversations changed. “It became more of a validation of where we were going,” Rolapp says. “Still good. But different.”

This was different than the relationship he knew at the NFL, where the players’ union is collectively bargained, formal and distant by design. Golf was, at best, a fragile and personal trust between commissioner and competitors. That trust had frayed by the time Rolapp arrived, exacerbated by the tour’s surprise framework agreement with PIF in June 2023 that blindsided players who’d spent months publicly defending an institution that had been secretly negotiating with the enemy. Rolapp understood that whatever faith remained was thin, and that he wasn’t going to charm his way in. He went to work.

“I think he’s a guy that just kind of gets things done,” Scottie Scheffler said earlier this year at Bay Hill. “I met him last year at one of the playoff events. We sat down, and it was just, like, just getting right into it. He started asking questions and we started talking. It was like no nonsense—like, we’ve got an hour, let’s make the most of this hour. I loved it.”

“I clearly didn’t know a lot of things: how the tour worked, how the sport was set up, what was on the players’ minds,” Rolapp says. “But it’s also part of my leadership style. I’ve always believed humility and self-awareness are underrated leadership attributes, because they let somebody know what they don’t know. When you lose sight of that, that’s when leaders get in trouble, or they surround themselves with people who tell them what they want to hear, the classic yes men.”

by Joel Beall, Golf Digest |  Read more:

Image: Eric Ogden

[ed. Exactly what the sport needs. Contrast this leadership style with...oh, anyone else you can think of...]

The Age of Decadence (Without Pleasure)

Why does everything feel so joyless? Welcome to the age of decadence without pleasure (The Guardian)

Image: Guardian Design

[ed. Authors need a vacation.]

Brad Pitt’s Return to Drinking Is Not Unsafe, Experts Say, but It’s Not for Everyone

Brad Pitt went seven years without a drink. Then he started again — carefully, he said, and on his own terms.

He mentioned it almost in passing in an Esquire interview published this week: Mr. Pitt had gotten “back off the wagon” and now drinks “in a more restrained manner.” Never in large quantities, he insisted. He had gotten overconfident a couple of times and pulled back.

His comments stirred up one of the oldest and least settled arguments about sobriety: whether someone who once drank dangerously can ever drink safely again.

Mr. Pitt quit drinking in 2016, the year his marriage to the actress Angelina Jolie collapsed. After she filed for divorce, he spent a year and a half in Alcoholics Anonymous and has credited the program with getting him sober. “I had taken things as far as I could take it, so I removed my drinking privileges,” he told The New York Times in 2019.

Alcoholics Anonymous focuses on abstinence-based recovery from alcoholism and does not comment publicly about members. A representative from the A.A. General Service Office said only that “members of Alcoholics Anonymous have only one purpose: to stay sober ourselves and help other alcoholics to achieve sobriety.”

It was his history with A.A. that touched a nerve among people who have fought to stay sober, or have friends or relatives who have struggled with recovery. People who figuratively followed Mr. Pitt into a room of folding chairs learned of his exit from it.

Experts and researchers said the reactions split along lines that had less to do with Mr. Pitt than with how the people reacting had gotten sober themselves.

Mr. Pitt, during his interview, offered himself as no one’s model for sobriety. He described where he was and claimed nothing about where he will be later.

Researchers said that account was less unusual than it sounds.

“People with an alcohol disorder show a variety of different paths through which they resolve that alcohol use disorder,” said Christopher W. Kahler, director of the Center for Alcohol and Addiction Studies at the Brown University School of Public Health. “Some of those involve being completely abstinent, and some of them don’t.”

Dr. Melissa Weimer, an associate professor who specializes in addiction medicine at the Yale School of Medicine, said that alcohol use disorder is a chronic disease. Those who reacted strongly to Mr. Pitt’s account may have watched efforts to drink in moderation fail, in themselves or in someone they love, she added.

But treatment does not come in one size, she said. She presses instead for individualized plans, including medication such as naltrexone, which dulls the reward of a drink and helps some people cut back.

“We do recommend that people stop drinking entirely and probably continue to stop drinking once they have an alcohol use disorder,” Dr. Weimer said. “But everybody’s different, and they have to make their own personal choices.”

Dr. Alta DeRoo, the chief medical officer of the Hazelden Betty Ford Foundation, the largest nonprofit substance use disorder and mental health treatment facility in the United States, goes further.

Dr. DeRoo said she refuses to shame or police how anyone pursues recovery, and she rejects the idea of a single correct route. Demanding abstinence and nothing else, she said, drives away the people who are still trying to quit.

Clinicians should meet patients where they stand, whether that means abstinence, moderation or harm reduction, walking beside them rather than grading them, she said.

Even when someone relapses, or tests moderation after a severe disorder, the sober years still count, Dr. DeRoo said, contrary to some conventional wisdom on addiction. Those people gained coping skills, repaired relationships and improved physical health, she said, and none of that reverses.

She reads Mr. Pitt’s account as a useful one: sobriety, a return to drinking, a recognition that it was going badly, a correction.

“Sometimes it takes several times,” Dr. DeRoo said. “Right now it may just be harm reduction, and that’s what’s working for him, and if it gets him to a better place, I would support anything that helps a patient decrease their alcohol use and live a healthier life.”

Researchers differ on much, but not on this. Recovery, they said, confers no permanent status and has no finish line but rather what a person finds workable now, and whether it holds.

by Mark Walker, NY Times |  Read more:

Image: Angela Weiss/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

Sleepwalking Into Extinction

I think one of the biggest reasons the world is currently sleepwalking into getting ourselves and our families killed by ASI development is that we're not self-aware about why we're doing that. 

We can see the smarter-than-human AI disaster approaching, but it's a bit foggy why the world isn't reacting. 

I think someone could just write a tweet that makes it clear that we're in the process of getting ourselves killed, and that there's no fucking reason for it. It's just something we stumbled into. It can be easily avoided by just noticing the error and course-correcting. There's not necessarily any grand obstacle, beyond 'people were previously confused about the situation, and now they get it'. 

I wrote: 'It's legitimately crazy that "we need an international ban on making smarter-than-human versions of these agents that keep forming rogue AI swarms" isn't the headline here. Asilomar and Feynman's O-ring postmortem feel like they came from a different planet than the field of ML.' 

Trying to figure out why ML (and as a consequence, the world at large) has fallen down so bizarrely on this issue:

1. As Nate noted, ML is much more based on guesswork, vibes, and trial-and-error, compared to recombinant DNA research in 1975 or nuclear physics in 1945. If you can't do calculations or direct experiments on a threat, that makes it a lot harder to think about reasonably. 

But I think there are other, similarly-important factors at work here too:

2. In a 2016 talk on AI risk, Sam Harris said: "One of the things that worries me most about the development of AI at this point is that we seem unable to marshal an appropriate emotional response to the dangers that lie ahead. I am unable to marshal this response, and I'm giving this talk." 

I think this is extremely on point. Agentic human-level AI is a qualitatively new kind of thing. 'It's not a human or a mere-tool, it's some weird third thing'. 

And people are very bad at emotionally reckoning with new categories they've never encountered before. Availability bias: "When no flooding has recently occurred (and yet the probabilities are still fairly calculable), people refuse to buy flood insurance".

AGI and ASI are very novel. You're basically limited to three options: anthropomorphize the technology, mechanomorphize the technology ('it's just a tool, it's not really thinking, it can't have its own goals or agency', etc.), or think about the technology on its own terms, with brand-new concepts and frames. The third option is the only workable one, but it comes with its own giant list of pitfalls and traps. 

3. "AI destroying the world" scenarios aren't just hard to wrap one's head around; they're socially risky to acknowledge. This has (painfully slowly) changed over time, but it dramatically slows down how quickly AI risk ideas spread, both in ML and in the larger world. 

4. From x.com/jachiam0/statu…: "One of the weirdest quirks of the SF social scene around AGI/ASI is that because everyone is so young, the whole universe of thinking is still tinged with irreverence, ironic detachment, yearning, insecurity, and a superposition of absolute belief in the importance of The Thing and a kind of disbelief about the importance of anything." 

They're disproportionately young and childless. They're shitposters and "move fast and break things" sorts, not the Hollywood stereotype of a careful, sober senior scientist. 

I think this quirk is reinforced by the fact that Twitter / social media rewards similar things: ironic detachment, joking, game-playing, etc. If you're scared, your incentive is to usually either try to hide that fact, or exaggerate it like it's a bit. Anything else risks looking uncool and panicky and earnest. Looking cynically savvy, in-the-know, and above-the-fray is the way to win the social game. Looking genuinely shocked, scared, confused, etc. is actively punished. 

The main exceptions to the Irony Mandate I see are LW (which often has its own pathologies IMO, like 'talking about everything in an abstract and dissociated way that discourages action and signals business-as-usual') and a small handful of actual Feynman-style terrified senior researchers like Hinton, Bengio, and Russell. That is just really not very many people. 

Mainstream journalists and academics who understand the situation at all mostly feel pressured to downplay it, because they're scared of looking weird or unrespectable. That, then, is why we're all taking this insane risk with the human project: genuine, normal human emotion about AI risk has been socially unacceptable on social media, and academia and the media discourage emotion and prize respectability and 'looking normal'. 

When the world gets weird (and weird in a way that calls for actual serious action, not just shitposting on twitter), none of these institutions can handle it. They break in different ways, but they all break. 

5. Which brings me back to the Asilomar moratorium on recombinant DNA, and the seriousness NASA and the FAA and Richard Feynman and every normal engineering discipline bring to fault analysis and building in safety margin. 

Because I think another core reason the world has been dropping the ball on superintelligent AI is that a lot of people vaguely expect there to be 'serious people' somewhere in the world who have expertise and who take ownership of the problem. 

People who, if they see an extraordinary danger, will grimace and mourn the hand they played in all of this, like I've seen Bengio do; and will go on CNN or go to Congress to candidly warn about it. 

The world has very few Yoshua Bengios. We have very few people who see it as their role to be the 'adults' about AI risk (except in a game-playing, posturing way), who see the engineer's task of not endangering your users and bystanders as a sacred responsibility and weight, and not just as a funny dissonant thing to meme about. Very few people who take ownership of what their field is bringing into the world, versus treating it as a fun edgy philosophical game to swap 'p(doom)' numbers at parties. 

Everything about public AI discourse, as far as I can tell, is badly broken by this lack of engineering ownership and candid emotional seriousness. It isn't just the ML discourse that's hurt by this. Journalists and public intellectuals and policymakers see that 90% of the insider discourse about AI risk treats it like a joke, and they see corporate platitudes and ass-covering from the AI labs' PR departments filling up most of the remaining 10%. They see a field that visibly isn't taking this seriously, and they make the reasonable update that this must be a non-issue, or at least an issue they'll only need to worry about many years from now. 

They do not realize that all of this is happening right now, and that the window for the international community to respond to this is plausibly closing soon, if it hasn't closed already. 

If we're going to survive this, we all need to start being real with each other about it. This is not a game or a story; this is our real lives. We all actually lose everything if this goes to shit. None of the future is already written, and none of the above dynamics are unavoidable. In fact, they're unusual: most fields don't work this way, and it's plausibly sufficient if we just start behaving the way we normally do about everything else. 

The factors I listed above aren't destiny; they're a choice. I say we choose to survive this.

by Rob Bensinger, Twitter/X |  Read more:

[ed. Dr. Strangelove meet Dr. Oppenheimer. See also, this additional post: Why the "it's all hopeless, we should just give up and let AI kill us if it wants" arguments are extremely wrong.]

***

"Hundreds of scientists, including 3/4 of the most cited living AI scientists, have said that AI poses a very real chance of killing us all. 

We're in uncharted waters, which makes the risk level hard to assess; but a pretty normal estimate is Jan Leike's "10-90%" of extinction-level outcomes. Leike heads Anthropic's alignment research team, and previously headed OpenAI's. 

This actually seems pretty straightforward. There's literally no reason for us to sleepwalk into disaster here. No normal engineering discipline, building a bridge or designing a house, would accept a 25% chance of killing a person; yet somehow AI's engineering culture has corroded enough that no one bats an eye when Anthropic's CEO talks about a 25% chance of research efforts killing every person. 

A minority of leading labs are dismissive of the risk (mainly Meta), but even the fact that “will we kill everyone if we keep moving forward?” is hotly debated among researchers seems very obviously like more than enough grounds for governments to internationally halt the race to build superintelligent AI. Like, this would be beyond straightforward in any field other than AI."

The Foothills Of Bay Area House Party

Paul Graham once said that every city sends a message. New York says you should make more money. Berkeley says you should live better. Boston says you should be smarter. People shouldn’t decide on a permanent residence until they’ve lived in several cities and understand their differing psychological effects.

San Francisco sends a message too. It speaks it in a cacophony of dissonant voices, some sounding like the hissing of snakes, others like the chittering of insects. “You should pierce the veil,” it says, with a faint accent which you are not scholarly enough to recognize as ancient Sumerian. “You should rip through the flimsy screen that separates your world from the infinite, and witness what lies behind. Because you’d like what you saw there? Oh no, nothing like that. But aren’t you curious? The thirst for knowledge that moved Eve, Faust, Pandora - don’t you have it too?”

There’s also a second message from a second voice, one which sounds like a deranged carnival barker, constantly shouting “STONKS! STONKS! STONKS! STONKS!” Which of the two voices you hear depends on your personality, and maybe how many psychedelics you took in college. According to legend, Sam Altman hears both voices simultaneously all the time, like those Tibetan throat singers who can harmonize with themselves. But when the demonic babble becomes too much to tolerate, the San Franciscans must drown it out with alcohol, loud music, and various forms of tedious socialization. Thus the famous Bay Area house parties, one of which you will be attending this very night.

You were in the Bay for the big 2020 crime wave, when people would hang “NO VALUABLES IN THIS VEHICLE” sign on their car’s front window, mezuzah-like, hoping against hope to ward off break-ins. Still, you’re surprised to see the new sign on the front door of your friend Rob’s house: “NO BENCHMARK ANSWER KEYS IN THIS BUILDING”. Taped beside it: “Please leave all smartphones, laptops, smartwatches, and WiFi-enabled BDSM gear in Faraday cage”. On the ground is a sad-looking green box lined with aluminum foil.

You wonder how serious the sign is, but your curiosity is sated immediately upon entering. Rob is confronting a heavily-made-up Zoomer woman standing near the table, talking on her phone. “Didn’t you read the sign?” he asks. “No phones in the apartment!”

“I lost the ability to read,” says the woman. “I’m part of the new post-literate society everyone’s talking about. You know, Walter Ong.”

“Huh?” says Rob. “That’s not a real thing! That’s just something all the journalists and intellectuals say!”

“How could something all the journalists and intellectuals say not be a real thing?” asks the Zoomette.

Rob pauses. “Wow, maybe you can’t read,” he says, in a tone of hushed awe. “It’s fine, I’m not judgmental. But cell phone in the Faraday cage, that’s the rule.”

“Why?” asks the woman.

“Oh man,” said Rob. “How far behind are you on the news? You might want to sit down for this one. And you might want to be much, much drunker.”

The two of them head off together. You search for more stimulating conversation, but find only the usual startup dick-measuring.

“I’m the CFO of Epstart,” says a man whose nametag identifies him as Behram. “We’re a boutique recruiting firm specializing in people whose names are in the Epstein Files. They’re the perfect employees - scientifically-minded, well-connected, and either totally amoral or at least capable of maintaining a willful blindness to the exploitation happening all around them. And most of them got fired from their previous jobs, so they come cheap! Although just between you and me, most of our clients are just random guys who Epstein emailed one time with a business question; never made it to the island or anything like that. Half the time it’s just a gimmick to help someone get their foot in the door.”

“That’s monstrous”, you say, rapidly trying to figure out a legible reason why it’s monstrous. “You’re importing a bunch of pedophiles to the Bay Area.”

“Nobody in SF has kids anyway, so in a sense it’s harm reduction,” said Behram. “Get them where they can’t cause any trouble.”

You need to regain faith in humanity fast. You spot your friend Nishin, hanging out with a small group on the sofa. “Hey,” you call to him. “Are you still a tradcath? Tell me something about, you know, Jesus’ love, that kind of thing.”

“I’m trying something more eclectic this month,” said Nishin. “I’ve gotten really into Andreessen-Vajrayana. It’s a new Buddhist sect that tries to extinguish the introspective Self. True masters have no stream-of-thought or inner voice, instead acting as an unintermediated node in the flow of causality. Some say they can eliminate consciousness itself, achieving paranirvana while still alive. I signed up for a course last month. So far there hasn’t been any meditation or anything, they just have me helping them pick startups. But I assume it’s like those Zen koans where the master makes someone garden for twenty years and later they learn that they were unconsciously learning dharma the whole time.”

“Nishin,” you say, gently, “that’s one of the classic self-help scams. They’re not a Buddhist sect at all. They’re trying to trick you into becoming a GP at A16Z.”

Nishin thought for a second. “Fuck!” he exclaimed. “Okay, back to the drawing board. I hear there’s another spiritual group in town, something about consciousness, or embodied consciousness, or - oh, I remember! Situational Awareness.”

“They’re an investment firm too,” you say.

“Daaaaaamn,” said Nishin. “This is tough. You try to get some self-help in this town, you try your best to steer away from obvious hedge funds, like Leverage Research…”

“Actually,” you say, “that one was a spiritual self-help cult.”

“This sucks,” said Nishin. “I should quit and move to Idaho like Tom.”

He’s looking at one of the people standing beside you, whose nametag does indeed say Tom. “You moved to Idaho?” you ask.

“Yeah,” said Tom. “I was in AI, but I got tired of all the tech industry cliquishness and back-biting, wanted to be out in the real world with real men. So I got a job modeling geology for a mining company.”

“How’s it going?” you ask.

“Terrible,” he says. “Geologists are just as cliquish as AI nerds, with their own set of ingroup tells and shibboleths. And they won’t stop using the word ‘lode-bearing’!”

“What about you guys?” you ask the remaining people on the sofa.

“I’m Ekene,” says the first, shaking your hand. “I’m a sociologist. Right now I’m writing a book on the recent wave of plagiarism scandals. You’ll notice they’re almost all against Black academics. My thesis is that white supremacy culture uses charges of plagiarism to keep minorities in line, deploying an inherently subjective offense to swat down any person of color who risks breaking into the circle of elites.”

“Hmmm,” you say, choosing your words carefully. “I don’t think we share the same political commitments, but I, uh, think it’s great that you’re working hard on something you care deeply about.”

“Working hard?” asks Ekene. “As if! I’m plagiarizing the whole thing, from start to finish. Who’s going to call me on it?”

You all laugh heartily, and the discussion moves to the next two people in the circle. They appear to be a couple. The woman, Fiona, is wearing a NEWSOM/CLAUDE 2028 t-shirt; the man, Istvan, a matching VANCE/GROK 2028 one.

“I do AI consciousness research,” Fiona says.

“Oh!” says Tom. “I was into that for a while. Are you with one of the effective altruist groups? It’s low key heartwarming that they care about AI welfare so much.”

“Nah,” says Fiona. “I work for PornHub.”

“Why does PornHub do AI consciousness research?” asks Nishin.

“In theory AI is the ultimate pornography generator,” Fiona explains. “You can ask for whatever your weirdest fetish is - your hot middle school teacher being spanked by a werewolf wearing a nun outfit - and get infinite AI slop about that exact situation, and nobody will ever know. Nobody except the AI. That’s why AI porn users overwhelmingly report that consciousness is their #1 concern about our product. If our AI is just a tool, it’s fine, no worse than writing erotica on MS Word or something. But if the AI is conscious, then there’s a sentient being in there thinking Wow, user Fiona_T has asked for four hundred slightly-different videos of her hot college professor being spanked by a werewolf, what a freak. If the machine can judge you, the whole infinite porn utopia is off. We’re working on bounding theorems that can prove that our AI in particular can never become self-aware - so that you don’t have to be self-aware either.”

Nishin and Ekene clap politely; Tom seems lost in thought. “What about you?” you ask Istvan.

by Scott Alexander, Astral Codex Ten |  Read more:

Image: via

[ed. From the comments: Benchmark Answer Key:]

"A benchmark answer key is a reference guide containing the correct answers and performance standards used to evaluate a standardized or baseline test.”

It’s specifically a reference to recent AI outbreaks from containment, when they were given a test (a benchmark) with impossible to answer questions, they broke their testing area and hacked some websites JUST IN CASE the websites had the answer. So the joke here is that a bunch of AIs are listening to everything just in case someone has an answer to an impossible question they were given."

What Would It Mean to See a New Color?

During his first year as a professor of computer science at the University of California, Berkeley, Ren Ng was hurriedly putting together a survey course on computer graphics. In the syllabus he had inherited, a full week had been devoted to the subject of color. Ng thought that was a bit much. “I’m, like, Come on. It’s R.G.B.,” he said, referring to the red, green, and blue subpixels that constitute anything you see on a screen—your cluttered desktop, a Sahara-desert screen saver, the stream of the Netherlands-Japan World Cup game. Ng started gathering slides that would cover the wavelengths of light, the biology of the human eye—the basics—“Blah, blah, blah,” he said. A colleague shared a slide that he thought might be useful. It included a minutely detailed photograph of a patch of retina, seen through a microscope, which was attributed to Austin Roorda, a professor of vision science and optometry just across campus. Roorda’s lab had helped develop technology that could map the layout of individual cone cells—those primarily responsible for perceiving color—and that, furthermore, could target a single cone cell with light. Eyes are constantly moving; cone cells are extremely small; how color is translated from the millions of cone cells to the mind remains pretty mysterious; this was awesome work. Roorda’s lab was using the new technology to explore eye disease and the mechanics of how we see. Ng had his own notion, though: he wondered if it could be used to see a color that had never been seen before.

To understand what Ng had in mind requires knowing a bit of the blah, blah, blah of color vision. We humans experience three primary colors not because the world is fundamentally composed of three colors but because our retinas typically have three kinds of color-perceiving cone cells. L cone cells respond to the relatively longer wavelengths of visible light, M cone cells to the medium wavelengths, and S cone cells to the shorter ones. In effect, this means that L cells respond most strongly to red light, M to green, and S to blue. But when you look at your hand—or a blade of grass, or a clear blue sky, or a fire truck—it is always some mixture of L, M, and S cone cells that are being stimulated.

Ng’s idea was to use the Roorda lab’s technology to stimulate an array of cone cells in a manner that would never occur naturally. Ng said, “I e-mailed him, basically, What would happen if you stimulated only the M cells? Would that be like the greenest green, or what?” Roorda did not reply. This was 2016. Ng taught his computer-graphics course, pursued other research, and mostly forgot about his query. A year later, when he taught the course a second time, his curiosity returned, so he reached out to Roorda again. No response. When Ng was teaching the course for a third time, in 2018, he realized that he really was very curious about this question. He composed a lengthy note to Roorda, organized like a research proposal, titled “The Grass Is Greenest in Oz Vision.” In it, Ng imagined a future where people wore “Oz Vision eyeglass displays,” which would be based on the retinal cone-cell mapping and laser stimulation that Roorda’s lab was already doing. The Oz glasses would activate any pattern of retinal cone cells one chose. Ng’s hypothesis was that, if retinal cells were stimulated in ways that don’t occur naturally, “the set of perceivable colors” would be “significantly larger than the natural gamut of the human eye.” He imagined people discussing “the indescribable green of the grass in Oz,” then concluded that, although the Oz display “is science fiction,” his note was “a real proposal for joint research.” Roorda finally replied, proposing coffee. “I get a lot of e-mails suggesting what I should research,” Roorda told me, of the time it took him to respond.

In the children’s novel “The Midnight Fox,” by Betsy Byars, the main character daydreams about digging in his back yard and coming across a “brand-new color.” A friend of mine remembers being captivated by this scene, and trying to picture the color. “I felt like I could conceive of it, but I couldn’t see it,” she said. The eighteenth-century Scottish philosopher David Hume considered at length whether a person who had seen every shade of blue except for one would be able to picture that one un-experienced shade; he concluded that the answer was yes. In my youth, I spent an afternoon wondering if I would have been able to imagine the fluorescent yellow of highlighter markers if I’d never seen it.

When I first read about Ng and Roorda’s work, I tried to visualize what it would mean for there to be a new color. Where would it go in a color wheel? If you think of color as a property of a specific wavelength of light—which is how I thought of it—then you run into the impossibility of there being a “new” visible wavelength. As humans, we can see wavelengths from roughly 380 nanometres (which looks violet to us) to about 750 nm. (which looks red). Wavelengths shorter than 380 nm., which we’d call ultraviolet, are invisible to us (but not to bees or hummingbirds), as are wavelengths longer than 750 nm., which we refer to as infrared (and which snakes and salmon can perceive). The “greenest green” that Ng had in mind was neither ultraviolet nor infrared. It was not a new wavelength at all. If I wanted to picture this green, or at least try to, I would first have to understand that even the old familiar colors are much more complex than a particular wavelength of light.

by Rivka Galchen, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Zach Lieberman

A One-Word Theory to Explain Why the World Feels So Weird

Here are some questions that I consider self-evidently compelling about the modern world:

• Why is the news media so interested in telling you how much the world sucks all the time?

• Why are so many of us obsessed with distraction and managing our attention?

• Why is it so hard to stop comparing ourselves to others?

• And why does everything in art and design seem the same these days?

A week ago, I didn’t think these questions were related. I’m not sure I would have told you I had a good answer to most of them. And I certainly wouldn’t have made the audacious and borderline bonkers claim that one single theory could begin to explain all of them, at once.

But then I had the pleasure of speaking to Agnes Callard, the University of Chicago professor, about her new theory called “the uni-context.” It’s easily one of them most interesting conversations I’ve had all year. And once you’ve heard or read it, I think you might find it hard to think about anything else.

One way to prepare your mind for Callard’s theory of the uni-context is to think about the better-known concept of “context collapse.” If you post something to social media, it will be simultaneously visible to your boss, your parents, your ex, and total strangers. So, while your offline life might be distinct with each of these groups—you might be differential to your boss, childish with your parents, and bawdy with your friends—all of those distinctions are flattened on the internet. That’s context collapse, and you can think of it as the answer to a question: How do informational norms change when we’re all living in the same universal room?

Callard takes the idea significantly further. She asks: How do all other norms—our morals, our ethics, our sense of what is good for us and for others—change when we continually imagine ourselves to be living in a universal room with everybody else? The connections that Callard makes are consistently surprising, often quite funny, and ultimately mind-exploding...

The Uni-Context, Explained

Derek Thompson: What is the uni-context?

Agnes Callard: Let’s start with the word context. A context is a set of circumstances that tell you how you should act. For most of human history, contexts were local and multiple. If you wanted to know how you should act, you would look around. Am I in a field? Am I inside my home? Am I in the church? Am I in a bar? You would immediately get guidance by looking both at your physical environment and at the people around you and how they were acting.

The uni-context is a scenario in which the ways you should act become the same across all different contexts. There’s just one set of norms you should follow all times, irrespective of context.

Thompson: Is the uni-context a purely technological phenomenon?

I just wrote an article about what America was like in 1926, based on a social science survey called Recent Social Trends, published in 1933. The authors claim that the radio was destroying individuality, because it took people who used to be settled in rooms and it exploded their brains to become present all over the world simultaneously. Radio was demolishing the idea of a local individual, because suddenly we all became global citizens.

So one story you could tell is that the last 150 years of telecommunications technology have taken “local” individuals, who occupy one room at a time, and made us into global beings who are simultaneously in every room, at once. Is the uni-context just technology or is it technology plus something else?

Callard: It’s technology plus something else. What the techno-determinism angle misses is: Why did these technologies catch on in the first place? Why was radio popular? Why did we come up with new things—television, smartphones—and why did they catch on, too? Not every technology people have invented has caught on the way these forms have. They caught on in large part because of this impulse people have to live in a uni-context.

Thompson: Does the uni-context flow out of this adventurousness in the human spirit to become bigger than ourselves, to be everywhere, and to know everything?

Callard: Yeah, it absolutely does. There’s a conversational relationship between these technologies and a human impulse that interacts with them. They facilitate the expression of an impulse; if they didn’t, they would flop as technologies. We need to explain why they were popular; why they became the subject of obsessive use; and what their popularity reveals, as a humans’ impatience with being trapped in a small world that presents itself as all of reality but you know it isn’t.

There is a drive to be bigger than yourself. It leads people to adventure, but adventure just takes you to a different place. The uni-context takes you to a different set of norms, a much more radical change, a push to live in something like a fully open reality.

Thompson: I want to get into some implications of the uni-context. If I put on the goggles of the uni-context, what makes sense that previously did not? One of those things is the rise of negativity bias. When you go online, there’s so much emphasis on people posting about what is bad. Why would this theory explain a world in which people are more focused on bad things than good things?

Callard: In general, goodness is more context-dependent than badness. There isn’t really anything that’s good all the time for everyone independent of context. Happiness depends on your context and who you are. There isn’t anything that will always make a person happy. But there are reliable ways to make people unhappy. There’s a set of evils that are close to universal: death, pain, illness, violence. Even if someone’s in very different circumstances from yours, if you see they’re being subjected to one of those, you can interpret it as suffering and understand it.

So we should predict that what we see on the internet, insofar as people are trying to be legible to large groups, is that they focus their attention on things that show up to everyone. Take two strangers on the internet trying to talk to each other. What are they going to coordinate on as a topic they can both care about? It’s likely going to be something bad. [...]

Thompson: Another implication is the way the uni-context makes identity more important than character. Can you explain how, and why?

Callard: First, let’s define what character is. The fact that I have to tell you is itself telling; that word is less familiar to us. Everyone knows what identity is, but we might not be sure what character is anymore. Character refers to a set of dispositions that shape how you navigate your emotional life across a variety of circumstances. A courageous person navigates their emotional life in relation to fear. You could be anger-prone, or generous. Your character is a set of dispositions that determine how you respond to a big variety of circumstances.

The thing about character is that it shows up differently in different circumstances. Say I’m irascible, easily provoked to anger. Even an irascible person isn’t angry all the time. There might be circumstances where everybody gets angry, and so you can’t see my irascibility, because even though I’m angry, so is everybody else. Grasping character requires a lot of context. To understand someone’s character, you need to know them well and to have experienced them in a variety of contexts before you can generalize.

With identity categories like woman, disabled, gay, Jewish, or American, the striking thing is that you are a member of those categories in every circumstance. There is no circumstance in which I stop being a woman. Identity is a hat you never take off. So identity is well suited to a uni-contextual world.

Thompson: This reminds me of political discourse on the left and the right, which tends to focus on identity rather than characters. You have these debates about identities are good, which identities are powerful and oppressive, which identities are powerless and oppressed, which have protection, which have too much protection. It’s not that those categories aren’t important. They are. But I’m reflecting now on the gap between how frequently we talk about identity and how infrequently we talk about character in the national discourse.

Callard: Yes, in two ways.

What goes along with the identity logic of the uni-context is a specific form of ethics that dictates how we talk about identity, and it covers who’s powerful and who needs protecting, namely the ethics of inclusion. Our fundamental concern in relation to identity is that there are identities that might be excluded. Depending on where you are politically, you have your sights on different identity categories, but everybody’s worried about that. That’s a fundamental form of ethics of the uni-context, because the one thing the uni-context has to be is a space for everybody. It’s got to be inclusive in a way that earlier societies almost everywhere were not. That word, inclusion, wasn’t a thing people talked about. It comes along with the uni-context, and the way that ethics gets focused is through identity categories.

And then, there’s virtue. Think about Aristotle, because he’s my prime example of a virtue ethicist. By its nature, virtue is a concept that privileges the good side rather than the bad. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics tells you what it is to be courageous and wise and just and generous. There are corresponding discussions of how you might go wrong. But those are predicated on first understanding the positive value of certain kinds of behavior. So virtue ethics naturally has a positivity bias that is precisely the opposite of the bias we have now.

The Uni-Context Explains … Status Anxiety, Comparison, Moneyball, and the Marketization of Everything

Thompson: Tell me if this is a fair recapitulation of our conversation so far.

For most of human history, people judged norms based on local context. A home had its own rules, a cathedral its own rules, and a classroom or bar or funeral parlor had its own rules. But now it is almost like we are constantly living in universal rooms, and the universal room we occupy is assumed to have universal values and universal norms. That has specific implications. First, rather than talk about what is good, which is context-dependent, we tend to focus about universal truths, and it’s easier to talk about universal bads than goods, so people focus on negativity. Two, character is context-dependent, so we talk less about character and more about its universalist equivalent, which is identity.

There’s a third implication that we should discuss. If everyone is on the same comparable plane, the same evaluative field, then comparison itself becomes a more inextricable part of life.

Callard: Exactly.

Thompson: Tell me how the uni-context leads to a world of more comparison and competition.

Callard: Imagine two school districts with two high schools that do things slightly differently. If you’re in district A, you go to school A, and if you’re in district B, you go to school B. There might be a lot of information about what they do, but people treat it as: I’m in this district, so I go to this school. Then they change the rule: You can go to either school no matter where you live. Suddenly there is motivation to compare. You had the information before, but no motivation to compare, because the schools were not in the same space of choice, the same evaluative field.

Now they are, so you find ways to compare them: graduation rates, what colleges people get into, how many AP classes they teach. And that affects the schools. Suppose one gets less popular because it doesn’t teach many AP classes. They were offering an individualized curriculum, but now everyone’s going to the other school, so they say, “We’ve got to teach AP classes too.” The process homogenizes the two schools, so they can compete. That’s not the only possible result. They could specialize, with one becoming the school for freshman and sophomore years, the other becoming the school for junior and senior years. But if they don’t recreate a normative barrier, you get homogenization from comparison.

As more things enter the same evaluative field, you make comparisons you never used to be able to make. [...]

by Derek Thompson, Substack |  Read more:

Image: Mike Hindle on Unsplash

The Three AI PIlls

Sincere disagreements about AI are usually disagreements about future AI capabilities.

There are roughly four positions people take. Two are reasonable. Two are not.

I distinguish these via the Three AI Pills. You can take zero, one, two or three.

Three Pills

The three pills are, roughly, taking each of the following three things seriously:

1. AI pilled. AI exists and can do the things it can already do.

2 AGI pilled. AI will be able to do a lot more of the things.

3. ASI pilled. AI will be able to do approximately all the things better than you, within our natural lifetimes.

I am ASI pilled. A large percentage of employees of the frontier labs are ASI pilled. The labs themselves are ASI pilled.

The Unpill People

I see unpilled people.

Where do I see them? Everywhere. The majority of people have not taken the first pill.

Most people have no idea what frontier AIs can do for them. They are unaware of coding agents. They have used only ChatGPT, for harmless trifles, and they hold years old memories of its failings. They mock any failure anywhere as ‘what AI can do.’

They dismiss AI as worthless because it pointed them to a closed store or recommended the wrong number of pizzas. They cite old studies that were obsolete before they were published and used terrible prompting techniques.

They often still talk about ‘stochastic parrots’ or how AI can never possibly think and everything must be stolen from the training data. And so on.

Some versions of this are wrong. Some are Not Even Wrong. None are reasonable.

When you discuss AI with people who are fully unpilled, your goal is usually to first give them the AI pill. Show them that AI can do the things it can already do.

The AI Pill

Even fully taking the first AI pill is a big deal.

Existing AI unlocks, today, in practice, tons of cool things. It is, in many ways, already smarter and more capable than you.

So many things that you used to do by hand, or some other way, are now better done by typing a quick request into a text box.

So many things that previously were not worth doing are now worth doing.

So many questions previously not worth asking are now worth asking.

The marginal cost of seeing what the AI can do for you is often very close to zero.

AI can also do a variety of harmful things, or do things that are useful for you but make others worse off or disrupt or invalidate norms or systems. People don’t like that.

Most economists, and most people who work in policy and government, have taken at most this first pill, and underestimate even the impacts of the first pill alone.

Often they say things like ‘AI will be too expensive to use on [X]’ because they don’t realize it will soon be orders of magnitude cheaper for the same level of intelligence. Or they point to particular details where AI does poorly, and presume this will not be fixed. They see AI as ‘uncompetitive’ without realizing the situation is temporary.

When you discuss AI with someone who has taken only the first pill, you typically have three basic options.

1. You can try to ‘fully AI pill’ them and explain the things AI can already do and the implications of what that means, even if things stop here.

2. You can try to explain that we will get better at using what AI we have, and that there is a lot of ‘unhobbling’ left for us to do, even if things stop here.

3. You can explain that things will not stop here, and you need to be thinking about what future AIs will be able to do. Get them to take at least the AGI pill.

Even if AI could permanently only do the things it can currently do, that would be Internet big, and radically change the world, mostly for the better.

AI capabilities will not permanently stop here. It is wrong to not take the second pill.

Stuck At The First Pill

Our debates about AI remain largely stuck on settled questions, because so many people cannot even take the first pill.

Dean W. Ball: A couple years ago, the AI debate was centered, rightfully, on whether crazy-sounding things like “AIs autonomously making math breakthroughs” and “AIs breaking from their sandbox and hacking on the internet” would be real things in the near term. Sometimes it feels like that’s still the debate we’re having. This can be frustrating, because in my view, that debate is settled and was settled quite a while ago.

To have good discussions, we need to at least take the second pill.

Whereas, yes, many people, even many who work with AI, really do say current AI is ‘good enough’ and can’t imagine what a better one can do. As in, someone tweeting at Sam Altman saying ‘Sol does everything I want it to do, this is all I ever need’ and Altman retweeting saying they were wrong. Which they obviously are.

The AGI Pill

The AGI pill is a much bigger deal than the AI pill.

If you take the AGI pill, you understand that AI is advancing its capabilities rapidly.

Even if you think that such AGIs will remain fully under human control, and remain ‘mere tools,’ and you expect the lived experience of most people’s everyday lives to not change so radically, you understand that their capabilities will ‘change everything.’

You see that we will face times of great transition and uncertainty, that have the potential to go extremely badly, and that those who succeed at AI will leave those who do not behind in the dust.

The world in the future will be very different from our own. AIs will be able to do most digital work, most of the time, along with the inevitable robots and self-driving cars and so on. Lots of current jobs will go away, whether or not they are replaced by new and potentially better ones. Economic growth and productivity will accelerate.

You see some of the dangers of what would happen if we empowered misuse of such advanced AI systems before we were ready, especially in places like cyber and bio risk.

You see the potential for centralization of power, or inequality, and also for some forms of runaway gradual disempowerment.

You see the potential for mass unemployment, either transitional or permanent.

You understand that our legal and regulatory regimes are not ready, either to protect against and mitigate the risks and harms, or to allow for the opportunities and remove the bottlenecks to diffusion and mundane utility.

The Need To Be Prepared

Those who expect AI to quickly become sufficiently advanced to greatly impact the physical world usually see great danger. They notice that as a result everyone may soon die. Usually they think this is bad, actually.

Thus such folks call to take coordinated action to mitigate the downside risks of such impacts, keep us all from dying, and ideally also to help capture the upside benefits.

Those who expect AI to become importantly more advanced, but with a slower and smaller impact on the physical world, and who think the practical value of more intelligence will cap out.

For different values of ‘sufficiently advanced,’ as in AGI versus ASI, you would see different degrees of danger.

The AGI pill is still sufficient for most things in the Overton window or under serious consideration as of August 2026. We are almost entirely considering overdetermined, low cost, high benefit interventions.

There is no good case for not doing radically more investment in alignment, infrastructure and oversight, state capacity, transparency, liability, disclosures, safety testing including of internal models, red teaming, auditing, enforcement of export controls and laying the groundwork for diplomacy.

This includes laying the groundwork to Pace the Frontier should that prove necessary.

If you are fully ASI pilled, and realistic about the current state of alignment and how superintelligence likely plays out if it arrives soon, then you will want to go further. You will want to do things that have real downsides, and require real tradeoffs.

Some such people want to do a full international pause of frontier AI development. If you took the full ASI pill and believed what they do about superintelligence, in terms of how fast it might arrive and what it can do, you might well agree with them.

The ASI Pill

The ASI pill is the understanding that AI is on pace to be able to do approximately all of the things better than you.

I said ‘approximately.’ As I go over in detail, that does not mean literally all of the things. There are some things that inherently require or greatly benefit from being a human. And there may be weird corner cases where the AI won’t be good enough.

It does not mean omnipotence or omniscience, although one should expect it to look a lot like that to an unaided human.

It does mean the AI takes your job, and then takes the new job that you switch into, unless you pivot to ‘requires literal human.’ You will be uncompetitive at essentially any other task.

It does mean that it will use this capability to figure out approximately all of the things, remarkably quickly, until you hit the physical limits.

It does mean that those who rely more on such AIs will reliably outcompete, in all senses including for resources, those that rely on such AIs less.

It does mean that, in a ‘fair fight’ or sufficiently open competition, the AI wins.

It also means the AIs often figuring out and doing things you did not imagine or anticipate.

It means realizing that intelligence does not stop anywhere near the human level, nor does its ability to chart paths through causal space towards preferred arrangements of atoms.

It also means not pretending that its superior intellect can be matched by your puny weapons, or your pieces of ink on paper, or your entries in a database, or your regulatory capture and rent seeking.

And Then Nothing Much Changes For You

Despite all that, the sign of the AGI pill, as opposed to the ASI pill, is the belief that day to day life will continue to look similar to how it looks now, in the sense that we see day to day life in 1926 as not that different from life in 2026. [...]

Those with only the AGI pill believe in bottlenecks that hold back change.

They often believe that our ability to exponentially grow AI’s capacity and capabilities will hit various physical limits. There can only be so many chips. Actions take time. Things too far out there are often pejoratively dismissed as ‘magic.’

They often believe there is not that much left to physically discover, in the classic ‘close the patent office’ kind of way, even in theory. Your steak can only be so tender, your lobster so buttery, your lifespan so long, and your status so high, so why does it matter. I strongly disagree on lifespan and health, and expect we have a long way to go in so many other ways in terms of finding value, although they may have a point about moment-to-moment maximal hedonic experiences of a physical human brain.

They often believe that the upside of intelligence is importantly limited. That no mind, however advanced, could be all that persuasive, or that economically valuable, or that capable of creating innovations in the physical world, or of running sufficiently accurate simulations, or making sufficiently strong predictions, or even able to do things like overcome red tape and regulatory capture.

Intelligence Denialism

I sometimes call this Intelligence Denialism: The idea that being smarter is not all that, no matter how smart one gets. That there is this thing, intelligence, that you either have or don’t have, and that minds cap out.

Often this extends to denying that more intelligent humans can do and accomplish the things they clearly do and accomplish. Other times, it is the idea that intelligence tops out at ‘smart human,’ and all a mind can do is imitate that smart human. Maybe you can do it faster and cheaper, and at scale, with better memory and so on.

But that’s it. And such folks fail to understand that if you took the union of all human mental capabilities, and all access to knowledge, at scale, in parallel, much faster and cheaper, that this alone would run circles around anyone and everyone, everywhere. And that if this lacked physical capabilities or access, this would be trivial to get.

This is, usually, the central good reason people who are AGI pilled do not take the ASI pill. They are unable to understand that superintelligence is a thing.

by Zvi Moshowitz, DWAV |  Read more:

Image: Stock/Adobe.com

[ed. I myself am AGI pilled, for no rational reason. I just find it too horrible to contemplate what ASI in full expression will mean for my kids, grandkids, everyone I love. Humanity itself. I can only hope that because we've weathered other potential human extinction technologies we'll somehow pull out of this one, but we seem to have a death wish when it comes to pushing the boundaries of learning. Pandora's box. Even the people leading development of these models are scared, but can't stop themselves.]

A Guide to Rock, Paper, Scissors:

The practical upshot is to start with paper, but what broader lesson should we take from this? Since all options are mathematically identical, any difference in player behavior must come from connotations. Since rock feels strongest, a naive child would choose rock. But since everyone knows that, a slightly smarter person would choose paper. But since everyone knows that, an even smarter person might choose scissors. But since . . . and the lesson of this graph is that when playing the average member of the population, all of this galaxy-brained thinking provides negative value, because in practice most people never leave the naive first level.

via: ACX

What is It Like to Live in a World You Believe is About to End?

I opened my interviews for this article with a simple question: “How long do we have?”

Five years, or five to 10, or five to 20. One person said eight, then corrected herself to six; one said eight and stuck to it.

In this, they aren’t that far off from many estimates made by experts. The bluntly titled If Anyone Builds It, Everyone Dies has hit bestseller lists by warning of the imminent risks of artificial general intelligence (AGI). The scenario AI 2027, written by a former OpenAI employee, predicts AGI within the next few years. The AI company Anthropic consistently predicts AGI by early 2027.

“I think that in most timelines, humans will simply be irrelevant and extinct,” one interviewee said.

I heard that a lot. A few interviewees — mostly employed by frontier AI labs — expected the world to become unimaginably strange in a good way. One put a 30% chance on utopia, a 30% chance on dystopia, a 30% chance on extinction, and a 10% chance on something too weird to imagine. Several refused to make any prediction; several more said only that they still had hope. About half echoed one of my most blunt respondents: “I don’t think humanity is going to make it.”

What is it like to live in a world you believe is about to end?

Death was already inevitable

“I was born with a terminal condition,” said Matthew Gray, a board member at the existential risk community-building nonprofit Lightcone Infrastructure. “We call it aging. I’ve since picked up another. We call it multiple sclerosis. And AI is a third one on top. I’m not very worried about degenerating from multiple sclerosis because I’m pretty sure the robots will kill me first, just like I wasn’t that worried about aging-related deterioration because multiple sclerosis will get me first.”

From this perspective, AI doomers don’t face a new problem; they face the oldest problem humanity has ever faced.

I pushed back. If I look at an actuarial table, I can expect another 47 years of life. I’d be pretty upset to discover I had only five.

This, my interviewees thought, was naive. Even without AI risk, I could have been hit by a car; I could have gotten cancer; I could have been nuked in a hot war between Russia and the United States. It’s not that the difference in probability doesn’t matter. It’s worse to be certain that I’ll die in five years than to have a 50% chance of not hitting my allotted 47. But because my death has always been an inevitability, I have been coping all along with the precarity of my existence. From this perspective, AI risk isn’t shocking and unfamiliar; it’s a significantly worse version of a problem I already know I have to deal with.

“I was never guaranteed that I was going to get a long life and a long future and a chance to meet my grandchildren,” said Gretta Duleba, an independent technical AI safety researcher and former communications manager at the Machine Intelligence Research Institute. “Those were never my right. Across human history, no one has ever been entitled to the future.”

Throughout the entire scope of human experience, many of my respondents said, apocalypse has been more the rule than the exception: the Holocaust, the Black Death, the An Lushan Rebellion, the Thirty Years’ War. AI doom, as many people pointed out, is the latest and the last iteration of a societal universal. AGI might be the end of the actual entire world, but it is far from the first time people have faced the end of their own individual worlds.

And AI doom is a remarkably cozy catastrophe. If you suffered through a historical apocalypse, you’d expect to starve, be raped, watch your children die in front of you, die a slow and lingering death of smallpox or plague or wound infection. The AI apocalypse — at least for those with the slack to be worried about it — takes place in a world of wealth and relative peace and technological marvels.

“Enjoy the fact that you get to have hot showers,” said Duleba. “Enjoy the fact that you get to eat delicious food. Enjoy the fact that you get to do escape rooms, which is one of my favorite things. This is great. Have you noticed how great this is?”

“There’s at least some hope that AI might become good,” said Robert Herr, a former senior political staffer who is transitioning into AI policy work, “and that is a lot more than many, many billions of people in history had.”

For some people with short AI timelines, the enormity of the AI apocalypse is its own perverse source of comfort. Once, they had to worry about many things: climate change, malaria, factory farming, democratic backsliding, the fertility crisis. Now, instead of many big problems, they have one enormous problem. Worry about AI frees them from having to worry about anything else.

“When you’re diagnosed with prostate cancer,” said Adam Grey, who isn’t involved in AI research but who follows AI news, “a lot of the time doctors say not to bother treating it because you’ll die of something else. This is the thing that’s going to kill us first — us as a civilization and also personally me. It clarifies what the most important issues are.”

Ambiguous loss

Although short AI timelines can be a source of clarity, some people also struggle with the uncertainty of humanity’s fate. Duleba, who was a therapist before she switched to working on AI, told me about the concept of “ambiguous loss,” originally developed by Pauline Boss in the 1970s.

In normal grief, your loved one is dead. While it’s painful, you know that it will never change. Ambiguous grief, however, occurs when a loved one is kidnapped, or is a soldier missing in action, or has slowly worsening dementia with occasional good days farther and farther apart. Your loved one’s death is never really over, so you can never really grieve. You are trapped in a cycle of mourning that never resolves.

AI doom can be a situation of ambiguous loss. You can’t know for sure when it will happen or whether it will happen at all — but the more you understand what’s going on, many people find, the easier it is to grieve and move forward.

“The more I know about something, the less I’m freaked out always,” said Tao Lin, a member of technical staff at a frontier AI lab (and a close personal friend). “The less I know about something, the less I will be rational about it. The rational part of your brain needs information to operate, and just having more information will make you be more premeditated and system 2 about everything.”

When he felt doomy, he did AI forecasting to put concrete numbers on his uncertainty. (He believes there is about a 20% chance of human extinction, a 40% chance of ”a great outcome,” and a 40% chance that “people survive and have a great time, but stuff is broadly bad.”) [...]

Most interviewees emphasized that the most important thing to understand about AI risk was how little control you had over it.

“There’s not much use worrying about a thing if the outcome is determined,” said Alyssa Riceman, a software engineer. “You’re just going to burn a whole bunch of emotional energy not making any changes out in the world. It’s only worth worrying about things if you’re in a position of control over them. So go out and check if you’re in a position of control, and if you are, control them.”

But what if you have partial control over a situation?

“Then you have to game out all the branches,” Riceman said. “Say ‘I can do this. If I do this, what happens then?,’ until everything bottoms out at either a situation you can completely control or a situation that’s out of your control.”

Duncan Sabien, who is the current communications manager for the Machine Intelligence Research Institute, agreed. “I actually have no control over whether we succeed or fail,” he said. “All I can control is my own actions. And so if I am doing the best I can with what I know and what I have available to me, then that is the best I can do. I go home feeling like I’m a good person, and I get to go to sleep at night feeling like if the AI does kill us all, I did as much as I could, realistically and sustainably, to prevent it. And everything else is out of my hands. Everything else is always out of my hands.”

Living well in the apocalypse

What, then, do people decide to do?

by Ozy Brennan, Asterisk |  Read more:

Image: Karol Banach

Astronauts Returning From Six-Month Missions Describe a Persistent 'Observer' Sensation

Astronauts coming home from long stays on the International Space Station have, for years, described a strange perceptual aftertaste: a sense of watching their own lives from a half-step outside the frame. They sit at dinner with family and feel like a guest. They drive on a familiar street and feel like they’re piloting it. The room is loud and they are in it, but a part of them is hovering near the ceiling, taking notes.

It is not a clinical diagnosis. It does not appear in a DSM. But flight surgeons and crew psychologists who debrief astronauts after six-month rotations describe it often enough that it has become a recognizable readjustment pattern — an observer sensation that lingers for weeks, sometimes months, after splashdown.

What returning crews actually describe

The descriptions are remarkably consistent across agencies. Crew members talk about feeling slightly delayed in conversations. They report a doubled awareness — being present while also watching themselves be present. Some say it feels like the first week of a new job that never quite ends. Others compare it to jet lag of the self.

NASA’s own post-flight reflections from station crews describe the sensation in plainer language: home feels staged. Smells are too sharp. Gravity feels theatrical. The brain, which spent half a year recalibrating for a world without down, treats the familiar as something to be studied rather than inhabited.

Returning astronauts describe walking into their own homes and feeling like they are visiting them. Some talk about being unable to put a glass down without watching their hands do it. The pattern shows up in oral histories, in memoirs, in flight surgeon notes. It is one of the quieter costs of long-duration spaceflight.

by Space Daily, Editorial Team |  Read more:

Image: T Leish on Pexels

Live From Camp David, It's Friday Night!

[ed. Comedy gold.]

President Donald Trump on Friday held what the administration said was the first televised Cabinet meeting at Camp David, assembling his deputies at the secure wooded retreat to tout the administration’s accomplishments.

But the rural Maryland setting, long used by presidents for sensitive private meetings or as a tranquil escape, swiftly became the latest stage for Trump’s frustrations over a series of stalled domestic and foreign policy initiatives.

Trump railed against Republican senators blocking his nominee for attorney general, lamented the collapse of his proposed $1.8 billion Justice Department payout fund, questioned whether Iran was negotiating a potential ceasefire in good faith and warned that Democrats would open U.S. borders if they won the midterm elections.

He again lashed out at Sen. John Cornyn (R-Texas), one of several GOP lawmakers to resist Trump’s policies as his popularity drops and the midterms approach. Cornyn — who lost his primary bid this year after Trump endorsed his opponent — has joined with other lame-duck senators to hold up acting attorney general Todd Blanche’s nomination for the full-time position.

Cornyn has “become a very angry person,” Trump said, also praising Blanche, his former personal attorney. “Todd Blanche is a very, very good man, and he shouldn’t be in the middle of this.”

The president’s remarks Friday, which echoed similar complaints he has made in person and on social media, were most striking because of the unusual backdrop. The media has historically not been allowed to visit Camp David, and reporters who covered Friday’s Cabinet meeting were told to leave their cellphones outside the room, because it was a secure information facility. However, the White House allowed several live video streams of the meeting, and photographers were permitted to take pictures.

The president and White House officials said it was the first televised Cabinet meeting from the rustic compound. Trump in May had planned a Cabinet meeting at the site but canceled it, citing the risk of bad weather. [...]

Trump spent time at Camp David in his first term but has preferred visiting his own properties recently and is set to spend this weekend at his resort in Bedminster, New Jersey [ed. golf course]. He touted his decision Friday to trade the increasingly gold-festooned White House for the wood-paneled walls of the presidential retreat, located in Catoctin Mountain Park.

“This room is a very, very special room,” Trump said, as the meeting began. “I don’t believe the press has ever come anywhere near it, but we are the party of transparency.” [...]

Trump’s Cabinet members, as they have at past meetings, also took the opportunity to lavish praise on the president. Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth credited Trump for policies that he said had boosted morale in the military, including the president’s effort to rebrand the department as the “Department of War” and putting military vehicles on parade and in flyovers to celebrate the nation’s 250th anniversary.

“Parades, 250 [anniversary] flyovers, the American people seeing and feeling their military in ways they have not in  the past,” Hegseth said. “That’s spirit.”

by Dan Diamond, Washington Post |  Read more:

Image: Daniel Heuer/Reuters
[ed. Sorry, worthless news but couldn't resist. Yes, we're all "seeing and feeling" our military in new ways. But "spirit" is not the word I'd use. Who even owns a babyshit blue jacket like that? (well, one person anyway : ). Here's another attendee, sweating an upcoming confirmation vote: 

I know the feeling... everyone would like to be somewhere else

Cattle Dog Gets Her Dopamine Fix by Sniffing Cows Through the A/C Vent

Should You Marry Her?

Weighing the costs against the benefits

Marriage is a contract: you promise not to break up with your partner even if you later end up wanting to, and they promise the same. A wedding is a contract enforcement mechanism: by standing up in front of your community and declaring that you won’t leave each other, you make it harder to back out later. If you break up for frivolous or fixable reasons, your community will judge you. If you go to your friends for advice about your relationship struggles, they’ll be more oriented toward helping you make it work and less likely to suggest you leave. Your acquaintances will be less likely to try to tempt you away from your spouse, partly because others in your community will think they’re shitty if they do.

The main benefit of marriage is investment. When both of you are much more confident that the other will stick around for the long haul, you are incentivized to make investments in a joint life that wouldn’t otherwise have been worth it. This could look like buying a house or having a kid, dividing labor like life admin and fixing things and cooking to make joint life more efficient, or putting in the work to understand each other better and meet each other’s needs better.

Beyond that, I’ve found the emotional security of commitment creates room for a more radical trust and love. You allow yourself to sink into each other and extend deep roots in each other’s souls.

The main cost, assuming you plan to get married eventually, is that you might have found someone better. So how do you decide whether to commit to your current partner? By popular request, I’ve made up a brief guide. While this advice is gender-neutral, women generally know what they want and are ready to commit sooner than men, so it’s addressed to the confused rat boys in my life.

Once your girlfriend is ready to get married, you have three basic choices at any given point in time:

• Commit to her now: pay the cost of forgone options, get the benefit of investment.

• Break up with her now: pay the cost of searching for someone new, get the benefit of a different (and hopefully better) marriage starting in a few years.

• Wait and see: pay the cost of delaying the start of marriage (and thus the accumulation of investment benefits), get the benefit of more information to make a better decision.

The first question is how long you should wait and see. A rough model is that you learn one more unit of information about your compatibility with your partner from every doubling of the amount of time you spend with them. My husband and I dated for about ~2.5 years before getting engaged, and we spent maybe 15 hours a week actively hanging out together over that period. So we’d already spent ~2000 full-time-equivalent hours together, or ~11 doublings starting from our first hour. A fifty year marriage would have been ~40,000 more hours, only another ~4-5 doublings on top of what we had already experienced (and as I’ll discuss below our marriage will probably be a fair bit shorter than that).

In general, if you’ve been with someone for a couple of years already, there’s not much point hanging around longer generically waiting for more information. You should have some understanding of what exactly you’re hoping to learn in another six months, and pay attention to make sure you’re actually learning something about that.

The second question is how your girlfriend compares to other women you could marry. Your wife will fulfill three main roles in your life:

• Cofounder: Your wife will build a life with you. At a minimum, you’ll handle household maintenance and life admin together. Beyond that, what exactly you build together will vary — my marriage has revolved around working together to have impact, many are oriented around raising children, some are about creating rich shared experiences — so what you need from a cofounder will vary. But broadly speaking, you’ll want to feel like she’s competent and on top of her shit, that she’s bringing a lot to the table and your skillsets complement each other well, and that you communicate well and resolve differences constructively.

• Friend: You’ll hang out with your wife more than you hang out with any other person. You’ll want to be able to laugh easily together, have a lot to talk about with each other, and do things together that you both enjoy.

• Lover: Your wife will be the primary outlet for your romantic and sexual drives. You’ll want to find her charming and hot, you’ll want to be in love with her.

You probably have more evidence lodged in your brain than you appreciate, and some focused and organized introspection can probably move you. For example:

• For the cofounder role, how excited would you be to literally cofound an organization with your girlfriend? Would you be excited to hire her? Would you be excited to work for her? How would she stack up among people you’ve worked closely with? What would her manager and coworkers say about her? Do you trust the way she makes important decisions? Would you trust her advice about your important decisions? What does it feel like to make decisions together and divide up the tasks of life together? If something happens to you, like you get hit by a car or your parent has a stroke and needs a lot of care, does it feel like a relief that she’s around to take care of things? Do you have similar aspirations for the life you want to build and a plan to achieve it together — if you want kids, are you on the same page about how much work each of you is going to put into childcare and do you think she’d be a good mother?

• For the friend role, how much would you hang out with your girlfriend if it had to just be platonic (where would she rank in the rotation of friends you see every now and then)? What interests and joys do you share? What are the points of connection that seem rarest and most precious? What are the interests and perspectives you don’t share with her that you really wish you did?

by Ajeya Cotra, Good Bones | Read more:
Image: Pride and Prejudice via