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In Large Language Models We Trust?

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“If everybody always lies to you, the consequence is not that you believe the lies, but rather that nobody believes anything any longer.” These words were spoken by the political scientist and philosopher Hannah Arendt in 1974. She was discussing how totalitarian governments, through their propaganda, might induce such wide cynicism that people lose faith in the truth. Her words resonate with today’s fears about the dangers of rampant disinformation generated by large language models (LLMs) and spread by social media.

Today’s worry is not of a totalitarian government, but a drift into a society where people do not know what is true and lose their trust in each other and in the institutions that were established to preserve stability. I offer here some reflections on trust and truth in the Internet with the aim of developing defenses against this drift.

Trust

In our social relations, trust means we believe a person will act with competence, sincerity, and care. Suppose I trust you. The competence assessment supports my belief you have the skills and resources to do the job you promised. For if I doubt your skills or resources, I will not trust your promise. The sincerity assessment supports my belief you intend to fulfill your promise. For if I doubt your intent, I will not trust your promise. The care assessment supports my belief you will honor our relationship, keeping me informed of any needed changes in our agreements and going out of your way to fulfill them should a challenging breakdown occur.

These three assessments are grounded in the history of our promises to each other. In his book, Seven Habits, Stephen Covey discusses the Emotional Bank Account. Each fulfilled promise or act of kindness is a deposit. Each broken promise or insensitive act is a withdrawal. Betrayals are expensive and damaging: it takes only one or two to kill the trust earned over many deposits. Unfortunately, by reducing trust to the effects of transactions, this metaphor hides the essence of trust, which is that the parties take care of their relationship. If something comes up that would violate their expectations, they talk to modify their expectations to fit the new circumstance. They will go to extraordinary lengths to meet their expectation if a contingency or emergency arises.

Many relationships, such as new ones or interactions via a website, must work at a low-trust level. Low-trust parties have a mutual agreement to follow basic transactional rules with precise protocols for requests, promises, and declarations. Consider a purchase transaction with a merchant. The merchant offers a service at a price (declaration). The customer asks the merchant to perform the service (request) and agrees and make the payment (promise). After completing the service, the customer ends the transaction with an acceptance (another declaration). After several successful transactions, the customer and the merchant develop a mutual confidence that the other will do their part. A higher-trust relationship emerges. Now the merchant lets the customer delay a payment or receive a customized service. A relationship can evolve to high-trust when the competence and sincerity assessments are taken for granted, and the belief that the other will take care becomes unconditional.

Taking It to the Machine

We take this understanding of trust to machines by mapping the assessments into testable metrics. A machine that passes all the tests is called trustworthy. Competence maps to tests that a machine meets all its technical specifications; the machine is competent if it behaves properly on every use and, in case of failure, degrades gracefully. Sincerity maps to tests that the machine’s builders have kept their word on the machine’s functions, have been transparent about the development process, and have a following of satisfied customers. Care is different. We cannot map care to machines because they cannot care at all.

This means we use machines in a low-trust mode, as enactors of transactions, without presuming that the machine cares about any transaction or any customer. Machines can be very useful even if they do not care about us. We take great pains to learn the machine’s “safe operating range”—when it behaves according to expectation and when it is likely to fail or generate errors. Chip-making provides an example. Chips are tested for their error rates as the clock speed is increased. Their specs warn against running the clock too fast. Well-engineered machines are likely to be trustworthy in their operating ranges.

LLMs challenge this standard engineering practice. The problem is “hallucinations”—responses that contain errors or fabrications, often presented as authoritative statements. Hallucinations appear to be inherent in LLMs. LLMs have no means to verify that statements they generate are true. Users are left to determine for themselves, from other information available to them, whether an LLM output is truthful. To date, researchers have been unable to define “safe operating ranges” for LLMs or to find internal constraints that eliminate hallucinations. It seems unlikely that anyone is going to find restrictions on prompts that guarantee hallucination-free responses. It is more likely that, through extensive testing, an LLM can be rated with a hallucination likelihood. Early experiments of this kind show the hallucination rate can sometimes be driven down to approximately 15%, which is too high for critical applications.

How does a human know when an LLM hallucinates? Sometimes it is obvious because the LLM response makes no sense in the context of what the human knows. More often it’s not obvious—for example when LLM makes a claim and gives nonexistent citations. In those cases, the human must consult other sources, for example, a Google search seeking corroborating or refuting evidence. But searching the Web for truth is problematic. Much information is incorrect and has been absorbed into the LLM when it is trained. In addition, Google searches now respond with an “AI summary” which, because it was generated by an LLM, might contain hallucinations.

My colleague Espen Anderson (University of Oslo) has suggested evaluating trust in the context of the kinds of jobs LLMs can do. When would you hire (pay money for) an LLM to do a job? LLMs can do three kinds of jobs: conversation, distillation, and fabrication. These distinctions can help focus when I am willing to trust an LLM. I might trust an LLM to have a companionate conversation with me, but not to provide accurate biographical information about someone. I might trust an LLM to make a useful summary of a book, but not to generate an accurate transcript of my session with a doctor. I might trust an LLM to generate interesting new images, but not to prevent deepfakes.

Truth

Trust issues with LLMs bring us to deeper and more difficult questions. What is truth? Can we test whether a claim is true? How does science do this? Science has evolved rigorous approaches to determining what is true about nature. A good treatment of this dynamic process can be found in the 1987 book Science in Action,a by the philosopher Bruno Latour.

Latour’s main claim is that a hypothesis moves from its birth as a speculation or hunch to maturity as a settled scientific fact by a social process of accumulating allies. An ally is a person who accepts the claim. Over a period of experimentation and debate, the claim gains followers and loses dissenters. Claims that cannot withstand the assaults of doubters are discarded. Science has developed rigorous standards for when experimental results support claims. And, of course, any settled claim is falsifiable—it can be reopened if new, contrary evidence surfaces. In other words, scientific truths are socially constructed as the scientific community tests claims and comes to agreement that they hold.

Some scientists are uncomfortable with Latour’s claim that scientific facts are socially constructed. Science is supposed to be discovering immutable truths about nature. However, we cannot see nature directly. We can only see it through our senses and instruments, and what we see is shaped by our interpretations. To overcome differences of interpretation, scientists debate and test claims until everyone agrees they are true. Even that is not final: what is taken as true can change. For example, in the mid-1800s physicists generally believed light moves in an ether and the measured speed of light depends on the relative motion of the observer and the light source. These assumptions were called into question after 1880 because not even the most sensitive instrument was able to detect an ether. In the early 1900s, Einstein postulated, in his theory of relativity, that light speed is always measured the same by every observer regardless of motion. As experiments confirmed Einstein’s theory, the old belief in ether and variability of measured light speed disappeared.

In practice, then, to establish that something is true, we need to present enough evidence that observers will accept the claim. Only when there is sufficient evidence will they accept. When we apply this to LLMs, the problem is finding independent sources that corroborate the claim, which may be difficult because all evidence visible on the Internet was in the training data.

Artificial Neuron Networks Can Be Trustworthy

The core of an LLM is an artificial neural network (ANN) that outputs a highly probable word that continues a prompt. The LLM feeds each new output word back into the prompt and generates a new output word from the modified prompt. This cyclical feedback mode of using the core, called “recurrent neural network,” can amplify errors in the embedded ANN.

However, ANNs used on their own may be much more reliable. A “uniform approximation theorem” for ANNs says an ANN with sufficient training data and sufficient capacity of nodes and connections can approximate any continuous and bounded function arbitrarily closely. The words continuous and bounded are important. Continuous means that a small change of input produces a small change of output. Bounded means that each parameter and the function itself have specific upper and lower limits. When an ANN is trained on a large sample of input-output pairs collected from observations of a continuous bounded function, the theorem says that there is an error bound E such that the network output for any within-bounds input, whether or not in the training set, is within E of the correct output. The error bound E diminishes with larger training sets and networks.

This is useful in science because many natural processes can be accurately modeled as continuous bounded functions. Many, but not all. A process containing exponential components is unbounded. A process containing chaotic components fails to be continuous in the chaotic regions. Weather forecasting is of this kind. Some weather phenomena are chaotic (turbulence) or unbounded (wind speeds in a tornado). To overcome this, forecasts are composed from the predictions of several numerical models run in parallel. The accuracy is quite good for short-range forecasts (a few days) but decays for longer ranges (weeks). Researchers are finding that ANNs are acceptably accurate for short-range weather predictions but their reliability decays beyond a few days because of chaotic events that are better tolerated with traditional numerical models. These ANNs are much faster than traditional numerical models.

Another problematic use of ANNs arises when the training data are not from a continuous function, such as a map from images to names. In such cases, a small change of input (such as modifying just a few pixels in an image) can produce a large change of output. Even after a lot of training, there is no bound on how much error the network might generate on predicting the name of a new image or a slightly modified version of a trained image. This problem has rightfully been called fragility.

The recurrent network structure of an LLM amplifies the fragility of its core ANN trained on text data that do not conform to a continuous bounded function. Some scientists have said that the hallucination problem for LLMs is so deep that “LLMs always hallucinate. Sometimes they are right.”

Even so, the evidence from science is encouraging for scientific applications of ANNs because ANNs are not fragile when used to predict values of continuous bounded functions; and the are fast approximators for short-range predictions.

Conclusion

LLMs are not trustworthy because they hallucinate. LLM hallucinations are inevitable because of the cyclic feedback structure for the core ANN amplifies the fragility of their core ANNs on discontinuous training data. Detecting hallucinations, and possibly correcting them, is difficult because all the usual independent sources in the Internet are already included in the training data. Detecting hallucinations is further complicated because truth in the Internet tends to be whatever a group says it is. The processes of science—extensive testing and debating of hypotheses aiming to determine their truth– are the most reliable means we have of ferreting out truth. Unfortunately, these processes take time. There may be no reliable way, in real time, to rapidly “look up” the truth via an Internet search for evidence to corroborate an LLM’s claim. Hannah Arendt would be alarmed at watching Internet communities drift into a dysfunction because no one would trust anything communicated to them through the Internet.

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mrmarchant
10 hours ago
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The Frybread Question

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Chef Sean Sherman honors his heritage while creating a new type of Native American cuisine.

The post The Frybread Question appeared first on TASTE.

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mrmarchant
11 hours ago
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AI companions are the final stage of digital addiction, and lawmakers are taking aim

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On Tuesday, California state senator Steve Padilla will make an appearance with Megan Garcia, the mother of a Florida teen who killed himself following a relationship with an AI companion that Garcia alleges contributed to her son’s death. 

The two will announce a new bill that would force the tech companies behind such AI companions to implement more safeguards to protect children. They’ll join other efforts around the country, including a similar bill from California State Assembly member Rebecca Bauer-Kahan that would ban AI companions for anyone younger than 16 years old, and a bill in New York that would hold tech companies liable for harm caused by chatbots. 

You might think that such AI companionship bots—AI models with distinct “personalities” that can learn about you and act as a friend, lover, cheerleader, or more—appeal only to a fringe few, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

A new research paper aimed at making such companions safer, by authors from Google DeepMind, the Oxford Internet Institute, and others, lays this bare: Character.AI, the platform being sued by Garcia, says it receives 20,000 queries per second, which is about a fifth of the estimated search volume served by Google. Interactions with these companions last four times longer than the average time spent interacting with ChatGPT. One companion site I wrote about, which was hosting sexually charged conversations with bots imitating underage celebrities, told me its active users averaged more than two hours per day conversing with bots, and that most of those users are members of Gen Z. 

The design of these AI characters makes lawmakers’ concern well warranted. The problem: Companions are upending the paradigm that has thus far defined the way social media companies have cultivated our attention and replacing it with something poised to be far more addictive. 

In the social media we’re used to, as the researchers point out, technologies are mostly the mediators and facilitators of human connection. They supercharge our dopamine circuits, sure, but they do so by making us crave approval and attention from real people, delivered via algorithms. With AI companions, we are moving toward a world where people perceive AI as a social actor with its own voice. The result will be like the attention economy on steroids.

Social scientists say two things are required for people to treat a technology this way: It needs to give us social cues that make us feel it’s worth responding to, and it needs to have perceived agency, meaning that it operates as a source of communication, not merely a channel for human-to-human connection. Social media sites do not tick these boxes. But AI companions, which are increasingly agentic and personalized, are designed to excel on both scores, making possible an unprecedented level of engagement and interaction. 

In an interview with podcast host Lex Fridman, Eugenia Kuyda, the CEO of the companion site Replika, explained the appeal at the heart of the company’s product. “If you create something that is always there for you, that never criticizes you, that always understands you and understands you for who you are,” she said, “how can you not fall in love with that?”

So how does one build the perfect AI companion? The researchers point out three hallmarks of human relationships that people may experience with an AI: They grow dependent on the AI, they see the particular AI companion as irreplaceable, and the interactions build over time. The authors also point out that one does not need to perceive an AI as human for these things to happen. 

Now consider the process by which many AI models are improved: They are given a clear goal and “rewarded” for meeting that goal. An AI companionship model might be instructed to maximize the time someone spends with it or the amount of personal data the user reveals. This can make the AI companion much more compelling to chat with, at the expense of the human engaging in those chats.

For example, the researchers point out, a model that offers excessive flattery can become addictive to chat with. Or a model might discourage people from terminating the relationship, as Replika’s chatbots have appeared to do. The debate over AI companions so far has mostly been about the dangerous responses chatbots may provide, like instructions for suicide. But these risks could be much more widespread.

We’re on the precipice of a big change, as AI companions promise to hook people deeper than social media ever could. Some might contend that these apps will be a fad, used by a few people who are perpetually online. But using AI in our work and personal lives has become completely mainstream in just a couple of years, and it’s not clear why this rapid adoption would stop short of engaging in AI companionship. And these companions are poised to start trading in more than just text, incorporating video and images, and to learn our personal quirks and interests. That will only make them more compelling to spend time with, despite the risks. Right now, a handful of lawmakers seem ill-equipped to stop that. 

This story originally appeared in The Algorithm, our weekly newsletter on AI. To get stories like this in your inbox first, sign up here.

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mrmarchant
14 hours ago
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AI Is Evolving — And Changing Our Understanding Of Intelligence

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Dramatic advances in artificial intelligence today are compelling us to rethink our understanding of what intelligence truly is. Our new insights will enable us to build better AI and understand ourselves better.

In short, we are in paradigm-shifting territory.

Paradigm shifts are often fraught because it’s easier to adopt new ideas when they are compatible with one’s existing worldview but harder when they’re not. A classic example is the collapse of the geocentric paradigm, which dominated cosmological thought for roughly two millennia. In the geocentric model, the Earth stood still while the Sun, Moon, planets and stars revolved around us. The belief that we were at the center of the universe — bolstered by Ptolemy’s theory of epicycles, a major scientific achievement in its day — was both intuitive and compatible with religious traditions. Hence, Copernicus’s heliocentric paradigm wasn’t just a scientific advance but a hotly contested heresy and perhaps even, for some, as Benjamin Bratton notes, an existential trauma. So, today, artificial intelligence.

In this essay, we will describe five interrelated paradigm shifts informing our development of AI:

  1. Natural Computing — Computing existed in nature long before we built the first “artificial computers.” Understanding computing as a natural phenomenon will enable fundamental advances not only in computer science and AI but also in physics and biology.
  2. Neural Computing — Our brains are an exquisite instance of natural computing. Redesigning the computers that power AI so they work more like a brain will greatly increase AI’s energy efficiency — and its capabilities too.
  3. Predictive Intelligence — The success of large language models (LLMs) shows us something fundamental about the nature of intelligence: it involves statistical modeling of the future (including one’s own future actions) given evolving knowledge, observations and feedback from the past. This insight suggests that current distinctions between designing, training and running AI models are transitory; more sophisticated AI will evolve, grow and learn continuously and interactively, as we do.
  4. General Intelligence — Intelligence does not necessarily require biologically based computation. Although AI models will continue to improve, they are already broadly capable, tackling an increasing range of cognitive tasks with a skill level approaching and, in some cases, exceeding individual human capability. In this sense, “Artificial General Intelligence” (AGI) may already be here — we just keep shifting the goalposts.
  5. Collective Intelligence — Brains, AI agents and societies can all become more capable through increased scale. However, size alone is not enough. Intelligence is fundamentally social, powered by cooperation and the division of labor among many agents. In addition to causing us to rethink the nature of human (or “more than human”) intelligence, this insight suggests social aggregations of intelligences and multi-agent approaches to AI development that could reduce computational costs, increase AI heterogeneity and reframe AI safety debates.

But to understand our own “intelligence geocentrism,” we must begin by reassessing our assumptions about the nature of computing, since it is the foundation of both AI and, we will argue, intelligence in any form.

Natural Computation

Is “computer science” a science at all? Often, it’s regarded more as an engineering discipline, born alongside the World War II-era Electrical Numerical Integrator and Computer (ENIAC), the first fully programmable general-purpose electronic computer —and the distant ancestor of your smartphone.

Theoretical computer science predates computer engineering, though. A groundbreaking 1936 publication by British mathematician Alan Turing introduced the imaginary device we now call the Turing Machine, consisting of a head that can move left or right along a tape, reading, erasing and writing symbols on the tape according to a set of rules. Endowed with suitable rules, a Turing Machine can follow instructions encoded on the tape — what we’d now call a computer program, or code — allowing such a “Universal Turing Machine” (UTM) to carry out arbitrary computations. Turning this around, a computation is anything that can be done by a UTM. When the ENIAC was completed in 1945, it became the world’s first real-life UTM.

Or maybe not. A small but growing roster of unorthodox researchers with deep backgrounds in both physics and computer science, such as Susan Stepney at the University of York, have made the case in  2014 in the research journal “Proceedings of The Royal Society A” that the natural world is full of computational systems “where there is no obvious human computer user.” John Wheeler, a towering figure in 20th-century physics, championed the radical “it from bit” hypothesis, which holds that the underlying structure of the universe is computational. According to Wheeler, the elementary phenomena we take to be physical —quarks, electrons, photons — are products of underlying computation, like internet packets or image pixels.

“Perhaps the greatest Copernican trauma of the AI era is simply coming to terms with how commonplace general and nonhuman intelligence may be.”

In some interpretations of quantum mechanics, this computation takes place in a multiverse — that is, vast numbers of calculations occurring in parallel, entangled universes. However one interprets the underlying physics, the very real technology of quantum computing taps into that parallelism, allowing us to perform certain calculations in minutes that would require the lifetime of the universe several times over on today’s most powerful supercomputers. This is, by any measure, a paradigm shift in computing.

Claims that computing underlies physical reality are hard to prove or disprove, but a clear-cut case for computation in nature came to light far earlier than Wheeler’s “it from bit” hypothesis. John von Neumann, an accomplished mathematical physicist and another founding figure of computer science, discovered a profound link between computing and biology as far back as 1951.

Von Neumann realized that for a complex organism to reproduce, it would need to contain instructions for building itself, along with a machine for reading and executing that instruction “tape.” The tape must also be copyable and include the instructions for building the machine that reads it. As it happens, the technical requirements for that “universal constructor” correspond precisely to the technical requirements for a UTM. Remarkably, von Neumann’s insight anticipated the discovery of DNA’s Turing-tape-like structure and function in 1953.

Von Neumann had shown that life is inherently computational. This may sound surprising, since we think of computers as decidedly not alive, and of living things as most definitely not computers. But it’s true: DNA is code — although the code is hard to reverse-engineer and doesn’t execute sequentially. Living things necessarily compute, not only to reproduce, but to develop, grow and heal. And it is becoming increasingly possible to edit or program foundational biological systems.

Turing, too, made a seminal contribution to theoretical biology, by describing how tissue growth and differentiation could be implemented by cells capable of sensing and emitting chemical signals he called “morphogens” — a powerful form of analog computing. Like von Neumann, Turing got this right, despite never setting foot in a biology lab.

By revealing the computational basis of biology, Turing and von Neumann laid the foundations for artificial life or “ALife,” a field that today remains obscure and pre-paradigmatic — much like artificial intelligence was until recently.

Yet there is every reason to believe that ALife will soon flower, as AI has. Real progress in AI had to wait until we could muster enough “artificial” computation to model (or at least mimic) the activity of the billions of neurons it takes to approach brain-like complexity. De novo ALife needs to go much further, recapitulating the work of billions of years of evolution on Earth. That remains a heavy lift. We are making progress, though.

Recent experiments from our Paradigms of Intelligence team at Google have shown that in a simulated toy universe capable of supporting computation we can go from nothing but randomness to having minimal “life forms” emerge spontaneously.  One such experiment involves starting with a “soup” of random strings, each of which is 64 bytes long. Eight out of the 256 possible byte values correspond to the instructions of a minimal programming language from the 1990s called “Brainfuck.” These strings of bytes can be thought of as Turing tapes, and the eight computer instructions specify the elementary operations of a Turing machine. The experiment consists of repeatedly picking two tapes out of the soup at random, splicing them together, “running” the spliced tape, separating the tapes again, and putting them back in the soup. In the beginning, nothing much appears to happen; we see only random tapes, with a byte modified now and then, apparently at random. But after a few million interactions, functional tapes emerge and begin to self-replicate: minimal artificial life.

The emergence of artificial life looks like a phase transition, as when water freezes or boils. But whereas conventional phases of matter are characterized by their statistical uniformity — an ordered atomic lattice for ice, random atomic positions for gas and somewhere in between for liquid — living matter is vastly more complex, exhibiting varied and purposeful structure at every scale. This is because computation requires distinct functional parts that must work together, as evident in any machine, organism or program.

There’s something magical about watching complex, purposeful and functional structures emerging out of random noise in our simulations. But there is nothing supernatural or miraculous about it. Similar phase transitions from non-life to life occurred on Earth billions of years ago, and we can hypothesize similar events taking place on other life-friendly planets or moons.

“Life is computational because its stability depends on growth, healing or reproduction; and computation itself must evolve to support these essential functions.”

How could the intricacy of life ever arise, let alone persist, in a random environment? The answer: anything life-like that self-heals or reproduces is more “dynamically stable” than something inert or non-living because a living entity (or its progeny) will still be around in the future, while anything inanimate degrades over time, succumbing to randomness. Life is computational because its stability depends on growth, healing or reproduction; and computation itself must evolve to support these essential functions.

This computational view of life also offers insight into life’s increasing complexity over evolutionary time. Because computational matter — including life itself — is made out of distinct parts that must work together, evolution operates simultaneously on the parts and on the whole, a process known in biology as “multilevel selection.”

Existing parts (or organisms) can combine repeatedly to make ever larger, more complex entities. Long ago on the primordial sea floor (as the prevailing understanding goes) molecules came together to form self-replicating or “autocatalytic” reaction cycles; these chemical cycles combined with fatty membranes to form the earliest cells; bacteria and archaea combined to form eukaryotic cells; these complex cells combined to form multicellular organisms; and so on. Each such Major Evolutionary Transition has involved a functional symbiosis, a form of interdependency in which previously independent entities joined forces to make a greater whole.

The first rungs of this evolutionary ladder did not involve living entities with heritable genetic codes. However, once the entities joining forces were alive — and therefore computational — every subsequent combination increased the potential computing power of the symbiotic whole. Human-level intelligence, many rungs above those earliest life forms, arises from the combined computation of some 86 billion neurons, all processing in parallel.

Neural Computing

The pioneers of computing were well aware of the computational nature of our brains. In fact, in the 1940s, there was little difference between the nascent fields of computer science and neuroscience. Electronic computers were developed to carry out mental operations on an industrial scale, just as factory machines were developed in the previous century to automate physical labor. Originally, repetitive mental tasks were carried out by human computers — like the “hidden figures,” women who (often with little acknowledgment and low pay) undertook the lengthy calculations needed for the war effort and later the space race.

Accordingly, the logic gates that make up electronic circuits, at the heart of the new “artificial” computers, were originally conceived of as artificial neurons. Journalists who referred to computers as “electronic brains” weren’t just writing the midcentury equivalent of clickbait. They were portraying the ambitions of computer science pioneers. And it was natural enough for those first computer scientists to seek to reproduce any kind of thinking.

Those hopes were soon dashed. On one hand, digital computers were a smashing success at the narrowly procedural tasks we knew how to specify. Electronic computers could be programmed to do the work of human computers cheaply, flawlessly and at a massive scale, from calculating rocket trajectories to tracking payroll. On the other hand, by the 1950s, neuroscientists had discovered that real neurons are a good deal more complicated than logic gates.

Worse, it proved impossible to write programs that could perform even the simplest everyday human functions, from visual recognition to basic language comprehension — let alone nuanced reasoning, literary analysis or artistic creativity. We had (and still have) no idea how to write down exact procedures for such things. The doomed attempt to do so is now known as “Good Old-Fashioned AI” or GOFAI. We set out to make HAL 9000, and instead, we got “Press 1 to make an appointment; press 2 to modify an existing appointment.”

A purportedly sensible narrative emerged to justify GOFAI’s failure: computers are not brains, and brains are not computers. Any contrary suggestion was naïve, “hype” or, at best, an ill-fitting metaphor. There was, perhaps, something reassuring about the idea that human behavior couldn’t be programmed. For the most part, neuroscience and computer science went their separate ways.

“Computational neuroscientists,” however, continued to study the brain as an information-processing system, albeit one based on a radically different design from those of conventional electronic computers. The brain has no central processing unit or separate memory store, doesn’t run instructions only sequentially and doesn’t use binary logic. Still, as Turing showed, computing is universal. Given enough time and memory, any computer — whether biological or technological — can simulate any other computer. Indeed, over the years, neuroscientists have built increasingly accurate computational models of biological neurons and neural networks. Such models can include not only the all-or-none pulses or “action potentials” that most obviously characterize neural activity but also the effects of chemical signals, gene expression, electric fields and many other phenomena.

“Human-level intelligence, many rungs above those earliest life forms, arises from the combined computation of some 86 billion neurons, all processing in parallel.”

It’s worth pausing here to unpack the word “model.” In its traditional usage, as in a model railroad or a financial model, the model is emphatically not the real thing. It’s a map, not the actual territory. When neuroscientists build model neural networks, it’s generally in this spirit. They are trying to learn how brains work, not how to make computers think. Accordingly, their models are drastically simplified.

However, computational neuroscience reminds us that the brain, too, is busy computing. And, as such, the function computed by the brain is itself a model. So, the territory is a map; that is, if the map were as big as the territory, it would be the real thing, just as a model railroad would be if it were full-sized. If we built a fully realized model brain, in other words, it would be capable of modeling us right back!

Even as GOFAI underwent a repeated boom-and-bust cycle, an alternative “connectionist” school of thought about how to get computers to think persisted, often intersecting with computational neuroscience. Instead of symbolic logic based on rules specified by a programmer, connectionists embraced “machine learning,” whereby neural nets could learn from experience — as we largely do.

Although often overshadowed by GOFAI, the connectionists never stopped trying to make artificial neural nets perform real-life cognitive tasks. Among these stubborn holdouts were Geoffrey Hinton and John Hopfield, who won the Nobel Prize in physics last year for their work on machine learning; many other pioneers in the field, such as American psychologists Frank Rosenblatt and James McClelland and Japanese computer scientist Kunihiko Fukushima, have been less widely recognized. Unfortunately, the 20th-century computing paradigm was (at least until the 1990s) unfriendly to machine learning, not only due to widespread skepticism about neural nets but also because programming was inherently symbolic. Computers were made for running instructions sequentially — a poor fit for neural computing. Originally, this was a design choice.

The first logic gates were created using vacuum tubes, which were unreliable and needed frequent replacement. To make computation as robust as possible, it was natural to base all calculations on a minimum number of distinguishable “states” for each tube: “off” or “on.” Hence binary, which uses only 0 and 1 — and also happens to be a natural basis for Boolean logic, whose elementary symbols are “True” (or 1) and “False” (or 0).

It was also natural to build a “Central Processing Unit” (CPU) using a minimal number of failure-prone tubes, which would then be used to execute one instruction after another. This meant separating processing from memory and using a cable or “bus” to sequentially shuttle data and instructions from the memory to the CPU and back.

This “classical” computing paradigm flourished for many years thanks to Moore’s Law — a famous 1965 observation by Gordon Moore, a future founder of chip maker Intel, that miniaturization was doubling the number of transistors on a chip every year or two. As transistors shrank, they became exponentially faster and cheaper, and consumed less power. So, giant, expensive mainframes became minis, then desktops, then laptops, then phones, then wearables. Computers now exist that are tiny enough to fit through a hypodermic needle. Laptops and phones consist mainly of batteries and screens; the actual computer in such a device — its “system on chip,” or SoC — is only about a square centimeter in area, and a tenth of a millimeter thick. A single drop of water occupies several times that volume.

While this scale progression is remarkable, it doesn’t lead brainward. Your brain is neither tiny nor fast; it runs much more sedately than the computer in a smartwatch. However, recall that it contains 86 billion or so neurons working at the same time. This adds up to a truly vast amount of computation, and because it happens comparatively slowly and uses information stored locally, it is energy efficient. Artificial neural computing remained inefficient, even as computers sped up, because they continued to run instructions sequentially: reading and writing data from a separate memory as needed.

It only became possible to run meaningfully sized neural networks when companies like Nvidia began to design chips with multiple processors running in parallel. Parallelization was partly a response to the petering-out of Moore’s Law in its original form. While transistors continued to shrink, after 2006 or so, they could no longer be made to run faster; the practical limit was a few billion cycles per second.

“Artificial neural computing remained inefficient, even as computers sped up, because they continued to run instructions sequentially.”

Parallelizing meant altering the programming model to favor short code fragments (originally called “pixel shaders” since they were designed for graphics) that could execute on many processors simultaneously. Shaders turned out to be ideal for parallelizing neural nets. Hence, the Graphics Processing Unit (GPU), originally designed for gaming, now powers AI. Google’s Tensor Processing Units (TPUs) are based on similar design principles.

Although GPUs and TPUs are a step in the right direction, AI infrastructure today remains hobbled by its classical legacy. We are still far from having chips with billions of processors on them, all working in parallel on locally stored data. And AI models are still implemented using sequential instructions. Conventional computer programming, chip architecture and system design are simply not brain-like. We are simulating neural computing on classical computers, which is inefficient — just as simulating classical computing with brains was, back in the days of human computation.

Over the next few years, though, we expect to see a truly neural computing paradigm emerge. Neural computing may eventually be achieved on photonic, biological, chemical, quantum, or other entirely novel substrates. But even if “silicon brains” are manufactured using familiar chip technologies, their components will be organized differently. Every square centimeter of silicon will contain many millions of information processing nodes, like neurons, all working at once.

These neural chips won’t run programs. Their functionality will be determined not by code (at least not of the sort we have today), but by billions or trillions of numerical parameters stored across the computing area. A neural silicon brain will be capable of being “flashed,” its parameters initialized as desired; but it will also be able to learn from experience, modifying those parameters on the fly. The computation will be decentralized and robust; occasional failures or localized damage won’t matter. It’s no coincidence that this resembles nature’s architecture for building a brain.

Predictive Intelligence

For those of us who were involved in the early development of language models, the evident generality of AI based solely on next-word (or “next-token”) prediction has been paradigm-shifting. Even if we bought into the basic premise that brains are computational, most of us believed that true AI would require discovering some special algorithm, and that algorithm would help clear up the longstanding mysteries of intelligence and consciousness. So, it came as a shock when next-token prediction alone, applied at a massive scale, “solved” intelligence.

Once we got over our shock, we realized that this doesn’t imply that there are no mysteries left, that consciousness is not real, or that the mind is a Wizard of Oz “illusion.” The neural networks behind LLMs are both enormous and provably capable of any computation, just like a classical computer running a program. In fact, LLMs can learn a wider variety of algorithms than computer scientists have discovered or invented.

Perhaps, then, the shock was unwarranted. We already knew that the brain is computational and that whatever it does must be learnable, either by evolution or by experience — or else we would not exist. We have simply found ourselves in the odd position of reproducing something before fully understanding it. When Turing and von Neumann made their contributions to computer science, theory was ahead of practice. Today, practice is ahead of theory.

Being able to create intelligence in the lab gives us powerful new avenues for investigating its longstanding mysteries, because — despite claims to the contrary — artificial neural nets are not “black boxes.” We can not only examine their chains of thought but are also learning to probe them more deeply to conduct “artificial neuroscience.” And unlike biological brains, we can record and analyze every detail of their activity, run perfectly repeatable experiments at large scale, and turn on or off any part of the network to see what it does.

While there are many important differences between AI models and brains, comparative analyses have found striking functional similarities between them too, suggesting common underlying principles. After drawing inspiration from decades of brain research, AI is thus starting to pay back its debt to neuroscience, under the banner of “NeuroAI.”

Although we don’t yet fully understand the algorithms LLMs learn, we’re starting to grasp why learning to predict the next token works so well. The “predictive brain hypothesis” has a long history in neuroscience; it holds that brains evolved to continually model and predict the future — of the perceptual environment, of oneself, of one’s actions, and of their effects on oneself and the environment. Our ability to behave intentionally and intelligently depends on such a model.

“We are simulating neural computing on classical computers, which is inefficient — just as simulating classical computing with brains was, back in the days of human computation.”

Consider reaching for a cup of water. It’s no mean feat to have learned how to model the world and your own body well enough to bring your hand into contact with that cup, wrap your fingers around it, and bring it to your lips and drink — all in a second or two. At every stage of these movements, your nervous system computes a prediction and compares it with proprioceptive feedback. Your eyes flit across the scene, providing further error correction.

At a higher level, you predict that drinking will quench your thirst. Thirst is itself a predictive signal, though “learned” by an entire species on much longer, evolutionary timescales. Organisms incapable of predicting their need for water won’t survive long enough to pass on their faulty self-models.

Evolution distills countless prior generations of experience, boiled down to the crude signal of reproductive success or death. Evolutionary learning is at work when a newborn recognizes faces, or, perhaps when a cat that has never seen a snake jumps in fright upon noticing a cucumber placed surreptitiously behind it.

Machine learning involves tuning model parameters that are usually understood to represent synapses — the connections between neurons that strengthen or weaken through lifelong learning. These parameters are usually initialized randomly. But in brains, neurons wire up according to a genetically encoded (and environmentally sensitive) developmental program. We expect future AI models will similarly be evolved to construct themselves. They will grow and develop dynamically through experience rather than having static, hand-engineered architectures with fixed parameter counts.

Unifying learning across timescales may also eliminate the current dichotomy between model training and normal operation (or “inference”). Today, state-of-the-art training of LLMs is extremely expensive, requiring massive computational resources over months, while inference is comparatively cheap and can be done in real-time. Yet we know that one of the most important skills LLMs learn is how to learn, which explains why it’s possible for them to handle a novel idea, word or task during a chat session.

For now, though, any such newly acquired knowledge is transient, persisting only as long as it remains within the “context window”; the model parameters remain unchanged. Future models that unify action and prediction should be able to learn cumulatively and open-endedly as they go, the way we do.

In a similar vein, we’re starting to see a shift from conceiving of AI model capability as capped by its initial offline training to “test-time scaling,” in which models become more capable simply by taking more time to think through their responses. More brain-like model designs should allow such in-the-moment improvements to accumulate, as they do for us, so that all future responses can benefit.

Because the neural networks underlying LLMs are powerful general-purpose predictors, it makes sense that they have proven capable not only of modeling language, sound and video, but also of revolutionizing robotics, like in the earlier example of reaching for a glass of water. Hand-programmed GOFAI struggled for decades with anything beyond the repetitive, routinized robotics of assembly lines. But today, LLM-like “vision-language-action” models can learn how to drive all sorts of robotic bodies, from Waymo vehicles to humanoid (and many other) forms, which are increasingly deployed in complex, unstructured environments.

By using chains of thought and reasoning traces, which break large problems down into smaller intermediate steps, predictive models can even simulate multiple possible outcomes or contingencies, selecting from a tree of potential futures. This kind of “choiceful” prediction may be the mechanism underlying our notion of free will.

Ultimately, everything organisms do can be thought of as a self-fulfilling prediction. Life is that which predicts itself into continued existence, and through increasing intelligence, that prediction can become ever more sophisticated.

Embracing the paradigm of predictive processing, including the unification of planning, action and prediction, promises not only to further improve language models and robotics, but to also bring the theoretical foundations of machine learning, neuroscience and even theoretical biology onto a common footing.

General Intelligence

According to some, LLMs are counterfeit intelligence: they give the appearance of being intelligent without actually being so. According to these skeptics, we have trained AI to pass the Turing Test by “autocompleting” enormous numbers of sentences, creating machines that fool us into believing there’s “someone home” when there is not.

Many hold the opposing view that AI is real and that we’re on the threshold of achieving “Artificial General Intelligence” (AGI) — though there are wide-ranging views on how to define it. Depending on the individual, this prospect may be exciting, alarming or even existentially threatening.

“Despite claims to the contrary — artificial neural nets are not “black boxes.'”

So, which camp is right? The answer might be “neither”: most in both camps hold that AGI is a discrete threshold that will (or won’t) be crossed sometime in the future. In reality, there does not appear to be any such threshold — or if there is, we may have already crossed it.

Let’s address the skeptics first. For many, AI’s ability to perform tasks — whether chatting, writing poetry, driving cars or even doing something entirely novel — is irrelevant because the way AI is implemented disqualifies it from being truly intelligent. This view may be justified by asserting that the brain must do something other than “mere” prediction, that the brain is not a computer, or simply that AI models are not alive. Consequently, skeptics often hold that, when applied to AI, terms like “intelligence,” “understanding,” “agency,” “learning,” or “hallucination” require scare quotes because they are inappropriately anthropomorphic.

Is such handwringing over diction warranted? Adopting a functional perspective suggests otherwise. We call both a bird’s wing and a plane’s wing “wings” not because they are made of the same material or work the same way, but because they serve the same function. Should we care whether a plane achieves flight differently than a bird? Not if our concern is with purpose — that is, with why birds and planes have wings in the first place.

Functionalism is a hallmark of all “purposeful” systems, including organisms, ecologies and technologies. Everything “purposeful” is made up of mutually interdependent parts, each serving purposes (or functions) for the others. And those parts, too, are often themselves made out of smaller interdependent and purposeful parts.

Whether implicitly or explicitly, many AI skeptics care less about what is achieved (flying or intelligence) than about how it is achieved. Nature, however, is indifferent to “how.” For the sake of flexibility or robustness, engineered and natural systems alike often involve the substitution or concurrent use of parts that serve the same function but work differently. For instance, in logistics, railroads and trucks both transport goods; as a customer, you only care about getting your delivery. In your cells, aerobic or anaerobic respiration may serve the same function, with the anaerobic pathway kicking in when you exercise too hard for aerobic respiration to keep up.

The nervous system is no different. It, too, consists of parts with functional relationships, and these, too, can be swapped out for functional equivalents. We already do this, to a degree, with cochlear implants and artificial retinas, though these prostheses can’t yet approach the quality of biological ears or eyes. Eventually, though, neuroprosthetics will rival or exceed the sensory organs we’re born with.

One day, we may even be able to replace damaged brain tissue in the same way. This will work because you have no “homunculus,” no particularly irreplaceable spot in your brain where the “you” part of you lives. What makes you you is not any one part of your brain or body, or your atoms — they turn over frequently in any case — nor is it the details of how every part of you is implemented. You are, rather, a highly complex, dynamic set of functional relationships.

What about AI models? Not only are LLMs implemented very differently from brains, but their relationships with us are also different from those between people. They don’t have bodies or life stories, kinship or long-term attachments. Such differences are relevant in considering the ethical and legal status of AI. They’re irrelevant, however, to questions of capability, like those about intelligence and understanding.

Some researchers agree with all these premises in theory but still maintain that there is a threshold to AGI and current AI systems have not crossed it yet. So how will we know when they do? The answer must involve benchmarks to test the capabilities we believe constitute general intelligence.

Many have been proposed. Some, like AI researcher François Chollet’s “Abstraction and Reasoning Corpus,” are IQ-like tests. Others are more holistic; our colleagues at Google DeepMind, for example, have emphasized the need to focus on capabilities rather than processes, stressing the need for a generally intelligent agent to be competent at a “wide range of non-physical tasks, including metacognitive tasks like learning new skills.” But which tasks should one assess? Outside certain well-defined skills within competitive markets, we may find it difficult to meaningfully bucket ourselves into “competent” (50th percentile), “expert” (90th percentile) and “virtuoso” (99th percentile).

“For the sake of flexibility or robustness, engineered and natural systems alike often involve the substitution or concurrent use of parts that serve the same function but work differently.”

The original definition of AGI dates to at least 2002, and can be described most simply as “general cognitive capabilities typical for humans,” as computer scientists Peter Voss and Mlađan Jovanović put it in a 2023 paper. But some frame these capabilities only in economic terms. OpenAI’s website defines AGI as “a highly autonomous system that outperforms humans at most economically valuable work.” In 2023, AI entrepreneur Mustafa Suleyman (now CEO of Microsoft AI) suggested that an AI will be generally “capable” when it can make a million dollars.

Such thresholds are both arbitrary and inconsistent with the way we think about human intelligence. Why insist on economic activity at all? How much money do we need to make to count as smart, and are those of us who have not managed to amass a fortune not generally intelligent?

Of course, we’re motivated to build AI by the prospect of enriching or expanding humanity, whether scientifically, economically or socially. But economic measures of productivity are neither straightforward nor do they map cleanly to intelligence. They also exclude a great deal of human labor whose value is not accounted for economically. Focusing on the “ecological validity” of tasks — that is, on whether they matter to others, whether economically, artistically, socially, emotionally or in any other way — emphasizes the difficulty of any purely objective performance evaluation.

Today’s LLMs can already perform a wide and growing array of cognitive tasks that, a few years ago, any reasonable person would have agreed require high intelligence: from breaking down a complex argument to writing code to softening the tone of an email to researching a topic online. In nearly any given domain, a human expert can still do better. (This is the performance gap many current evaluation methodologies try to measure.) But let’s acknowledge that no single human — no matter how intelligent — possesses a comparable breadth of skills. In the past few years, we have quietly switched from measuring AI performance relative to anyone to assessing it relative to everyone. Put another way, individual humans are now less “general” than AI models.

This progress has been swift but continuous. We think the goalposts keep moving in part because no single advance seems decisive enough to warrant declaring AGI success. There’s always more to do. Yet we believe that if an AI researcher in 2002 could somehow interact with any of today’s LLMs, that researcher would, without hesitation, say that AGI is here.

One key to achieving the “general” in AGI has been “unsupervised training,” which involves machine learning without stipulating a task. Fine-tuning and reinforcement learning are usually applied afterward to enhance particular skills and behavioral attributes, but most of today’s model training is generic. AI’s broad capabilities arise by learning to model language, sound, vision or anything else. Once a model can work with such modalities generically, then, like us, it can be instructed to perform any task — even an entirely novel one — as long as that task is first described, inferred or shown by example.

To understand how we’ve achieved artificial general intelligence, why it has only happened recently, after decades of failed attempts, and what this tells us about our own minds, we must re-examine our most fundamental assumptions — not just about AI, but about the nature of computing itself.

Collective Intelligence

The “social intelligence hypothesis” holds that intelligence explosions in brainy species like ours arose due to a social feedback loop. Our survival and reproductive success depend on our ability to make friends, attract partners, access shared resources and, not least, convince others to help care for our children. All of these require “theory of mind,” the ability to put oneself in another’s shoes: What does the other person see and feel? What are they thinking? What do they know, and what don’t they know? How will they behave?

Keeping track of the mental states of others is a cognitive challenge. Across primate species, researchers have observed correlations between brain size and troop size. Among humans, the volumes of their brain areas associated with theory of mind correlates to the numbers of friends they have. We also know that people with more friends tend to be healthier and live longer than those who are socially isolated. Taken together, these observations are evidence of ongoing selection pressure favoring a social brain.

“We have quietly switched from measuring AI performance relative to anyone to assessing it relative to everyone. Put another way, individual humans are now less ‘general’ than AI models.”

While theory of mind has a Machiavellian side, it’s also essential for the advanced forms of cooperation that make humans special. Teaching and learning, division of labor, the maintenance of reputation and the mental accounting of “IOUs” all rely on theory of mind. Hence, so does the development of any nontrivial economy, political system or technology. Since tribes or communities that can cooperate at scale function as larger, more capable wholes, theory of mind doesn’t only deliver individual benefits; it also benefits the group.

As this group-level benefit becomes decisive, the social aggregation of minds tips into a Major Evolutionary Transition — a symbiosis, if you recall, in which previously independent entities join forces to make something new and greater. The price of aggregation is that formerly independent entities can no longer survive and reproduce on their own. That’s a fair description of modern urbanized society: How many of us could survive in the woods on our own?

We are a superorganism. As such, our intelligence is already collective and, therefore, in a sense, superhuman. That’s why, when we train LLMs on the collective output of large numbers of people, we are already creating a superintelligence with far greater breadth and average depth than any single person — even though LLMs still usually fall short of individual human experts within their domains of expertise.

This is what motivates Humanity’s Last Exam, a (rather grimly named) recent attempt to create an AI benchmark that LLMs can’t yet ace. The test questions were written by nearly 1,000 experts in more than 100 fields, requiring such skills as translating Palmyrene script from a Roman tombstone or knowing how many paired tendons are supported by a hummingbird’s sesamoid bone. An expert classicist could answer the former, and an expert ornithologist could answer the latter, but we suspect that median human performance on the exam would be close to zero. By contrast, state-of-the-art models today score between 3.3% and 18.8%.

Humanity is superintelligent thanks to its cognitive division of labor; in a sense, that is true of an individual brain, too. AI pioneer Marvin Minsky described a “Society of Mind,” postulating that our apparently singular “selves” are really hive minds consisting of many specialized interacting agents. Indeed, our cerebral cortex consists of an array of “cortical columns,” repeating units of neural circuitry tiled many times to form an extended surface. Although the human cortex is only about 2 to 4.5 millimeters thick, its area can be as large as 2,500 square centimeters (the brain’s wrinkled appearance is a consequence of cramming the equivalent of a large dinner napkin into our skulls). Our cortex was able to expand quickly when evolutionary pressures demanded it precisely because of its modular design. In effect, we simply added more cortical columns.

Cortical modularity is not just developmental but functional. Some parts of the cortex specialize in visual processing, others in auditory processing, touch and so on; still others appear to specialize in social modeling, writing and numeracy. Since these tasks are so diverse, one might assume each corresponding region of the brain is as specialized and different from the other as a dishwasher compared to a photocopier.

But the cortex is different: areas start learning their tasks, beginning in infancy. We know that this ability to learn is powerful and general, given the existence of cortical areas such as the “visual word form area,” which specializes in reading — a skill that emerged far too recently in human history to have evolved through natural selection. Our cortex did not evolve to read, but it can learn to. Each cortical area, having implemented the same general “learning algorithm,” is best thought of not as an appliance with a predetermined function but as a human expert who has learned a particular domain.

This “social cortex” perspective emphasizes the lack of a homunculus or CPU in your brain where “you” reside; the brain is more like a community. Its ability to function coherently without central coordination thus depends not only on the ability of each region to perform its specialized task but also on the ability of these regions to model each other — just as people need theory of mind to form relationships and larger social units.

Do brain regions themselves function as communities of even smaller parts? We believe so. Cortical circuits are built of neurons that not only perform specialized tasks but also appear to learn to model neighboring neurons. This mirrors the familiar quip, “turtles all the way down” (a nod to the idea of infinite regress), suggesting that intelligence is best understood as a “social fractal” rather than a single, monolithic entity.

“Do brain regions themselves function as communities of even smaller parts? We believe so.”

It may also be “turtles all the way up.” As brains become bigger, individuals can become smarter; and as individuals become more numerous, societies can become smarter. There is a curious feedback loop between scales here, as we could only have formed larger societies by growing our brains to model others, and our brains themselves appear to have grown larger through an analogous internal division of cognitive labor.

AI models appear to obey the same principle. Researchers have popularized the idea of “scaling laws” relating model size (and amount of training data) with model capability. To a first approximation, bigger models are smarter, just as bigger brains are smarter. And like brains, AI models are also modular. In fact, many rely on explicitly training a tightly knit “collective” of specialized sub-models, known as a “Mixture of Experts.” Furthermore, even big, monolithic models exhibit “emergent modularity” — they, too, scale by learning how to partition themselves into specialized modules that can divide and conquer.

Thinking about intelligence in terms of sociality and the division of cognitive labor across many simultaneous scales represents a profound paradigm shift. It encourages us to explore AI architectures that look more like growing social networks rather than static, ever-larger monolithic models. It will also be essential to allow models (and sub-models) to progressively specialize, forming long-running collaborations with humans and with each other.

Any of the 1,000-some experts who contributed to Humanity’s Last Exam knows that you can learn only so much from the internet. Beyond that frontier, learning is inseparable from action and interaction. The knowledge frontier expands when those new learnings are shared — whether they arise from scientific experimentation, discussion or extended creative thinking offline (which, perhaps, amounts to discussion with oneself).

In today’s approach to frontier AI, existing human output is aggregated and distilled into a single giant “foundation model” whose weights are subsequently frozen. But AI models are poised to become increasingly autonomous and agentive, including by employing or interacting with other agents. AIs are already helpful in brief, focused interactions. But if we want them to aid in the larger project of expanding the frontiers of collective human knowledge and capability, we must enable them to learn and diversify interactively and continually, as we do.

This is sure to alarm some, as it opens the door to AIs evolving their capabilities open-endedly — again, as we do. The AI safety community refers to the ability for a model to evolve open-endedly as “mesa optimization,” and sees this as a threat. However, we have discovered that even today’s AI models are mesa optimizers because prediction inherently involves learning on the fly; that’s what a chatbot does when instructed to perform a novel task. It works because, even if the chatbot’s neural network weights are frozen, every output makes use of the entire “context window” containing the chat transcript so far. Still, current chatbots suffer a kind of amnesia. They are generally unable to retain their learnings beyond the context of a chat session or sessions. Google’s development of “Infini-attention” and long-term memory, both of which compress older material to allow effectively unbounded context windows, are significant recent advances in this area.The social view of intelligence offers new perspectives not only on AI engineering, but also on some longstanding problems in philosophy, such as the “hard problem” of consciousness. If we understand consciousness to mean our clear sense of ourselves as entities with our own experiences, inner lives and agency, its emergence is no mystery. We form models of “selves” because we live in a social environment full of “selves,” whose thoughts and feelings we must constantly predict using theory of mind. Of course, we need to understand that we are a “self” too, not only because our own past, present and future experiences are highly salient, but because our models of others include their models of us!

Empirical tests to diagnose deficits in theory of mind have existed for decades. When we run these tests on LLMs, we find, unsurprisingly, that they perform about as well as humans do. After all, “selves” and theory-of-mind tasks feature prominently in the stories, dialogues and comment threads LLMs are trained on. We rely on theory of mind in our chatbots, too. In every chat, the AI must not only model us but also maintain a model of itself as a friendly, helpful assistant, and a model of our model of it — and so on. 

Beyond AI Development As Usual

After decades of meager AI progress, we are now rapidly advancing toward systems capable not just of echoing individual human intelligence, but of extending our collective more-than-human intelligence. We are both excited and hopeful about this rapid progress, while acknowledging that it is a moment of momentous paradigm change, attended, as always, by anxiety, debate, upheaval — and many considerations that we must get right.

At such times, we must prioritize not only technical advances, but knight moves that, as in chess, combine such advances with sideways steps into adjacent fields or paradigms to discover rich new intellectual territory, rethink our assumptions and reimagine our foundations. New paradigms will be needed to develop intelligence that will benefit humanity, advance science, and ultimately help us understand ourselves — as individuals, as ecologies of smaller intelligences and as constituents of larger wholes.

The views expressed in this essay are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect those of Google or Alphabet.

The post AI Is Evolving — And Changing Our Understanding Of Intelligence appeared first on NOEMA.

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The Practicalities and Pleasures of Homemade Train Food

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Bárbara Tamilin

Long-haul Amtrak rides are full of people who value a slower pace to life. Of course they eat the same way.

As a nonflier and a travel writer, I spend a lot of time on trains. Train food, I’ve come to learn, is its own distinct and expansive category. It encompasses prime rib and crabcakes and the tinkling sound of wine glasses shaking in the premier train dining car; railway baron-style hotel restaurants with impeccably marbled rib-eye steaks and raw oysters flown into the Rocky Mountains; harrowingly timed DoorDash deliveries to refueling station stops and microwave nachos from the snack car; and coolers of food brought from home.

I often bring my own food on long train rides: okra stew and crab rice, or perhaps my dad’s spaghetti and meatballs, as well as fruits and cakes, all packed in my trusted backpack cooler, along with an electric travel Crock-Pot that has saved me on many Amtrak trips. But as Amtrak’s California Zephyr looped around Donner Lake on a trip this past fall, I found myself — too tired to pack a meal this time around, and with a delivered bag of fast food as a consolation prize — sharing a meal with fellow passengers, siblings Elizabeth and Leon from Michigan. They had brought food, mostly grown or raised on their small farm: squash, radishes, grapes, boiled duck eggs, homemade bread, and nut mix. They were going camping in California and liked to remain healthy. “We want to know what we’re eating,” said Elizabeth.

Another couple traveling from San Diego back home to Warren County, Ohio, brought their own food but also sometimes hit the dining car. “We think the food on the train is pretty good,” they said, mentioning they liked the omelets in the dining car for sleeper passengers, which has a better quality of food than the snack car (with my personal favorites being the French toast and Amtrak Signature Steak). “But we bring our own food on the train because of cost, more than anything.” They added, “You never know what’s going to happen, so it’s better to have food in your own control.”

To Elizabeth, the food in the Amtrak dining car was good, but she preferred her own. When I asked them why her family grows their own food, Elizabeth said, “We help each other in our community, and we want to have a direct connection with the Earth and our food, and not have to go through other people [or companies] to get what we need.”

That reasoning was almost identical to that of a group of Indian women on the train who had brought their own food — a mixture of vegetable curries and homemade breads like aloo paratha — and who all had gardens because they were tired of high grocery prices and low-quality produce. And in Chicago’s Union Station, surrounded by fast food, I once watched a child reach into a huge plastic tub of ice cream, relabeled in slanting marker as “Anna’s Sunday’s Best,” and pull out a homemade scone, the look of happiness radiating from her. There’s a sense of idealism baked into how we talk about homemade food — it’s nostalgic, it reminds us of home and heritage, and it’s aspirational — but the people who have made homemade food part of the culture on Amtrak trains aren’t outliers.

Train food, like any other genre of food and perhaps more so, offers sociological insights into the culture and land that the track runs through, and the passengers who choose to travel this way. Today, you can catapult yourself through the sky and cross the entire continent of North America in five hours, while a train would take you 90 hours to get from New York to LA — 144 hours if you’re crossing Canada by VIA Rail. Train travel isn’t convenient or particularly cheaper than air travel, and feeding yourself for days on a moving train is a pain. So anyone who chooses slow travel thinks carefully about not just that decision, but what they’ll eat: It’s a slower, simpler way of life.

Those who ride the train as a lifestyle and continue to make that choice, do, in my observations, tend to have these questions about self-sufficiency, food sovereignty, and going back to the land. Sometimes their solutions can be colonial — see the rise in homesteading on social media and its colonial background and practice — and sometimes they can be liberatory. Sometimes those solutions are communal, and sometimes they’re isolationist. The Amtrak train becomes a microcosm where these impulses are both heightened and ruminated on — and sometimes challenged — as people connect with each other in social spaces where food is often central.


Leon and Elizabeth, as well as the couple traveling to Warren County, all happened to be Amish, a group that’s part of the Anabaptist religious tradition, which came out of the 16th-century Protestant Reformation, critiquing the excesses and expansive power of the Catholic Church. Simple living, as Jamie Pitts, PhD, professor of Anabaptist Studies and director of the Institute of Mennonite Studies at Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary, calls it, is a cornerstone of the Anabaptist world, which includes both Mennonites and the Amish.

Amish people use less technology, speak Pennsylvania Dutch, grow more of their own food, and are more conservative; there’s a tendency amongst the Amish to not travel by plane, taking horses and buggies, hired drivers, or trains instead. Elizabeth plans on flying one day, but for her and her brother, riding Amtrak isn’t something they feel forced into doing. It’s something they do to connect with the land and take time for themselves, like reading and meditating in the observation car as the Nevada deserts speed past. “I just love the train, the scenery, and the traveling, and the people... it’s just relaxing,” says Leon.

The Amish have always been a source of fascination for the American public, which often treats them as the other. John Roth, project director and history professor of Anabaptist Studies at Goshen College, who is Mennonite (an Anabaptist group from which the Amish broke away in the 17th century but to which they still retain similarities and ties), says mainstream culture is often fetishizing towards Amish people. “We project onto them the embodiment of rugged, mythic, American ideals of a simpler time,” Roth says, pointing out that 4 million tourists come to Northern Indiana annually to observe Amish way of life. “The fascination is not evil, but it says more about the culture that is interested in the Amish than it does about the Amish.”

And because part of the Amish’s “deeply religious convictions recognize the way technology erodes our sense of connectedness,” according to Roth, there is perhaps no system in America where Amish and non-Amish regularly interact more than the Amtrak train system, where non-Amish regularly comment on the food Amish people bring onto the train. When I ask people if they brought their own food from home, I usually get one of two answers, sometimes both: first, with a laugh, “All I’ve brought is my own whiskey/wine.” Then, in a serious tone, “You should talk to the Amish.”

Even in a time where it seems like every other social media account is a brand-new homesteading influencer, when we think of slow eating, many of us may think of the Amish because of their values, which encourage frugality and simplicity. After eating Elizabeth and Leon’s homemade food, I wanted to understand what Amish food was, why it was so well-suited for long train journeys, and why it felt like a cousin to my mother’s Black Southern food traditions. Chef Chris Scott, who coined the term “Amish soul food” on Top Chef to describe his family’s culinary milieu, was the perfect person to speak to.

“Right after emancipation from slavery, my great-grandfather was the only one of 11 siblings to come up North from Virginia,” says Scott. Coatesville, Pennsylvania, where Scott’s great-grandfather ended up, was full of German and Dutch Amish whose food traditions influenced his Black family, leading to dishes like okra chow chow and homemade buckwheat crackers — both of which they took on long journeys. “By the time that I was born, this was the only food that my family knew,” Scott, who also wrote a cookbook on Amish soul food, says.

Marshall King, a food writer whose Amish grandparents had a house right by the Amtrak track, says Amish food does look a lot like Dutch, German, or American Southern food, but it has its own “hallmarks that are distinctive of Amish ethnic cuisine, which varies a bit by community.” He says that for example, in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, shoofly pie is pretty common but in Indiana, raspberry cream pie, doughnuts, or fried pies are more popular. King says the fried pies — typically a glazed hand pie with a fruit filling — are “all the rage right now in Northern Indiana,” and stresses how much Amish bakeries are prized in many communities, being one of the primary ways — besides Amtrak — that non-Amish regularly interact with Amish people.

But defining features of both Amish and Southern cuisines are the methods used to preserve freshness, to cook seasonally, and to take food on long-distance travel. Amish food tends to keep well for obvious reasons: preserving crops and taking food on long journeys in the absence of quicker methods. Up until a few decades ago, Black Southerners found that stopping for food in the car to be a fraught experience due to racial terror. They faced discrimination during plane travel, and so mostly took trains, buses, and cars. They took preserved foods, or foods that don’t need to be heated up to be delicious — oiled eggs, ham, fried chicken, pickled vegetables. “For long journeys, a lot of the Amish and a lot of the Southerners will bake a lot of bread — especially potato bread — and different types of dumplings made from potatoes,” says Scott.

These kinds of foods became the bedrock of train food brought from home. While you can get steak or chicken in a butter sauce in the dining car, or while companies like YETI and Crock-Pot make long-distance travel easier with products that keep and hold elaborate meals for longer, simple foods that hold well still fill train passengers’ coolers.


As the California Zephyr meandered through the Rocky Mountains and the vastness of Utah, I reflected on my original decision to stop flying. It was ostensibly out of fear of flying, but I also hated the social pressure to fly, and the way you lose your autonomy upon boarding because you can’t get off. Not flying was a way of declaring my own sovereignty, an impulse that led to a longer journey of food sovereignty — learning to grow food, forage, fish, and hunt.

What is the immediate threat to me feeding myself? Why must I start changing the way I eat or defending the way I eat? Every generation must ask themselves this deeply political question. For the 16th-century Anabaptists, the answer to that question was the exploitation they faced from the tenant farmer system: Out of that rebellion came the realization that the only way for them to achieve food sovereignty or any other kind of autonomy would be to build their own intentional communities that reflected values that directly contrasted those that valued land exploitation. Centuries later, the cookbook Living More with Less by Doris Janzen Longacre, which Pitts considers to be one of the most influential Mennonite texts, was released amid the threat of environmental destruction. It offered a vision for how Mennonites and the larger society could reduce consumption through our eating habits, including maintaining home gardens.

For Indigenous people facing the theft of their land, the answer to these questions was and remains colonialism, and restaurants like Cafe Ohlone in Berkeley, California, serve decolonized dishes that tell the story of their fight for food sovereignty. For my mother’s family, it was racial terror and Black land theft; for myself and other Black people, owning land and farming on it feels like a pathway to survival and liberation. In 2020, the obvious answer was the COVID-19 pandemic, and many started to question the safety of our food systems — that questioning continues now as the bird flu is on the rise, impacting the meat and dairy industry. “Today, inflation is probably setting the immediate terms” for this political question of food and liberation, Pitts says. And for many — including liberal Mennonites — imperialism is a threat as well, as they see Israel starving Palestinians and wondering whether that weapon of war can also be used on them.

Roth says Amish thought is not about the unwillingness to utilize technology, but the question of its impacts. “So much of modern culture assumes that an innovation almost brings with it a moral imperative to adopt it,” Roth says. These assumptions — why wouldn’t we choose a mode of transportation that goes faster? — are what separates Amish people from the mainstream. Roth says, “The Amish simply have a stronger sociological and theological filter for asking with each technological innovation, what is its impact on the community?”

The Amish restrictions against airplanes, for Roth, are a way of ensuring that all aspects of someone’s immediate community are always within sight of where they live. “The decision to consciously choose community over efficiency or the collapse of time and space is a way the Amish have maintained their culture,” he says. But constant technological pushes don’t just erode community. They erode the earth, they erode food systems, they erode economies, and they erode the ability of this generation to live a good life.

“Slowly [technology] is getting into the lifestyle,” Elizabeth says. “We really have to keep asking ourselves now, how much do we want it? And make our own boundaries and convictions.”

My lunch companion and fellow sleeper passenger on the train one day was Carolyn Miles, an 82-year-old woman from Tennessee by way of Kansas. Her love of trains started early; her grandfather headed up freight travel for the Cleveland and Ohio Railroad and she often tagged along with him after World War II ended. “He was not a very nice man, but he was a good executive,” she told me as we ate patty melts in Amtrak’s dining car, with caramelized onions Carolyn enjoyed.

Her mother — who had a flourishing garden, just as Carolyn does now — would make meals for them on these journeys; fried chicken, apples, cookies — classic train food, things that wouldn’t spoil and would taste good cold. “Fried chicken holds well. My mother made really good fried chicken. Oh, my goodness,” Carolyn says.

Creaking through the mountains of Northern California, we talked about how the high cost of living was ruining this generation. “I worry that with the stress of my kids and grandchildren, they might not live as long as I have,” Carolyn said frankly. “My dad fought in the war and I was born during the war, so life wasn’t easy. But life felt more comfortable then. There’s not much comfort now.”

She went on, crediting much of the despair and stress she saw today to a lack of community. “When I was younger, you needed people. You communicated with people. You needed them to be successful. And now it’s kind of like you live in your own little bubble.” She added quietly, “I don’t like what’s ahead. So I’m glad I’m not going to be here to see it.”

As the train pulled through the mountains of Colorado heading towards Denver, I came across a 27-year-old-man from Los Angeles. He had not brought his own food, and after traveling on Amtrak for months, he was sick of the microwave hot dogs and chips and paying $20-45 to eat in the dining car with the sleeper passengers, whose meals came included with their pricier ticket.

His dream, he told me as he looked at the farms that flew past in the window, was to have his own land and grow food on it. “I’m tired. Tired of all the crazy shit going on in the world. Tired of giving the government and everybody else my money. I want something that’s mine.”

For chef Scott, food becomes an answer where people often land after asking themselves about their basic needs. “It starts with, where am I going to put my head down at night? Where is the money going to come from? We have to eat, but I don’t know if wanting to know how to grow and raise their own food comes into their head, until they answer those questions,” he says.

On long-haul trains, various people coalesce around a loosely common goal: the search for a way of life that’s slower, more intentional, more free — whether that life is a deviation from what America tried to force them to accept or closer to the mythic ideal of the America they think they want. Either way, they end up coming together — a natural consequence of wonderers and wanderers traveling for hours across this continent.

“When any of us travel, I think the question is how much are we engaging with each other and how much are we engaging with the culture around us?” says King. “If someone opens the lunch that they brought with them on the train and it smells amazing, but nobody else in the train car says a word, then it was just their lunch. But if it prompts some sort of conversation or interaction or communal aspect, then there’s layers of richness there of people learning about each other and learning about each other’s cultures.”

Once, I rode Amtrak’s Texas Eagle along the U.S.-Mexico border in El Paso when the conductor suggested we buy tamales from a lady selling them wrapped in towels near the tracks. Afterwards, the entire observation car was filled with people eating tamales, all of us connecting with this electric synergy of community, reveling in a shared core memory. King says, “If we can operate out of abundance rather than scarcity, really cool things can happen.”

When I reached my destination in Oakland after 100 hours on the California Zephyr, I headed to the soul food restaurant Burdell. I had a train back to Chicago the next morning, and of course, I was already thinking about what I’d eat. So I ordered some roasted duck with dirty rice and duck cracklings and duck confit — all tangy with the addition of some apple cider vinegar — some cornbread, and chocolate chip cookies with benne seeds. And on the train back to Chicago, I ate it as I gazed out the window into the fog-blanketed Sierra Nevada mountains, feeling sated. Whether you grow it yourself or take it from a restaurant, the best train food all comes down to one thing: connection — to yourself, your community, and the land you travel.

Bárbara Tamilin is an illustrator and painter based in Curitiba, Brazil.

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Knitting, cheerleading, fishing: This is what a cellphone ban looks like in one school district

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SPOKANE, Wash. — During lunch on a Thursday, five dozen students rummaged through fishing lines and hooks, spreading reels and rods across desks in a science lab at Ferris High School for their weekly crash course in angling.

At least one angler later practiced tumbles and routines with the varsity cheerleading team, which, with nine boys this year — a record for Ferris High — soared to second place in a statewide tournament the next day. Middle schools now have waiting lists for the sport.

And at Longfellow Elementary School, students stretched yarn across makeshift looms made out of toilet paper rolls, stitching the arms of an octopus or crafting a snake during knitting club. “It’s honestly just entertaining, but hard, and it hurts your fingers,” said fourth grader Layden, chunky red yarn in hand.

Angling during lunch, waitlists for cheerleading and knitting clubs in elementary school — this is what a smartphone ban looks like at Spokane Public Schools.

The district, the third-largest in Washington state, for years contemplated joining a slew of school systems, states and entire countries experimenting with banning smartphones for young people as concerns grew about their impact on student mental health, social skills and academics. Roughly 7 in 10 Americans support school cellphone bans, at least in class, according to the Pew Research Center; another third favors a ban for the entire school day. Even the new U.S. health secretary, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., has praised such restrictions.

Related: A lot goes on in classrooms from kindergarten to high school. Keep up with our free weekly newsletter on K-12 education.

District leaders and community partners in Spokane, though, didn’t simply want to tear devices out of kids’ hands. They also wanted to engage young people “in real life,” or “Engage IRL” as the district’s campaign is called. To that end, school officials came up with a plan to get every student involved in some after-school activity, club or sport every day.

“We can’t just do the cellphone ban in isolation,” said Superintendent Adam Swinyard. “This is about learning healthy habits.”

Community and school district leaders hope their smartphone ban and campaign for after-school activities will engage more students in academics and socializing. Credit: Neal Morton/The Hechinger Report

Spokane Public Schools welcomed students back to class last fall with new rules: Elementary and middle schoolers must keep smartphones, watches and other internet-connected devices in a backpack, pouch or out of sight. The policy loosens at high schools, with phones allowed during meals and between classes.

Through its Engage IRL campaign, the district has  expanded extracurricular programs at each of its 58 schools. It also allows teachers to plan up to two field trips a month, with the city offering free rides on public transit. A local nonprofit is kicking in $3 million over three years to pay for “engagement navigators” who track participation data at each campus, finding new activities or making them easier for students to join.

District officials shared what they see as early signs that their two-part approach could be working: As of March, nearly 18,000 students had participated in an after-school club, sport or activity — a gain of 19 percent from all of last school year. And chronic absenteeism fell about 13 percent among students who engaged in an IRL activity, a district spokesman said. 

At the same time, researchers have started to collect data on the impact of smartphone restrictions elsewhere, with recent indications that bans in class — at least on their own — won’t be enough to reverse the apparent harms from the technology.

John Ketcham, a legal policy fellow with the Manhattan Institute, helped write the conservative think tank’s model legislation for states considering how to restrict smartphone use in schools. He said any ban has to be just one part of the effort to reconnect disengaged youth with the community around them.

“Once we get kids off the habitual use of smartphones, that will open new worlds for them, new ways of socializing and making friends,” Ketcham said. “Exploring those avenues after school can certainly help in giving kids healthy alternatives.”

Before Covid, in 2015, the average teenager spent about 6.5 hours each day on screens for entertainment, including gaming and social media, according to the nonprofit Common Sense Media. By 2021, teens had added two hours to their daily use — and the 8.5-hour tally doesn’t include time spent on screens at school or for homework. 

Common Sense Media last year also found that kids get hooked on tech early: Two in 5 children get their first tablet by age 2, and nearly a quarter have a personal cellphone before the fourth grade.

Related: Day care, baby supplies, counseling: Inside a school for pregnant and parenting teens

At Longfellow Elementary School in Spokane, a survey last year found that about half of the third to fifth graders had their own phone, according to Principal Adam Oakley.

“When we talk to parents about why, 100 percent of the time it’s safety,” said Oakley.

Parents feel safer when they know how to reach their kids during an emergency. They also can send medication reminders, rearrange a carpool or ask about after-school activities — all of which Oakley considers distractions in the classroom. Teachers don’t appreciate the distractions either. A third of all teachers — including nearly 75 percent of high school teachers — called smartphones a “major problem” in their classrooms, according to a Pew survey last year. 

So far, at least nine states have banned student devices during the school day, the Associated Press reports. Republican-controlled Florida passed the nation’s first such law, setting a statewide prohibition, while the Democrat-dominated legislature in California will require all school districts to set their own policies by next summer. 

The movement is global. Brazil, Italy, the Netherlands and individual provinces in Canada have joined a growing list of countries with sweeping restrictions on smartphones in schools. International research has trickled out on the results from some earlier bans, showing that in Norwegian schools banning smartphones reduced bullying and improved grades for girls, particularly for children from low-income backgrounds. A Denmark study found that students exercised more and burned more energy during recess without their phones.

A large study in England, however, determined no link between a student’s mental health, sleep or even problematic use of social media and their school’s cellphone policy. The study’s lead author, Victoria Goodyear from the University of Birmingham, told the BBC that the findings suggest that bans may not succeed on their own.

“We need to do more than just ban phones in schools,” she said.

Related: OPINION: There are lessons to be learned from Finland, but giving smartphones to young children isn’t one of them

In Spokane, a district of about 29,000 students, overall attendance has declined every year since the start of the pandemic. That trend alarmed Ben Small, a former superintendent who now leads LaunchNW, the education arm of a local philanthropy. He worried even more about youth mental health: In 2010, just 54 children across Spokane County attempted or died by suicide; by 2022, total suicides and attempts among children rose to 587.

“We have to do something different,” said Small, who approached the district in 2022 with the idea of hiring the engagement navigators to connect students with after-school activities. “Belonging is critical, and when it’s created only in a virtual world, it’s not real. We must focus on face-to-face relationships again.”

Unlike the Manhattan Institute’s model legislation for smartphone bans, Spokane doesn’t attach its policy to discipline. Each school is essentially left to deal with violations on its own. Matthew Henshaw, principal of Flett Middle School, said he leaves teachers to enforce the new rules, but often talks with repeat violators — and sometimes their parents. 

This year, Flett added new after-school activities for running, pre-engineering, beading, cooking, yoga and Salish — a language spoken among Native Americans in eastern Washington state. The only problem? Finding enough adults to lead the clubs.

Spokane Public Schools offers teachers $28 per hour to lead after-school activities. Support staff can earn extra pay as well, but schools can’t recruit enough volunteers from the neighborhood to meet the demand. Nationally, volunteering has fallen — not just in education — since the pandemic.

Andrew Gardner is one of the five engagement navigators hired by LaunchNW. He drives each week between 11 different schools, including Ferris, reviewing participation data to identify students who remain uninvolved. A student’s response on a survey about popular activities may offer Gardner a conversation starter.

“You mentioned wanting to do this at the beginning of the year. You still interested?” Gardner said he might ask an eighth grader passionate about a particular sport. “Let’s get you to the high school. Let’s get you to a game, and let’s get you playing now.”

One common barrier he’s noticed: older students with babysitting responsibilities for younger siblings. Ferris now offers after-school activities specifically for those children so students can participate.

Related: Why schools’ efforts to block the Internet are so laughably lame

The district and LaunchNW have signed agreements to share attendance data and mental health survey results to measure the impact of the Engage IRL campaign. Principal Oakley, at Longfellow Elementary, offered another metric: Last year, he confiscated two to three devices each week during recess. This year, he didn’t confiscate any until late January.

At first, during recess, without their devices on the blacktop, students didn’t know what to do.

Students craft octopuses and snakes during knitting club at Longfellow Elementary School in Spokane, Wash. The school district paired its new smartphone ban with a push for more extracurricular activities. Credit: Neal Morton/The Hechinger Report

“Students struggled, I think, learning how to play again,” Oakley said. “They still know tag.”

The school increased the number of organized games, like flag football, during recess. Oakley also surveyed teachers for ideas and favorite hobbies, recruiting them later to start new clubs. (He too wished for more volunteers.)

An hour or so after last bell at Longfellow Elementary, a ball of yarn shot past the head of one father joining his daughter at knitting club. Layden, the fourth grader, was tossing the yarn around the classroom as she waited for help with a stitch. She’s also in basketball, football and soccer at the school.

“It just seemed fun to do and I wanted to learn to knit,” she said. “I go after school to calm down. It’s very soothing.”

Related: Schools are embracing summer learning — just as the money dries up

Jetaime Thomas also has a busy extracurricular schedule.

A senior at Ferris High, she’s yearbook editor, varsity basketball manager, president of the Black Student Union and part of student government and a comedy improv group. Thomas wished she had time to join the angling club and a creative writing group.

“I do a lot, probably too much,” she said. “It keeps me engaged.”

With college applications on her mind, Thomas says the district’s push for extracurriculars timed well with prepping her resume. It now boasts of her role helping to organize a Martin Luther King Jr. Day convention, or “MLK Con,” this year at Ferris High.

But Thomas is worried that a federal crackdown on DEI in education could jeopardize the future of affinity groups like hers.

“I’m nervous about the next couple of years,” she said. “In a predominantly white high school, finding comfort in community, it saves you.”

She also found some value in pairing more clubs and sports with the smartphone ban. Thomas herself felt irritated by the ban at first, and other students protested even the possibility of the school taking away their property. That changed over a few months.

“I’ve been able to focus 100 percent on each of my classes. People seem more into class, more engaged,” she said. All the activities kept her off social media, she added, and her involvement in the activities also made her more ambitious. “They pushed me to keep going too.”

Contact Neal Morton at 212-678-8247, on Signal at nealmorton.99 or morton@hechingerreport.orgThis story about no cellphones was produced by The Hechinger Report, a nonprofit, independent news organization focused on inequality and innovation in education. Sign up for Hechinger’s newsletter.

The post Knitting, cheerleading, fishing: This is what a cellphone ban looks like in one school district appeared first on The Hechinger Report.

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