AI Can’t Do That

Here are today’s Wonderful Words:

AI is smart. Ask it about books, and it can spit out a top-100 list. But it can’t tell you what it’s like to read a passage that puts perfectly something you’ve felt but couldn’t articulate. Ask it about music, and it can write you lyrics in the style of whoever you’d like. But it’s never listened to a great song, never heard one right when it needed to be heard. Ask it about taking a walk, and it can give you science-backed reasons to go for one. But it’s never been on a walk, never been totally excited by a thought or an idea that seemed to come from out of nowhere. Ask it about coffee, and it can give you an infographic that details tens or hundreds of brewing methods. But it’s never had that first sip of that first cup of the day. Ask it about connecting with an audience, and it can give you hundreds of best practices. But it can’t guarantee any of them are going to work.

It can’t be certain that your work (or its own) will connect with the human experience. It can’t be certain that the work will land in the middle of that Venn diagram. It can’t be certain that its taste and discernment are “great.”

The Cup of Coffee Theory of AI, Billy Oppenheimer

Background

This is from an excellent article explaining why AI won’t replace good artists. The basic premise is that art is deemed great when it connects with an audience—an audience of people. And to have the best chance of connecting with humans, it helps to spend time with humans—something AI does not do.

What makes it wonderful?

I shared this article with readers of my other newsletter and described the passage as one of the best written paragraphs I’ve ever read.

It connected with me on a deeply human level, which is exactly the point Oppenheimer was making. Art is excellent when it connects with humans based on experiences humans have. AI never had any of these experiences, so it couldn’t have written these beautiful words.

The words touched my soul because they were full of humanity.

They took me back to one of my first weekends living in New York City. I rode the 6 train south from Harlem to the Financial District. It was a perfect spring morning, and the city was still waking from the night before. I grabbed a coffee from a corner store, a copy of the Wall Street Journal from a newsstand, and I walked west toward the Hudson River. I spent the morning sipping my coffee and sitting on a bench overlooking the harbor. The newsprint paper stained my fingers as I read story after story, pausing only to peer over the paper at passersby.

That was such an insignificant morning in my life. Nothing special happened, but I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the experiences that only a human can have, that only a human can relate to another, and that only a human can appreciate hearing.

I’ve had thousands of similar experiences. Morning coffees. Paperback books on the beach. Runs through Central Park. Walks with my wife in normal neighborhoods. Each insignificant yet distinct. Each a building block of a lovely life.

Let's get technical

Oppenheimer uses anaphora in this passage like I’ve never seen it before. Anaphora is when you begin consecutive sentences with the same word or phrase, but he does it differently.

Instead of beginning consecutive sentences with the same words, he alternates sentences. “Ask it about…But it can’t…Ask it about…But it’s never…Ask it about…But it’s never.” It ends up forming a predictable, rhythmic pattern where you can guess the format but not the substance.

Then in the second paragraph, he brings back some traditional anaphora, beginning three consecutive sentences with the words, “It can’t be certain that…”

Aside from anaphora, Oppenheimer uses one other technique we’ve talked about before. I call it the micro-macro technique, and it’s basically where the author applies the macro theme of the piece to the micro level of the sentence or paragraph.

In this case, the point of the article is that AI won’t replace artists because it can’t connect with humans. And the point of every sentence in these paragraphs is a micro version of the larger theme: AI can’t convey how it feels to be human.

We could take a few things away from these wonderful words, but I’ll leave you with one thought. Next time you put pen to paper or fingertip to keyboard, your goal should be to write something that AI couldn’t. Share an emotion only a human can feel. Share an experience only a human can have. Share an adventure only a human can take. Stay true to that framework, and you’ll continually create content people want to consume.

Happy writing,

Joe

P.S. If you'd like another excellent example of anaphora, check out this one from Jack Raines.