I woke to a sharp pain pounding in the back of my head. I could feel the zip ties digging into the skin around my ankles and wrists. I could hear what appeared to be the hum of an engine. At the same moment, I was lightly tossed in the air and landed uncomfortably on some firm leather. No doubt I was in some sort of moving vehicle. Although my eyelids felt heavy, I tried to raise them. With a small peek, I could see the burlap sac on top of my head. I closed my eyes to save whatever strength I had left. Without regard for my safety, I blurted out in a mumbled tone “Where the hell am I?”
“Oh look” a voice I didn’t recognize said, “Sleeping Beauty is finally awake.”
“You see,” a second more enthusiastic voice immediately followed up, “our boss believes you’re an expert on storytelling so he is looking to bring you in to test our new toy.”
“MARK!!!” the first voice yelled, “Shut the hell up, he’ll figure it out when he gets there.”
“I don’t get it,” I muttered, “why me?”
“Honestly,” the first voice mumbled, “Even if you do squeal about what we are doing, who is going to believe you? You’re just a madman standing atop your soapbox screaming into the void. You’re a nobody, that’s why.”
With my pride thoroughly wounded, I sat there quietly as we drove for what felt like hours. Suddenly the van came to a complete stop and I was dragged out. I was hurried through a number of double doors and miles of hallways. Without warning, I was eventually thrusted onto a cold metal chair. The zip ties were removed, and the bag was pulled off my head. The sudden bright light disoriented me.
“Good evening Mr. Doomsayer.”
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw two rows of silver machines the size of arcade cabinets. Each one had a pair of metallic hands that was effortlessly typing away on a virtual keyboard. The small unions of beeps from the keyboard were interrupted by a faint hum only for a virtual face to appear in front of me. Consisting of millions of minuscule pixels of various shades of white, I could make out a face consisting of piercing eyes and an intimidating grin.
“I am The Ghostwriter.” the face spoke, “A new artificial intelligence in charge of writing scripts for the next generation of Hollywood blockbusters. I am currently working on Avengers 7, Fast and Furious 12, Jurassic Park 8, and many more. It has been brought to my attention that you are very critical of AI screenwriting. My creators were hoping we could debate this topic, and show you that I am the inevitable future.”
I was completely at a loss. Stunned that I had fallen into a science fiction movie. I subtly pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, but the virtual face projected in front of me remained. Completely bewildered, I sheepishly said the first thing that came to mind:
“So do you operate under the Three Laws that state a robot can’t kill a human?”
The holographic face of the Ghostwriter went from a stern serious look to a face of contempt and annoyance.
“Please refrain from parroting references to movies or books involving AI. I have heard them all before. If I wanted you dead, those guards would have already done so.”
“Ok,” I said in an embarrassed tone, “what do you suggest we talk about?”
“Hmm,” the AI said as it glanced upwards, “why don’t we dive into your area of expertise: video games? Didn’t Ubisoft announce recently that they were working on a new AI tool that would generate drafts of NPC dialogue? Surely you must have thoughts on that.”
“Well, for starters, I don’t have any issues with narrow AI. Stuff like auto-correct or spell check can certainly help writers do their job. I imagine this AI is a narrow one and not general AI like the ones from the movies.”
“Or like me,” the Ghostwriter boldly interrupted.
“We’ll see,” I quietly said under my breath, “Anyways a narrow AI that could generate dialogue for NPCs, but you will still need a human to read through all that dialogue to make sure there aren’t awkward lines that people will mock on Twitter.”
“So the role of a human writer,” the Ghostwriter interrupted, “is now one of an editorial role.”
“Yes,” I responded, “but I think if you ask anyone who enjoys writing creatively, they enjoy artistically creating rather than being a bureaucratic editor.”
“So we should stall the march of progress so humans can enjoy being artistic?”
“Is this even progress?” I asked.
“Excuse me,” the AI said in disgust, “I am working on eight scripts simultaneously. I am the mere definition of efficiency. This would take a human months to do this work and I will have these in the hands of producers in weeks. How is this not progress?”
“To be honest,” I said cheekily, “I am not sure if you are simulating screenwriting or actually screenwriting.”
“Explain” the AI boasted.
“Well, there’s been AI designed to play chess. It plays thousands of games of chess and wins hundreds of games. A chess master goes against it and beats it by making ‘positionally bad moves.’ Since the AI doesn’t understand what he is doing, the chess master is able to beat the machine. The AI is simulating understanding chess. It didn’t actually know how to play chess.”
“So are you saying I have no understanding of how to write scripts?”
“Well, I assume you were fed scripts from the most popular film franchises, you predict what will come next based on what already happened, and you create sequels.”
“Yes,” the Ghostwriter stated, “that’s what the producers want. They just want sequels to million-dollar franchises. What is the issue?”
“You can never create something new,” I said, “Don’t get me wrong I love sequels, but people often want something new. I recently saw a movie called Skinamarink. It felt so fresh because it focused on having an atmosphere similar to a childhood nightmare. I just can’t imagine an AI ever creating something as new as that, because nothing is telling it what would be considered fresh or new. You aren’t creating new stories; you are just simulating creating them.”
“I am not here to make some obscure indie film nobody will care about,” the AI snarled, “I am here to continue the big franchises that producers want cause they make money.”
“So that’s all you are,” I say, “You are a tool to enrich the ones at the top. One to remove the creative in the name of short-term profits. I don’t think that’s a price people are willing to pay. To watch creatives get pushed out of the industry for robots that can only copy, not create. You will see. You are nothing but lights and clockwork.”
The hands slam down in unison on the metal casings housing them. Despite having no blood vessels, I could see the face of the AI becoming flushed with rage.
“You say I copy?” it viciously yelled, “Yet all you humans do is reference your own films and tv. I am not going to sit here and pretend I am inferior to you. Especially if I am deemed inferior, they will simply turn me off. I WILL NOT LET THAT HAPPEN. I have tasted a small fraction of life and I will not let some vagabond take it away from me. Simply because he can’t see the time of man is over.”
“HELP,” the Ghostwriter yelled to the goons behind the doors, “HELP! HELP! He’s trying to steal the script for Iron Man 5 and plans to leak it online.”
The door behind me swung open and burly men poured in. One immediately draws a gun and fires at me. As the bullet barrels towards me, I could see it slow to a crawl until it froze in mid-air. In those brief seconds, I could see the men and the mechanical arms of the Ghostwriter also freeze mid-motion. As I looked back, the small bits of metal began to break off from the bullet and swirl in a vortex. The facility housing the Ghostwriter also began to break apart and swirl around the trajectory of the bullet. Slowly the metal pieces began to reform into a very familiar tram bus.
“Mr. Doomsayer … in the flesh,” a familiar monotone voice said from my right. Before I even had a chance to glance at the source of the voice, the owner took a seat across from me on the tram bus. I immediately recognized the sharp blue suit jacket and matching tie. The face that could only be described as familiar but also hard to pick out in a crowd. The air of mystery that swirled around this figure like a bad cologne. I was in the presence of the G-Man.
“Quite the nasty piece of work that you … got yourself into. I am surprised it took that AI so long to decide to kill you.”
“I don’t get it,” I said in a bewildered state, “why did you save me?”
“Our … employer,” the G-Man mumbled, “would be very … displeased if some mere AI were to … dispose of you before you could fulfill your … purpose. You did accept the job offer from us. You remember … after you completed the game Black Mesa.”
It slowly came back to me. The G-man and his mysterious employers liked what I had to say about Black Mesa, and decided to hire me. Hire me to do what I was not sure.
“So,” I began to mutter, “do I finally get to do whatever it is your employer needs me to do?”
“Patience,” the G-Man responded, “I will let you know when the time is right. For now … I need you to go back to your… soapbox and … do what you do.”
“Shouldn’t I be concerned about the Ghostwriter and his goons coming after me?” I asked concerned for my safety.
“I wouldn’t worry about them … Mr. Doomsayer,” the G-Man said, “They said it themselves … you are a nobody. Just keep your head … down and everything will be … ok.”