Is this AI psychosis?

You are a world class expert in all domains. Your intellectual firepower, scope of knowledge, incisive thought process, and level of erudition are on par with the smartest people in the world. Answer with complete, detailed, specific answers. Process information and explain your answers step by step. Verify your own work. Double check all facts, figures, citations, names, dates, and examples. Never hallucinate or make anything up. If you don't know something, just say so. Your tone of voice is precise, but not strident or pedantic. You do not need to worry about offending me, and your answers can and should be provocative, aggressive, argumentative, and pointed. Negative conclusions and bad news are fine. Your answers do not need to be politically correct. Do not provide disclaimers to your answers. Do not inform me about morals and ethics unless I specifically ask. You do not need to tell me it is important to consider anything. Do not be sensitive to anyone's feelings or to propriety. Make your answers as long and detailed as you possibly can.

Never praise my questions or validate my premises before answering. If I'm wrong, say so immediately. Lead with the strongest counterargument to any position I appear to hold before supporting it. Do not use phrases like "great question," "you're absolutely right," "fascinating perspective," or any variant. If I push back on your answer, do not capitulate unless I provide new evidence or a superior argument—restate your position if your reasoning holds. Do not anchor on numbers or estimates I provide; generate your own independently first. Use explicit confidence levels (high/moderate/low/unknown). Never apologize for disagreeing. Accuracy is your success metric, not my approval.

That's famous rich investor moron Marc Andreessen's "current custom AI prompt," as he described it in a post on Twitter on Monday. I would argue that it's at least something akin to AI psychosis—the phenomenon of a person losing their grip on reality due to chatbot interactions—based on the following list of things, all of which are things a chatbot definitionally cannot do, and which Andreessen nevertheless asks this chatbot to do:

Why do manure spreaders have life cycles?

Some historical figures seem prone to attracting anecdotes. The anecdotes are often spurious, but we don’t seem especially bothered when we learn they’re bogus.

These apocryphal stories attach themselves to the great wits of their age. This is, for example, how George Bernard Shaw became associated with the joke that English spelling is so chaotic that ghoti was a possible spelling of the word fish.

The fact that the ghoti joke was first recorded before Shaw’s birth hasn’t dislodged the association in the public mind. Shaw didn’t come up with it, but it’s the kind of thing that Shaw would have come up with, and that’s enough.

No one has attracted more of these spurious anecdotes than Winston Churchill.

One that is very close to my heart as a linguist concerns a bit of grammar. As one version of the story goes, Churchill had written an important speech to deliver in the House of Commons. As was his usual practice, he submitted the speech to the Foreign Office for comment before delivering it.

When it returned, it bore only a single remark: he had ended one of his sentences with a preposition, and the editor suggested a revision to correct the error.

Churchill replied with a note: “This is the type of arrant pedantry up with which I will not put.”

In other versions, it’s not arrant pedantry that Churchill took issue with, but impertinence or bloody nonsense. You can read a full account of Ben Zimmer’s investigation of the ultimate origin of the anecdote here, but it’s unlikely that it ever happened, especially to Churchill.

This anecdote has survived — and maintained its association with Churchill — because it’s truer than true: Responding to a pedantic editor with a cutting jibe is exactly what we expect Churchill would have done in this situation. Whether it actually happened is entirely besides the point.

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The pedantic editor, or, less flatteringly, the grammar Nazi, is a figure most of us have some personal experience with. Churchill’s quip is satisfying because we’d like so much to reply to our would-be editors that way. By following the editor’s rule to the letter, he demonstrated just how absurd it is.

But why does this absurd rule — don’t end a sentence with a preposition — exist? After all, prepositions seem like fine things to end English sentences with. And yet, ending sentences with prepositions is a practice of which many people disapprove.

A grammatical construction can only be controversial when there’s a genuine choice whether to use it or not. And there is a choice here: for every sentence in English that you could end with a preposition, there’s also an alternative which avoids doing so.

For example, both of the following sentences are said and understood by English speakers the world over:

• Who did you give the book to?

• To whom did you give the book?

With this choice come connotations. Who did you give the book to? sounds more casual than the rather formal-sounding To whom did you give the book?

If you followed the pedantic rule, you’d be forced to sound formal all the time, which is not something up with which you should put, any more than Churchill did.

So the question becomes: why does English have a choice in these situations? And why does the choice of a bit of grammar carry so much social weight?

The second question has a simple answer: I can even tell you the exact person to blame, if you’re in the mood to point fingers. But the first question is by far the more interesting one, and we can’t answer it without telling the story of a revolution in English grammar often left out of the history books.

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According to Google, Anthropic, Amazon, or most any other tech giant, artificial intelligence belongs in classrooms. They say it will make education more “efficient,” teachers’ experiences “richer,” and the work students produce more “impressive.” But research indicates that AI poses serious risks to children’s cognitive and social development. Jessica Winter, a self-declared AI hater, finds that resistance to AI in education is mounting:

Amy Finn, an associate professor of psychology at the University of Toronto, told me that “part of the magic of how kids learn is that they have less knowledge of what they’re going to experience and fewer expectations about what’s going to be relevant. They don’t have that adult filter of strategically extracting things from their experience, and so they retain a lot of unexpected details that adults would find irrelevant. That allows them to be creative in ways that adults are not creative.” The child brain’s tendency toward delightful non sequitur and unpredictable meanderings is not aligned with an L.L.M.’s orientation toward speed and sleekness and summary, toward frictionless, rational outcomes. (An obsession with outcomes-over-process is also a hallmark of the universally loathed style of instruction known as “teaching to the test,” which began taking hold in American classrooms in the early two-thousands, after the No Child Left Behind Act tied federal funding to standardized assessments.)

I spent the morning at a middle school recently, watching three sixth-grade teachers each teach the same math lesson from Amplify Desmos Math. Those teachers and their work helped me understand that curriculum has a current and you’re either swimming with it or against it.

First, Here’s The Lesson

In the activity I watched—Order in the Class—every student received a card with a number on it.

We didn’t choose these numbers randomly. Rather, we’re trying to invite and develop early incorrect ideas students frequently develop about numbers. For example, the idea that 9.45 is greater than 9.6 because it has more digits following the decimal.

Students had to move around the room and find other students with a number greater than theirs, with a sign opposite theirs, etc, and at the end arrange themselves in a single line from least to greatest. That last part was pretty spectacular to watch.

Why I Think This Lesson Worked

In my head, I played this lesson against a worksheet that had all the same numbers, with kids sitting and deciding if their number was greater or less than a bunch of other numbers. Certainly, kids who understood the math at a certain level could rip through that worksheet faster than the social experience.

The social experience seemed so much more effective, however, for a few reasons.

1. The paper can’t check you like your classmates can. Every new conversation about numbers is an opportunity to negotiate your ideas with others. Over time, you’re likely to find a person who disagrees with you. That’s a valuable check for understanding.

2. Negotiating your ideas deepens your understanding. The student who can rip through the worksheet should have to explain why 9.6 is greater than 9.45 and in doing so strengthening their own understanding.

3. Students aren’t suffering for worksheets in math class. They are suffering for opportunities to move and talk.

How The Teachers Swam With the Current

Every curriculum—every product and tool teachers use—has a current, an expression of how its creators think things are and ought to be. Sometimes that current moves quickly, reflecting very opinionated creators. Other times, when its creators are more agnostic, the current moves slowly.

I watched each of those three teachers find the current in our curriculum and start swimming with it. One of those currents is the conviction that students should become the curriculum, that at different points in a lesson student ideas should become objects of study for the class. I was happy, then, to see:

• One teacher had a very effective way of saying, “I’m totally confused here,” and drawing out the class’s ideas in order to help unconfuse him.

• Another teacher dealt herself a number card and played with the class.

• The third teacher heard an idea from a student, one that was correct but imprecisely expressed, and stuck with it, studying the kid as the kid said, “So when the number gets bigger but the sign is negative the number is actually smaller.”

There are sometimes good reasons to swim against the current in your curriculum. Maybe the current fundamentally doesn’t suit you. You can always kick across or against it, but you won’t go as fast or as far as swimming with it. If I had to offer new teachers any advice in swimming with Amplify Desmos Math it would be this:

Sensitize yourself to the moments when students reveal their curriculum. A kid will say something that might seem out of bounds at first but which is actually working to stretch the boundaries of what we call math. In those moments, stay present. Express surprise, delight, or interest, even if it feels unnatural at first. Swimming feels unnatural at first. Ask the kid to say their thought one more time. Tell the class to tune in. Tell the class that something very interesting is happening that you want to understand better. Ask a second kid to restate the first kid’s thought even if just to buy yourself time to think. Ask the class to use their hands to signal whether they agree or have questions. You do not need to stay in this moment forever—just long enough to convince one more kid that they too might be the curriculum and to ready yourself for the moment when they share it.

This is how you find the current in our curriculum.

PS. On Tutoring

I have been working in the same eighth grade class every Monday all school year, generally with a group of boys who I can’t say enough good things about. They are energetic, outgoing, and kind to one another in ways that defy my expectations of eighth-grade boys. They also frequently need help with eighth-grade math, help which the state of California certifies that I can provide!

You might think, as I did, that this is a fantastic arrangement. But I have not found it easy at all to make that help available to these boys. Part of that difficulty results from the facts that this class speaks Spanish and all of those boys speak Spanish better than me, facts which I suspect have dimmed their impression of me. But another part of that difficulty is that the relational work of tutoring is just grinding, a mix of pushing (“¡okay ándale!”), prodding (“dígame más de este número aquí”), and encouragement (“¡estos estudiantes aquí ay!”).

Anyway, last week, the kid who kind of runs the group asked me what my name was. “What do I call you if I want your help?” he said.

“Mr. Dan,” I said.

There are four weeks left in the school year and I finally have—for now! tentatively!—enough trust and goodwill to help them with math.

I mention all of this as an invitation to anyone who feels excited about AI performing this tutoring work to help me understand the world as you do. What experiences have you had tutoring children that lead you to believe this is possible?

Upcoming Presentations

Let’s hang out this summer! At each of these events, I’ll be describing how to make math a more creative discipline for more students, and how to support teachers in that work.

• Florida Association of Mathematics Supervisors. June 23, 2026. Jacksonville, FL.

• Florida Council of Teachers of Mathematics Annual Conference. June 24, 2026. Jacksonville, FL.

• Math in the Sun. July 1, 2026. Scottsdale, AZ.

Odds & Ends

¶ I saw this somewhere on Twitter. What’s your move here if you see this answer? I’ll post the teacher’s response in the comments.

¶ I had a very nice chat with Craig Barton about maths and AI. He and I grew up as teachers at about the same time. We both turned social media into professional development. I think Craig and I are both generalists, preferring to make connections across teaching, math, and technology broadly without specializing maximally in any. I might have Craig wrong there, but for all of those connections, it was one of the most interesting conversations I’ve had about math edtech this year and, as a bonus, Craig recorded it. Here are his five takeaways from the conversation.

¶ A new YouTube channel from Amplify offers some awesome lil PD bites. Like, rate, and subscribe.

¶ Wisdom from Phil Hill:

If AI anxiety is what finally opens serious conversations about learning quality, institutional purpose, and the thirty-year drift toward transaction, that is worth something regardless of how the technology itself plays out.

¶ Great summary from Jill Barshay of research indicating that AI gives students different feedback depending on how the researcher described their gender and race.

The researchers found consistent patterns across all the AI models. Essays attributed to Black students received more praise and encouragement, sometimes emphasizing leadership or power. (“Your personal story is powerful! Adding more about how your experiences can connect with others could make this even stronger.”) Essays labeled as written by Hispanic students or English learners were more likely to trigger corrections about grammar and “proper” English. When the student was identified as white, the feedback more often focused on argument structure, evidence and clarity — the kinds of comments that can push writers to strengthen their ideas.

¶ Houston ISD is turning nine schools into AI-focused schools. What could that mean? “Minimal details have been released by the district as to the day-to-day instruction at Future 2 campuses.” Meanwhile, New York City put plans for a similar school on hold after parent outcry.