Beating the Robot Is the Point (and the Pedagogy)

A pivotal moment in any course involving artificial intelligence comes when students try, and succeed, in beating the robot. I do not mean cheating the system or outsmarting the instructor. I mean learning how to identify something AI does poorly, and then doing it better.

Many students, especially undergraduates, approach AI with exaggerated reverence. They assume the output is authoritative and final. AI writes with confidence, speed, and often impressive fluency. The effect is almost hypnotic. This creates a psychological barrier: if the machine does it well, what is left for me to do? Am I smart enough to compete? 

This assumption is wrong, but not irrational. It takes cognitive effort to move beyond awe toward critique. The breakthrough moment occurs when a student notices a flaw. Sometimes it is a factual error, but more often it is a subtle lack; an absence of argument, weak nuance, robotic phrasing, or flat tone. Students realize, for the first time, that the AI is not a better version of themselves. It is something different. It is stronger in language processing but weaker in creativity, authenticity, judgment, insight, or affect.

This realization is not theoretical. It is a variant of self-efficacy, but more specific and applied. Classic self-efficacy theory describes the conviction that one is capable of performing a task. What occurs in the classroom with AI is more nuanced. Students do not just believe they can do something. They discover what, exactly, they can do better than the machine. This is a kind of enhanced self-efficacy; focused not on general ability, but on identifying one's own unique niche of competence. It is confidence through contrast.

To beat the robot, one must first learn to challenge it. That could mean prompting it more cleverly, iterating multiple drafts, or simply refusing to accept its first answer. Students begin to demand more. They ask, “What is missing here?” or “Can this be said better?” The AI becomes a foil, not a teacher. That shift is vital.

There are students who reach this point quickly. They treat AI as a flawed collaborator and instinctively wrestle with its output. But many do not. For them, scaffolding is necessary. They must be taught how to critique the machine. They must be shown examples of mediocre AI-generated work and invited to improve it. This is not a lesson about ethics or plagiarism. It is a lesson about confidence.

Cognitive load helps explain why some students freeze in front of AI. The interface appears simple, but the mental task is complex: reading critically (and AI is often verbose), prompting strategically, evaluating output, and iterating; all while managing anxiety about technology. The extraneous load is high, especially for those who are not fluent writers. But once a student identifies one specific area, such as tone, logic, detail, where they outperform the machine, they begin to reclaim agency. That is the learning goal. I sometimes explain it to them as moving from the passenger seat to the driver's seat. 

This is not the death of authorship. It is its rebirth under new conditions. Authorship now includes orchestration: deciding when and how to use AI, and how to push past its limitations. This is a higher-order skill. It resembles conducting, not composing. But the cognitive work is no less real.

Educators must design for this. Assignments should not simply allow AI use; they should require it. But more importantly, they should require critique of AI. Where is it wrong? Where is it boring? Where does it miss the point? Students should be evaluated not on how well they mimic AI but on how well they improve it.

Some students will resist. A few may never get there. But most will, especially if we frame the challenge not as compliance, but as competition. Beating the robot is possible. In fact, it is the point. It is how students learn to see themselves not as users of tools but as thinkers with judgment. The robot is fast, but it is not wise. That is where we come in.

Educating for a Simulated Relationship

As AI settles into classrooms, we face a peculiar challenge: not just how students use it, but how they relate to it. This isn’t a question of function or ethics, but of posture—how to engage something that responds like a person but isn’t one. The educational goal is a subtle kind of literacy: to treat AI as an interactive partner without mistaking it for a peer.

It’s a familiar dilemma, strangely enough. When children talk to imaginary friends or fictional characters, they often treat them as real companions. They know, on some level, that the character isn’t real—but they still cry when the story ends or feel comforted by a plush animal’s imagined voice. Child psychologists don’t rush to correct this confusion. Instead, they guide children to inhabit the fiction while understanding its boundaries. The fiction is developmental—it helps the child grow, not deceive.

We need a similar stance with AI. Students must learn to engage in what we might call a non-dialogic dialogue: a back-and-forth that mimics human exchange but is, in substance, interaction with an “It.” Martin Buber’s language is useful here. Procedurally, AI feels like an “I-Thou”—responsive, adaptive, present. But substantively, it remains an “I-It.” It has no inner life, no perspective, no sense of being addressed.

If we treat AI merely as a tool, we lose its pedagogical richness. If we treat it as a mind, we delude ourselves. The path forward is both instrumental and interactive: act as if the AI understands, but always know it doesn’t. This requires a new kind of mental discipline—AI mind theory, if you like. Not to imagine what AI thinks, but to restrain the impulse to imagine that it does at all.

In practice, this means teaching students to hold contradiction. To benefit from AI’s apparent collaboration, without anthropomorphizing it. To take seriously its output, without confusing fluency with insight. It’s a balancing act, but one education is well suited for. After all, school isn’t meant to tidy up complexity. It’s meant to make us capable of thinking in layers.

AI is not our friend, not our enemy, not even our colleague. It is something stranger: a fiction we interact with for real.

Executive Cognition, a New Learning Outcome We Cannot Ignore

Education has always been, at its core, a wager on the future. It prepares students not only for the world that is, but for the world that might be. Yet increasingly, the curricula of our universities and schools are anchored to a past that no longer exists. They reward intellectual independence in a time that demands cognitive interdependence. They emphasize content mastery while overlooking the far more urgent task of managing cognition itself—particularly when that cognition is now distributed across humans and machines.

The rise of artificial intelligence has not simply added another tool to the professional toolbox. It has fundamentally restructured how intellectual work is done. Tasks that once defined expertise—drafting legal memos, analyzing medical data, composing arguments—can now be executed by algorithms. The value of education is no longer found in preparing students to do all the thinking themselves. It lies, instead, in preparing them to orchestrate thinking across human and non-human systems. This is not an incremental shift. It is a paradigmatic one.

What this moment demands is a new kind of learning outcome. Not technical fluency alone. Not ethics in abstraction. But a metacognitive capacity to coordinate, delegate, and evaluate in environments where machine intelligence plays a central role. This capacity, best described as executive cognition, is neither a buzzword nor a future aspiration. It is the most neglected, yet most necessary, educational objective of our time.

Executive cognition refers to the ability to strategically allocate attention, manage cognitive resources, and construct workflows that integrate AI systems without surrendering human judgment. It is what separates those who can simply operate tools from those who can govern systems of intelligence. It requires building accurate mental models of what AI can and cannot do—not from a technical standpoint, but from a cognitive one. It demands recognition that AI can generate but not reason, correlate but not explain, perform but not understand.

These are not abstract distinctions. They play out daily across professions. In law, attorneys now spend less time writing and more time evaluating AI-generated arguments. In medicine, physicians must decide when to trust diagnostic algorithms and when to intervene. In business, executives orchestrate AI analyses but retain accountability for their implications. The work has not disappeared; it has moved. And education must follow it.

The problem is that it has not. Most institutions continue to assess students on their ability to produce knowledge alone. The quality of the final product remains the measure of success, even as in professional life the process—how one decides what to delegate, how one interprets outputs, how one integrates disparate sources—has become the true mark of expertise. Students are seldom taught how to think with machines, only how to think despite them.

This inertia is not just pedagogical. It is philosophical. It reflects a stubborn belief that the highest form of learning is independent intellectual production. But that ideal is now, in practice, a fiction. No serious professional today operates without digital augmentation. The challenge is no longer to preserve human reasoning by avoiding AI, but to elevate human reasoning by directing AI.

There is, of course, a danger in teaching students to rely on systems they do not fully understand. But there is a far greater danger in failing to teach them how to rely wisely. Without executive cognition, students will either misuse AI or abdicate responsibility to it. Neither approach fosters the judgment we claim to value.

To center executive cognition in education is not to diminish traditional skills. It is to recontextualize them. Writing, analysis, and interpretation remain essential—but they are now embedded within larger cognitive ecosystems. Knowing how to frame a question is just as important as knowing how to answer it. Knowing when to withhold trust in an algorithm is more valuable than accepting its efficiency uncritically. The future belongs not to the fastest thinkers, but to the most discerning orchestrators.

Some will object that education should not adjust so quickly to technological change. That we risk becoming vocational rather than intellectual. But the cultivation of executive cognition is not a capitulation to industry; it is a reaffirmation of education’s highest purpose: to develop judgment. It merely recognizes that the forms of judgment required today are different from those of the past.

What we need now is not more information, but better navigation. Not more tools, but wiser tool use. Executive cognition provides a conceptual and practical framework for this shift. It does not ask educators to become engineers, but to become curators of thinking—guiding students not toward mastery of content, but toward mastery of cognitive delegation, integration, and oversight.

This is not the only learning outcome that matters, but it may be the most pressing one we have neglected. It is time for education to make a new wager—one that aligns more closely with the world students will inherit than with the one their educators were trained to navigate. The machine can generate. Only the human can judge. But only if we teach them how.

Why Education Clings to Irrelevance

There’s a particular irony in the way schools prepare us for life by arming us with tools designed for a world that no longer exists. Latin, long dead yet stubbornly alive in syllabi. Algebra, elegantly abstract but only marginally helpful in daily decisions compared to statistics, which might actually help you not get swindled by a mortgage. Even now, when artificial intelligence knocks at the schoolhouse door, the impulse is to double down on handwriting and closed-book tests, as if graphite and paranoia can hold off the machine age.

The problem isn’t just inertia. It’s something deeper—almost spiritual. Education doesn’t merely lag behind practicality. It seems to celebrate its irrelevance. Irrelevance isn’t a bug of the system. It’s the feature. Like a stubborn elder at the dinner table insisting that things were better “back in the day,” the institution of education resists change not just because it can, but because its authority is rooted in not changing.

To teach is, implicitly, to claim authority. But where does this authority come from? Not the future—that’s terra incognita. You can't be an expert in what hasn't happened yet. So the educator turns to the past, because the past has already been canonized. It has textbooks. It has footnotes. It has certainty. And nothing flatters the authority of a teacher more than certainty. Thus, to preserve this role, education must tie itself to a vision of life that is already archived.

There’s a paradox here: education is supposedly preparation for life, yet it often refuses to adapt to the life that is actually unfolding. It is conservative in the truest sense—not politically, but ontologically. It conserves the past. It prepares students for a utopia that once was, or more precisely, that someone once imagined was. The classroom becomes a time capsule, not a launchpad.

This is not entirely wrongheaded. The future is uncertain, and while we might guess at the skills it will demand—data literacy, adaptability, collaborative creativity—we cannot guarantee them. So we retreat to what we can guarantee: the conjugation of Latin verbs, the proof of triangles, the essays written in blue ink. It's a strategy of safety cloaked as rigor. If we can’t foresee what will matter tomorrow, at least we can be very confident about what mattered yesterday.

And yet, this nostalgia has consequences. It breeds irrelevance not just in content, but in spirit. When students ask, “When will I ever use this?” and teachers respond with some forced scenario involving imaginary apples or train schedules, the real answer—“you probably won’t, but we’re doing it anyway”—lurks just beneath the surface. The curriculum becomes a kind of ritual, an educational incense burned in memory of older truths.

The arrival of AI only sharpens this tension. Faced with the destabilizing presence of machines that can write, summarize, solve, and simulate, many educators panic. But rather than adapting, they retreat further. The pencil becomes a moral statement. The closed classroom a sanctuary. There’s almost a theological quality to it, as if real learning must involve a kind of suffering, and anything too efficient is suspect.

It’s tempting to dismiss this all as folly, but maybe it reflects something deeply human. Our fear of irrelevance leads us to preserve what is already irrelevant, in hopes that it might make us relevant again. In this way, education mirrors its creators: creatures of habit, haunted by the past, nervous about the future, and always unsure where real authority should lie.

Perhaps that’s the real lesson schools teach, intentionally or not. That relevance is fragile, and that meaning is something we inherit before we can create it. 

The Invasive Innovation, a Case of AI in Education

Disruptive innovations, as defined by Clayton Christensen, typically emerge at the margins before gradually overtaking established players. In contrast, artificial intelligence in education is not a slow-moving force of competitive displacement. It is an invasive innovation—spreading far beyond the predictions of Everett Rogers’ diffusion model, propelled not as much by institutions as by students themselves. This is not a technology waiting to be adopted. It is a reality forcing adaptation. Treating it as an optional innovation mises the point entirely. 

Educational leaders, policymakers, and institutions may wish to evaluate AI’s impact, consider best practices, and implement careful frameworks. But they are not in control of the timeline. The adoption is not up for debate. It is already happening, driven by students who see AI not as a tool of the future but as an everyday utility, as natural as search engines or calculators. The question is not when to integrate AI into education, but how to manage an environment where AI is already integrated—often in ways institutions neither designed nor anticipated.

This is why traditional approaches to educational innovations are inadequate. Normally, innovations are assessed, piloted, and then scaled. But AI in education is unfolding more like a crisis than an initiative. It requires a response more akin to a public health emergency than a strategic rollout. When COVID-19 disrupted education, schools did not spend years analyzing whether remote learning was effective. They pivoted overnight, creating imperfect but necessary solutions. AI invasion demands a similar level of urgency.

Institutional response to invasive AI must be comprehensive rather than defensive. How do we accommodate this invasive innovation? Putting AI tools directly in the hands of faculty represents a critical first step, ensuring they engage with the same technologies their students already access freely. This must be paired with robust professional development—not merely technical training but genuine pedagogical exploration that helps educators reimagine their disciplinary approaches in an AI-augmented world.

Beyond tools and training, institutions must invest in creating dedicated time and space for disciplinary teams to collaboratively revise their assignments. The goal is not to create "cheat-proof" assessments but to develop authentic tasks that meaningfully incorporate AI as a partner in learning. This demands protected time away from everyday teaching pressures, where faculty can experiment, fail, refine, and document new approaches that acknowledge AI as a permanent fixture in their educational landscape rather than an external threat to be neutralized.

Sidorkin Hypothesis: Beyond Procedural Fluency in AI-Augmented Instruction

The hypothesis is this: Quality AI-augmented instruction reduces emphasis on procedural skills while enhancing higher-order thinking and conceptual learning. This shift may offer an alternative pathway for cognitive offloading, which could supplement or even replace traditional procedural skills acquisition.

Cognitive load theory, developed by John Sweller in the 1980s, provides a useful framework. The theory posits that our working memory has limited capacity when dealing with new information. Sweller himself, along with many other cognitive scientists, views fluency in procedural skills as a major mechanism for cognitive offloading. When basic procedures become automatic through practice, they consume fewer working memory resources, thereby freeing up mental capacity for higher-order learning. This is why traditional education emphasizes mastering procedural skills—calculating derivatives, balancing chemical equations, applying grammatical rules—before tackling complex conceptual work.

In my view, AI tools function as an alternative cognitive offloading mechanism that can complement or even supersede traditional procedural fluency. These tools handle procedural tasks , creating cognitive space for students to engage with concepts at a deeper level without first developing procedural automaticity. Consider a student learning calculus: traditionally, substantial mental resources are dedicated to memorizing differentiation rules and practicing their application. With AI assistance handling these procedural aspects, the student can direct cognitive resources toward understanding conceptual foundations—what derivatives actually represent, how they relate to real-world phenomena, and when different approaches should be applied.

This approach necessitates reimagining assessment. Traditional writing instruction heavily rewards procedural accuracy in grammar, citation formats, and structural conventions, but in an AI-augmented educational landscape, assessment must evolve to measure the ability to prompt AI tools effectively, the quality of critical analysis, application of rhetorical strategies in novel contexts, and evaluation of AI-generated text. The focus shifts from "Can you properly format this essay?" to "Can you determine which rhetorical approach best suits your purpose, interpret complex texts critically, and evaluate whether the AI-generated analysis captures the deeper meaning of the work being examined?"

This transformation faces substantial challenges. Educators rightfully question whether students can truly grasp concepts without some level of procedural fluency. it is likely that some basic  procedural knowledge remains necessary for conceptual understanding. The optimal approach involves thoughtful integration—using AI to reduce procedural load while ensuring students develop core competencies. To put it roughly, "procedural knowledge - yes, procedural fluency - not, really."  

The equalizing potential of AI-augmented instruction cannot be overlooked. Students who traditionally struggle with procedural aspects—whether due to learning differences, educational disruptions, or lack of prior opportunities—may find themselves able to participate more fully in higher-order learning. This democratization of advanced conceptual engagement could elevate educational outcomes across diverse student populations. We stand at the threshold of potentially transforming education from a system that sorts students based on procedural proficiency to one that cultivates universally richer, more advanced learning outcomes: deeper critical analysis, more sophisticated problem formulation, nuanced ethical reasoning, and creative synthesis across domains—intellectual capabilities that more authentically reflect the complex demands of contemporary society.

Form-substance discrimination, a new learning outcome

We have long assumed that clear writing signals clear thinking. Schools teach writing as if it were math - a rigorous exercise that develops logical thinking. Editors catch not just errors but muddled ideas. Or so the theory goes. Artificial intelligence shatters this comfortable assumption by churning out impeccably structured prose devoid of original thought.

Form-substance discrimination represents a higher-order cognitive skill, similar to what art historians develop when they learn to separate technical mastery from creative vision. Just as an art student must unlearn their initial attraction to photorealistic paintings, readers now must develop resistance to seductively clear prose. This requires a kind of cognitive inhibition - the ability to suppress immediate aesthetic pleasure for the sake of deeper analysis.

The skill builds on existing metacognitive abilities but requires their novel application. Readers already know how to identify main ideas, analyze arguments, and evaluate evidence. What is new is the need to perform these operations while actively discounting the surface appeal of the text. This resembles what wine tasters do when they evaluate wines blind, stripped of prestigious labels and beautiful bottles.

The development follows a predictable pattern. At first, readers struggle to overcome their ingrained respect for well-crafted prose. The initial challenge lies not in identifying weak ideas but in giving oneself permission to criticize a text that follows all the rules of good writing. This mirrors the development of critical thinking in general, where students must learn to question authority figures who appear competent and confident.

The second stage involves developing specific techniques for idea extraction. Readers learn to create idea maps independent of the text's structure, to count unique concepts rather than words, to identify circular arguments hidden behind elegant transitions. They begin to see how AI-generated text often creates an illusion of logical flow while merely restating the same point in different words.

The final stage brings automaticity. Experienced readers develop an immediate sense of a text's intellectual weight, just as experienced teachers can quickly gauge a student's understanding despite fluent recitation. This involves pattern recognition built through exposure to many examples of both substantive and hollow texts.

The educational implications are significant. Writing instruction must now explicitly separate craft from content. Students need exposure to both well-written texts with weak ideas and poorly written texts with strong ideas. They must practice identifying when sophisticated language masks conceptual poverty and when rough expression contains genuine insight.

This shift parallels broader changes in how we process information. In a world of information abundance, the key skill is no longer finding or producing well-formed content but discerning its value. Form-substance discrimination represents a specific case of this general challenge - learning to navigate a world where traditional quality signals no longer reliably indicate underlying worth.

The skill matters beyond academia. Business leaders reading AI-generated reports, citizens evaluating political arguments, professionals studying their field's literature - all need to separate rhetorical sophistication from intellectual contribution. As AI writing tools improve, this ability will become as fundamental as basic literacy.

We face a paradox: the better AI becomes at writing, the more important it becomes for humans to see through good writing. The very perfection of AI-generated prose creates a new kind of opacity that readers must learn to penetrate. Form-substance discrimination thus emerges not just as an academic skill but as a key component of modern critical thinking.

Is Critical Thinking Going Extinct? Maybe That's Not Bad

As someone who remembers using paper maps and phone books, I find myself fascinated by Michael Gerlich's new study in Societies about AI's impact on our cognitive skills. Those of us who learned to navigate by landmarks and memorized phone numbers often bemoan younger generations' reliance on digital tools. But perhaps we are missing something important about cognitive evolution.

Gerlich's research is methodologically elegant. Through surveys and interviews with 666 participants, he documents a decline in traditional critical thinking skills among frequent AI users. The data analysis is rigorous - multiple regression, ANOVA, random forest regression - showing clear correlations between AI tool usage and reduced traditional analytical thinking.

But here's where I think Gerlich misses a crucial insight. The study measures critical thinking through metrics developed for a pre-AI world. It's like judging modern urban survival skills by the standards of hunter-gatherer societies. Those ancient peoples could track game, identify countless plants, and navigate vast territories without maps. By their standards, most of us would be considered cognitively impaired.

What we're witnessing is not cognitive decline but cognitive adaptation. Today's "critical thinking" is not about solving problems independently - it's about effective human-AI collaboration. It's about knowing when to trust AI and when to question it, how to frame queries effectively, and how to combine AI insights with human judgment.

The educational implications are profound. Instead of lamenting the loss of traditional cognitive skills, we should focus on developing "AI-literate critical thinking." Sure, I can still read a map, but my children need to master skills I never dreamed of - like crafting effective prompts for AI systems or critically evaluating AI-generated content.

The old form of critical thinking might be fading, like the ability to start a fire by friction or navigate by stars. But a new form is emerging, better suited to our technological reality. Our task is not to resist this evolution but to guide it wisely.

What do you think? Are we really losing something irreplaceable, or are we just adapting to a new cognitive environment?

Where is the work? AI and Creativity

For ages, we have blurred the lines between ideation and execution, treating them as inseparable parts of creativity. Craftsmanship was tightly bound to originality. Think of Michelangelo working on the Sistine Chapel, a project that spanned nearly a decade. Where does his genius truly lie? In envisioning those profound images, or in the labor of painting them? What, exactly, is the essence of the work?

The rise of AI forces us to untangle these ideas and reconsider what it means to produce "human" work. Take a recent story I heard from from the audience of one of my talks: a person described how he fed an AI every detail about a retiring colleague, and the AI generated a speech so moving that it brought the retiree to tears. But the retiree, upon learning the speech's origin, was dumbfounded.

What is interesting is not the retiree’s reaction, but the storyteller's own oversight. He failed to see his own critical role in the process. By gathering the details, curating moments that best captured the retiree’s essence, he performed the most human part of the creative act. He mistook the act of turning those ideas into words as the creative work, but that is not the case.

AI, ironically, is pushing us to be more human, not more like machines. It is forcing us to recognize that our true contribution lies in the ability to think, to create, and to feel. As AI takes over the mechanical aspects of tasks we once considered integral to creativity—whether that is writing, painting, or coding—we are left with the more uniquely human roles: original thinking and emotional depth.

This shift reshapes our understanding of creativity and work. It shows that human value does not lie in production—the technical aspect of turning an idea into a product—but in the deeper conceptual and emotional layers that AI still cannot reach.

As we move forward, we are compelled to rethink productivity itself. The future will not belong to those who can outdo AI in execution, but to those who can combine AI’s strengths with our unique capacities for innovation, empathy, and insight.

The challenge we face is not to resist AI, but to fully embrace our humanity—to cultivate the traits that machines cannot replicate. With AI taking over the drudgery, we are freed to focus on higher-order thinking and those creative leaps that define human ingenuity.

Ironically, the more we develop artificial intelligence, the more we learn about what human intelligence really is. And in that discovery lies our future—a future where AI does not replace creativity, but elevates it to new possibilities.

Advanced AI users develop special cognitive models

When we encounter a stranger, we make swift, often unconscious judgments about who they are and what they are capable of. A person who speaks our language with barely a hint of an accent? We assume they are fluent. Someone who drops a reference to a complex scientific theory? We peg them as well-educated, likely to be literate, and probably knowledgeable about a range of topics from current events to social norms.

These snap judgments form the backbone of our social interactions. They are mental shortcuts, honed over millennia of human evolution, allowing us to navigate the complexities of social life with remarkable efficiency. Most of the time, they serve us well. We can usually guess whether someone will understand a joke, follow a complex argument, or need help using a smartphone. These are cognitive models. 

But when we step into the realm of artificial intelligence, these time-tested models crumble. Our human-centric predictions fail spectacularly, leaving us confused and often frustrated. Consider a recent incident with ChatGPT, a sophisticated language model. When asked to count the number of 'r's in the word "strawberry," it faltered. Many observers scoffed, concluding that AI must be fundamentally stupid if it couldn't handle such a simple task.

Yet this reaction reveals more about our flawed expectations than any shortcoming of AI. Those familiar with AI's inner workings were not surprised. They understand that a language model, no matter how advanced, is not optimized for character-level analysis. It is like expecting a master chef to be an expert accountant simply because both professions involve numbers.

This misalignment between our expectations and AI's actual capabilities stems from our tendency to anthropomorphize. We instinctively attribute human-like qualities to these digital entities. We expect them to have consistent opinions, to learn from our interactions, to understand context and nuance as we do. But AI, in its current form, does none of these things.

Unlike humans, AI does not carry the baggage of personal experience or emotion. It does not have good days or bad days. It will not be flattered by praise or offended by insults. It can switch from discussing quantum physics to writing poetry without missing a beat, unencumbered by the specialization that defines human expertise.

But AI's differences extend beyond mere capability. It lacks the fundamental attributes we associate with consciousness. It has no self-awareness, no goals or motivations of its own. It does not truly understand the content it generates, despite how convincing it may seem. It is a reflection of the data it was trained on, not a sentient being forming its own thoughts and opinions.

To interact effectively with AI, we need to develop new mental models. We must learn to predict its behavior not based on human analogies, but on an understanding of its unique nature. This means recognizing that AI might struggle with tasks we find trivially easy, while effortlessly accomplishing feats that would challenge even the most brilliant human minds.

It means understanding that every interaction with AI is essentially new. Unlike humans, who build on past conversations and experiences, most current AI systems do not retain information from one chat to the next. They do not learn or evolve through our interactions. Each query is processed afresh, without the context of what came before.

This new model of understanding also requires us to be more precise in our interactions with AI. While humans often fill in gaps in conversation with assumed context, AI interprets our requests literally. It does not automatically infer our unstated needs or desires. The clarity of our input directly influences the quality of the AI's output.

As AI becomes an increasingly integral part of our lives, developing these new mental models is not just about avoiding frustration. It is about unlocking the full potential of these powerful tools. By understanding AI's strengths and limitations, we can craft our interactions to leverage its capabilities more effectively.

The future of human-AI interaction lies not in expecting AI to conform to human patterns, but in adapting our approach to align with AI's unique characteristics. It is a future that requires us to be more thoughtful, more precise, and more open to rethinking our instinctive assumptions. In doing so, we may not only improve our interactions with AI but also gain new insights into the nature of intelligence itself. 

Cognitive Offloading: Learning more by doing less

In the AI-rich environment, educators and learners alike are grappling with a seeming paradox: how can we enhance cognitive growth by doing less? The answer lies in the concept of cognitive offloading, a phenomenon that is gaining increasing attention in cognitive science and educational circles.

Cognitive offloading, as defined by Risko and Gilbert (2016) in their seminal paper "Cognitive Offloading," is "the use of physical action to alter the information processing requirements of a task so as to reduce cognitive demand." In other words, it is about leveraging external tools and resources to ease the mental burden of cognitive tasks.

Some educators mistakenly believe that any cognitive effort is beneficial for growth and development. However, this perspective overlooks the crucial role of cognitive offloading in effective learning. As Risko and Gilbert point out, "Offloading cognition helps us to overcome such capacity limitations, minimize computational effort, and achieve cognitive feats that would not otherwise be possible."

The ability to effectively offload cognitive tasks has always been important for human cognition. Throughout history, we've developed tools and strategies to extend our mental capabilities, from simple note-taking to complex computational devices. However, the advent of AI has made this skill more crucial than ever before.

With AI, we are not just offloading simple calculations or memory tasks; we are potentially shifting complex analytical and creative processes to these powerful tools. This new landscape requires a sophisticated understanding of AI capabilities and limitations. More importantly, it demands the ability to strategically split tasks into elements that can be offloaded to AI and those that require human cognition.

This skill - the ability to effectively partition cognitive tasks between human and AI - is becoming a key challenge for contemporary pedagogy. It is not just about using AI as a tool, but about understanding how to integrate AI into our cognitive processes in a way that enhances rather than replaces human thinking.

As Risko and Gilbert note, "the propensity to offload cognition is influenced by the internal cognitive demands that would otherwise be necessary." In the context of AI, this means learners need to develop a nuanced understanding of when AI can reduce cognitive load in beneficial ways, and when human cognition is irreplaceable.

For educators, this presents both a challenge and an opportunity. The challenge lies in teaching students not just how to use AI tools, but how to think about using them. This involves developing metacognitive skills that allow students to analyze tasks, assess AI capabilities, and make strategic decisions about cognitive offloading.

The opportunity, however, is immense. By embracing cognitive offloading and teaching students how to effectively leverage AI, we can potentially unlock new levels of human cognitive performance. We are not just making learning easier; we are expanding the boundaries of what is learnable.

It is crucial to recognize the value of cognitive offloading and develop sophisticated strategies for its use. The paradox of doing less to learn more is not just a quirk of our technological age; it is a key to unlocking human potential in a world of ever-increasing complexity. The true measure of intelligence in the AI era may well be the ability to know when to think for ourselves, and when to let AI do the thinking for us. 

Filling Voids, Not Replacing Human Experts

The debate over artificial intelligence replacing human experts often centers on a binary question: Can AI do a better job than a human? This framing is understandable but overly simplistic. The reality is that in many contexts, the competition is not between AI and people—it is between AI and nothing at all. When viewed through this lens, the value of AI becomes clearer. It is not about pitting machines against human expertise; it is about addressing the voids left by a lack of available service.

Consider healthcare, particularly in underserved areas. It is a truism that a qualified doctor’s advice is better than anything an AI could provide. But what if you live in a rural village where the nearest doctor is hundreds of miles away? Or in a developing country where medical professionals are stretched thin? Suddenly, the prospect of AI-driven medical advice does not seem like a compromise; it feels like a lifeline. While AI lacks the nuanced judgment of an experienced physician, it can provide basic diagnostics, suggest treatments, or alert patients to symptoms that warrant urgent attention. In such scenarios, AI does not replace a doctor—it replaces the silence of inaccessibility with something, however imperfect.

Another case in point is mental health counseling. In many parts of the world, even in affluent countries, mental health services are woefully inadequate. Students at universities often face wait times ranging from weeks to months just to speak with a counselor. During that limbo, the option to interact with an AI, even one with obvious limitations, can be a critical stopgap. It is not about AI outperforming a trained therapist but offering a form of support when no other is available. It can provide coping strategies, lend a sympathetic ear, or guide someone to emergency services. Here, AI does not replace therapy; it provides something valuable in the absence of timely human support.

Education offers another case for AI’s gap-filling potential. Tutoring is an essential resource, but access to quality tutors is often limited, mainly because it is expensive. Universities might offer tutoring services, but they are frequently understaffed or employ peer tutors. Office hours with professors or teaching assistants can be similarly constrained. AI can step into this void. Chatting with an AI about a difficult concept or problem set might not equal the depth of understanding gained from a one-on-one session with a human tutor, but it is unquestionably better than struggling alone. AI does not compete with tutors; it extends their reach into spaces they cannot physically or temporally cover.

The same logic applies to a range of other fields. Legal advice, financial planning, career coaching—all are areas where AI has the potential to add significant value, not by outstripping human expertise but by offering something in environments where professional advice is out of reach. Imagine a low-income individual navigating legal complexities without the means to hire an attorney. An AI could provide at least basic guidance, clarify legal jargon, and suggest possible actions. All of it must be done with proper disclaimers. It is not a substitute for legal representation, but it is a world better than the alternative: no help at all.

In embracing this non-competing stance, we shift the narrative. The role of AI is not to replace human experts but to step in where human services are scarce or nonexistent. The true potential of AI lies in its ability to democratize access to essential services that many people currently go without. When AI is viewed as a bridge rather than a rival, its utility becomes much more evident. AI does not have to be better than a person to be valuable; it just should be better than the void it fills.

The Right to Leapfrog: Redefining Educational Equity in the Age of AI

AI’s potential in education is clear, particularly in how it can assist students who struggle with traditional learning methods. It is broadly accepted that AI can help bridge gaps in cognitive skills, whether due to dyslexia, ADHD, or other neurodiverse conditions. Yet, the utility of AI should not be confined to specific diagnoses. Insights from decades of implementing the Response to Intervention (RTI) framework reveal that regardless of the underlying cause—be it neurodiversity, trauma, or socioeconomic factors—the type of support needed by struggling students remains remarkably consistent. If AI can aid students with reading difficulties, why not extend its benefits to others facing different but equally challenging obstacles? Equity demands that AI’s advantages be made accessible to all who need them, regardless of the origin of their challenges.

This brings us to a deeper issue: the rigid and often unjust link between procedural and conceptual knowledge. Traditionally, lower-level skills like spelling, grammar, and arithmetic have been treated as prerequisites for advancing to higher-order thinking. The prevailing notion is that one must first master these basics before moving on to creativity, critical thinking, or original thought. However, this linear progression is more a product of tradition than necessity. AI now offers us the chance to reconsider this approach. Students should have the right to leapfrog over certain lower-level skills directly into higher-order cognitive functions, bypassing unnecessary barriers.

Predictably, this notion encounters resistance. Rooted in the Protestant work ethic is the belief that one must toil through the basics before earning the right to engage in more sophisticated intellectual activities. This ethic, which equates hard work on mundane tasks with moral worth, is deeply ingrained in our educational systems. However, in an age where AI can handle many of these lower-level tasks, this mindset seems increasingly obsolete. Insisting that all students must follow the same sequence of skills before advancing to higher-order thinking is not just misguided; it is a relic of a bygone era. If AI enables students to engage meaningfully with complex ideas and creative thinking from the start, we should embrace that opportunity rather than constrain it with outdated dogma.

The implications of this shift are significant. If we recognize the right to leapfrog over certain skills, we must also acknowledge that traditional educational hierarchies need to be re-examined. Skills like spelling and grammar, while valuable, should no longer be gatekeepers for students who excel in critical thinking and creativity but struggle with procedural details. AI offers a way to reimagine educational equity, allowing students to focus on their strengths rather than being held back by their weaknesses. Rather than forcing everyone to climb the same cognitive ladder, we can enable each student to leap to the level that aligns with their abilities, creating a more personalized and equitable educational experience.

This rethinking of educational equity challenges deeply rooted assumptions. The belief that hard work on the basics is necessary for higher-level achievement is pervasive, but it is not supported by evidence. In reality, cognitive development is driven more by engagement with complex ideas than by rote mastery of procedural skills. AI provides the tools to focus on these higher-order skills earlier in the education, without the traditional prerequisite of mastering lower-order tasks.

Moreover, the concept of “deskilling” is not new. Throughout history, humanity has continually adapted to technological advances, acquiring new skills while allowing others to fade into obscurity. Today, few people can track animals or make shoes from anymal skin—skills that were once essential for survival. Even the ability to harness a horse, once a common necessity, is now a rare skill. While some may lament these losses, they are also a reminder that as society evolves, so too must our educational priorities. Just as technological advancements have rendered certain skills obsolete, AI is reshaping the skills that are most relevant today.

As we move forward, educators must rethink how learning experiences are designed. Rather than viewing AI as merely a tool for accommodating deficits, we should see it as a means of expanding possibilities for all students. By enabling learners to bypass certain skills that are no longer essential in an AI-driven world, we can better align education with the demands of the 21st century. This is about acknowledging that the path to learning does not have to be the same for everyone. In a world where AI can democratize access to higher-level cognitive tasks, the right to leapfrog is not just a possibility—it is a necessity for equitable education. 

Authorship, Automation, and Answerability

In the ongoing debate about the ethical use of AI, two main concerns stand out—one superficial and one profound. The first concern, often highlighted, is about the authenticity of authorship, with fears that AI-generated content might mislead us about who the true author is. However, this worry is largely misguided. It stems from a historically limited, Western-centric notion of authorship that blurs the line between the origin of ideas and the craft of their representation.

Take the legacy of Steve Jobs. He wasn’t celebrated for personally assembling each iPhone, but for his vision and design that brought the device to life. In our industrial world, the act of making things is not inherently authorial—designing them is. Why should it be any different with text, code, or images? If I designed this text, and used advanced tools to produce it, why am I not still the author? The shock many feel towards AI’s ability to generate content is akin to the upheaval experienced by 19th-century bootmakers during the Industrial Revolution. Automation has simply extended its reach into the realms of writing, coding, and art. The craftsmanship is replaced by automation, but the core principle remains: take pride in the ideas, not in the mechanics of their production. There is no inherent authorship in the latter.

But here’s where Mikhail Bakhtin’s notion of answerability helps our understanding of the true ethical stakes. While responsibility is often about fulfilling obligations or being held accountable after the fact, answerability is about our ongoing, active engagement with the world and the people in it. It is not just about who gets credit for the content; it is about recognizing that every action, every word, and every piece of AI-generated content occurs within a web of relationships. We are answerable to others because our creations—whether authored by human hands or machine algorithms—affect them.

The real concern, then, lies in the issue of answerability. AI-generated content often appears polished, convincing, and ready for immediate consumption. This creates a dangerous temptation to release such content into the world without thorough scrutiny. Here is where the ethical stakes rise significantly. AI may produce work that looks and sounds credible, but this does not guarantee that it is unbiased, meaningful, or truthful. It maybe garbage polluting the infosphere at best, or an outward harmful fake at worst. The ease of content creation does not absolve us of the responsibility to ensure its quality and integrity, and more importantly, it doesn’t free us from the answerability we have to the world around us.

This is the message we need to instill in our students, professionals, and anyone working with AI: you are still accountable and answerable for what you produce, even if a machine does the heavy lifting. Releasing AI-generated content without critical evaluation is akin to conjuring a spell without understanding its consequences. Like a magician wielding powerful but unpredictable magic, or a novice driver behind the wheel of a truck instead of a bicycle, the stakes have been raised. The tools at our disposal are more potent than ever, and with that power comes a heightened level of answerability.

In essence, the ethical debate surrounding AI shuold not be about the authorship of the craft but shuold be about the integrity and impact of the output. The real challenge is ensuring that what we create with these advanced tools is not only innovative but also responsible and answerable. As we continue to integrate AI into more aspects of our lives, we must focus less on who—or what—authored the content and more on the ethical implications of releasing it into the world. This is where the true ethical discourse lies, and it is here that our attention should be firmly fixed.

The Cognitive Leap Theory

With the arrival of AI, education is experiencing a profound shift, one that requires a rethinking of how we design and implement learning activities. This shift is captured in the cognitive leap theory, which posits that AI is not just an add-on to traditional education but a transformative force that redefines the learning process itself. The Cognitive Leap theory is a core part of a larger AI-positive pedagogy framework.

Traditionally, educational activities have been structured around original or revised Bloom’s Taxonomy, a framework that organizes cognitive skills from basic recall of facts (Remember) to higher-order skills like Evaluation and Creation. While Bloom’s pyramid was often interpreted as a sequential progression, Bloom himself never insisted on a strict hierarchy. In fact, with the integration of AI into the classroom, the importance of these skills is being rebalanced. The higher-order skills, particularly those involving critical evaluation, are gaining prominence in ways that were previously unimaginable.

In an AI-positive pedagogical approach, the focus shifts from merely applying and analyzing information—tasks typically associated with mid-level cognitive engagement—to critically evaluating and improving AI-generated outputs. This represents a significant cognitive leap. Instead of simply completing tasks, students are now challenged to scrutinize AI outputs for accuracy, bias, and effectiveness in communication. This shift not only fosters deeper cognitive engagement but also prepares students to navigate the complex landscape of AI-driven information.

A key component of this approach is the development of meta-AI skills. These skills encompass the ability to formulate effective (rich) inquiries or prompts for AI, to inject original ideas into these prompts, and, crucially, to critically assess the AI’s responses. This assessment is not a one-time task but part of an iterative loop where students evaluate, re-prompt, and refine until the output meets a high standard of quality. This process not only sharpens their analytical skills but also enhances their creative abilities, as they learn to think critically about the inputs and outputs of AI systems.

Moreover, the traditional view that learning progresses linearly through Bloom’s Taxonomy is being upended. In the AI-enhanced classroom, evaluation and creation are no longer the endpoints of learning but are increasingly becoming the starting points. Students must begin by evaluating AI-generated content and then proceed to improve it, a process that requires a deep understanding of context, an awareness of potential biases, and the ability to communicate effectively. This reordering of cognitive priorities is at the heart of the cognitive leap theory, which emphasizes that the future of education lies in teaching students not just to perform tasks but to engage in higher-order thinking at every stage of the learning process.

The implications of this shift are serious. Educators must rethink how they design assignments, moving away from traditional task-based assessments toward activities that challenge students to evaluate and improve upon AI-generated outputs. This requires a new kind of pedagogy, one that is flexible, iterative, and deeply engaged with the possibilities and limitations of AI.

By reimagining the role of higher-order thinking skills and emphasizing the critical evaluation of AI outputs, we can prepare students for a future where cognitive engagement is more important than ever. This is not just about adapting to new technology; it is about transforming the way we think about learning itself. 

AI is an Amateur Savant

Most people who use AI think it is great in general but believe it does not grasp their area of specialization very well. As an applied philosopher, I create intellectual tools to help others think through their problems. I find AI excellent at clarifying and explaining ideas, but it has never generated an original idea worth writing about. I have yet to see reports from others in any discipline that AI has independently produced groundbreaking ideas.

AI can handle large amounts of data and provide coherent, accurate responses across various fields. This ability is comparable to a well-informed amateur who has a broad understanding but lacks deep expertise. AI can recount historical facts, explain scientific principles, and offer legal insights based on data patterns, yet it falls short in deeper, more nuanced analysis.

In my case, AI can assist by summarizing existing theories or offering possible objections or additional arguments. However, it lacks the ability to generate a genuinely novel idea. I use it a lot, and not even once did it produce anything like that. This limitation stems from its reliance on pre-existing data and patterns, preventing it from achieving the level of innovation that human professionals bring to their fields. Some believe that this limitation will soon be overcome, but I do not think so. It seems to be an intrinsic limitation, a function of AI's way of training.

Professionals/experts, whether in philosophy, medicine, or history, possess a depth of understanding developed through extensive education and practical experience. They apply complex methodologies, critical thinking, and ethical considerations that AI cannot replicate. A doctor considers the patient's history and unique implications of treatments, while a professional historian places events within a broader socio-cultural context. AI, despite its capabilities, often misses these subtleties. It is, in some sense, a savant: a fast, amazing, but inexperienced thinker.

The gap between a capable amateur and a professional/expert might seem small, especially from the point of view of the amateur. However, it is huge and is rooted in the depth of expertise, critical thinking, and the ability to judge that professionals possess; it is a function of intellect, experience, and education. This gap is where educators should look to adapt the curriculum.

In education, we should focus on that gap between the amateur and the professional and conceptualize it as the ultimate learning outcome, then build new skill ladders to claim there. Students need to understand and conquer the gap between AI and a professional expert. These meta-AI skills are our true North. AI can support this learning process by providing clear explanations and diverse perspectives, but it cannot replace the nuanced understanding and innovation that human professionals offer.

Effort in Learning: The Good, the Bad, and the AI Advantage

Many educators argue that AI makes learning too easy, suggesting that students need to apply effort to truly learn. This perspective, however, confuses the notion of effort with the process of learning itself. The belief that every kind of effort leads to learning overlooks a significant aspect of cognitive psychology: the nature and impact of cognitive load.

Cognitive load theory, developed by John Sweller, offers a crucial framework for understanding how students learn. It posits that the human brain has a limited capacity for processing information. Sweller distinguished between three types of cognitive load: intrinsic, extraneous, and germane. Intrinsic cognitive load is inherent to the task itself. For instance, solving a complex mathematical problem has a high intrinsic load due to the complexity of the content. Germane cognitive load, on the other hand, refers to the mental resources devoted to processing, construction, and automation of schemas, which are structures that help solve problems within a specific domain. 

The most problematic, however, is extraneous cognitive load. This type of load is not related to the task but to the way information is presented or to the extraneous demands placed on learners. High extraneous cognitive load can distract and stunt learning, making it harder for students to engage meaningfully with the material. For example, a poorly designed textbook that requires constant cross-referencing can add unnecessary cognitive load, detracting from the student's ability to learn. A terrible lecture or a busy-work assignments do the same. If you think that every effort by a student is valuable, you are a hazer, not a teacher.

The challenge, therefore, is not to eliminate all effort but to ensure that the effort students exert is directed towards productive ends. In other words, we need to reduce extraneous cognitive load and increase germane cognitive load. The true aim is to leverage AI to enhance germane cognitive load, directly aiding in the acquisition of schemas necessary for solving discipline-specific problems.

Every academic discipline has core problems that students are expected to solve by the end of their programs. The first step is to mercilessly clean the language of learning outcomes from wishy-washy jargon and focus on these fundamental problems. By identifying these top-level problems, educators can better understand the sequences of skills and knowledge students need to acquire.

Once these core problems are identified, it is crucial to examine how professionals in the field solve them. This involves a detailed analysis of the mental schemas that experts use. Schemas are cognitive structures that allow individuals to organize and interpret information. They enable professionals to recognize patterns, make decisions, and solve problems efficiently. For example, a doctor has schemas for diagnosing illnesses based on symptoms and test results, while an engineer has schemas for designing structures that withstand specific stresses. It is very important to understand if the field is changing and people solve those problems with AI allready, or will be doing so soon. 

AI can play a pivotal role in helping students develop these schemas. These technologies can identify where a student is struggling and provide targeted support, ensuring that cognitive resources are directed towards germane learning activities rather than being wasted on extraneous tasks.

To achieve this, we need to revisit the basic principles of instructional design. While these principles remain fundamentally the same, they require new thinking in light of AI capabilities. Instructional design should focus on reducing extraneous cognitive load by simplifying the learning environment and minimizing distractions. Simultaneously, it should increase germane cognitive load by providing challenging and meaningful tasks that promote the construction of schemas.

Moreover, educators need to recognize where cognitive load is not useful and should focus exclusively on the germane kind. This might mean redesigning courses to incorporate AI tools that can automate routine tasks, provide instant feedback, and offer complex, real-world problems for students to solve. Such an approach ensures that students are engaged in deep, meaningful learning activities rather than busywork.

Ad summam, the integration of AI in education is not about making learning easier in a superficial sense. It is about making learning more effective by ensuring that students' cognitive resources are directed towards activities that genuinely promote understanding and skill acquisition. By focusing on germane cognitive load and leveraging AI to support instructional design, we can create learning environments that foster deep, meaningful learning and prepare students to solve the complex problems of their disciplines. This calls for a rigorous rethinking of educational practices and a commitment to harnessing AI's potential to enhance, rather than hinder, the learning process.

AI-Positive Pedagogy: Navigating the Great Disruption

AI has disrupted the educational landscape. This disruption threatens the established sequence of skill development, from simple to mid-range to higher-level skills, by eroding traditional curriculum principles, particularly in the realm of student activities and assessment. As a profession, we face a critical decision: limit AI use or develop an AI-positive pedagogy.

While limiting AI use may seem tempting, it is ultimately unfeasible and fails to prepare students for the AI-infused world they will live in. Attempting to enforce strict limitations on AI use is not only impractical but also fails to acknowledge the potential benefits that AI can bring to education.

The only plausible path forward is to adapt a new pedagogy to harness the power of AI for the benefit of our students. This involves a shift towards authentic, discipline-specific assessments that mirror real-world applications of AI within various fields. By focusing on how AI is used in different disciplines, educators can create assessments that evaluate students' ability to effectively utilize AI tools in relevant contexts.

AI-positive pedagogy emphasizes the cultivation of higher-order thinking skills, such as prompt engineering and discerning thinking. Prompt engineering involves crafting effective queries and instructions for AI systems, while discerning thinking emphasizes the critical evaluation of AI-generated information and the ability to make informed decisions by combining AI insights with human judgment. These meta-AI skills are crucial for students to navigate and thrive in an AI-populated world.

AI-positive pedagogy should prepare students to work effectively in environments where human and artificial intelligence coexist and complement each other. By fostering skills in collaborating with AI systems, understanding the strengths of both human and artificial intelligence, and developing strategies for distributed problem-solving, educators can equip students to succeed in the AI-infused workplace.

The shift towards AI-positive pedagogy is well-rooted in past pedagogy and curriculum theory. Educators have long prioritized conceptual and higher-level skills over mechanical and procedural knowledge. The disruption caused by AI may serve as a catalyst for educators to finally achieve what they have been striving for over the past century. As we embrace AI-positive pedagogy, it is essential to re-evaluate the assumption that all effort leads to learning. Cognitive Load Theory suggests that learning can be optimized by managing the three types of cognitive load: intrinsic (inherent complexity of the learning material), extraneous (caused by ineffective instructional design), and germane (effort required to process and construct mental schemas). In the context of AI-positive pedagogy, this involves using AI tools to provide appropriate support and scaffolding as learners progress from lower-level to higher-level skills, while minimizing extraneous load and promoting germane load. Not all loss of effort by students is bad. If we are honest, much of learning work is extraneous, busy, or compliance/submission work anyway. By investigating the limits and structure of leapfrogging - skipping over mid-range skills to move from basic literacies and numeracies to creative, theoretical, and critical thinking - educators can harness the power of AI to accelerate student growth.

To develop a robust AI-positive pedagogy, educators and cognitive psychologists must collaborate to investigate how students interact with and perceive AI tools - alone or under teacher's guidance. This research should focus on understanding the mental models students develop when engaging with AI, and how these models differ from those associated with other educational tools. By exploring students' cognitive processes, researchers can identify the unique challenges and opportunities presented by AI in the learning environment.

It is also crucial to examine the emotional and motivational factors that influence students' engagement with AI tools. Understanding how students' attitudes, beliefs, and self-efficacy impact their willingness to adopt and effectively use AI in their learning can inform the design of AI-positive pedagogical strategies.

In addition to investigating student cognition and affect, researchers should also explore the social and cultural dimensions of AI use in education. This includes examining how AI tools can be leveraged to promote collaborative learning, foster inclusive learning environments, and bridge educational inequities.

To build a comprehensive AI-positive pedagogy, researchers and educators must also develop and validate practices for integrating AI into various disciplines and educational contexts. This involves creating guidelines for the use of AI in education, as well as establishing professional development programs to support educators in effectively implementing AI-positive pedagogical strategies.

The development of an evidence-based AI-positive pedagogy requires a concerted effort from the educational community. By investing in basic research, collaboration, and innovation, we can harness the potential of AI to transform education and empower students to thrive in an AI-infused world.

On AI Shaming

Here is a new thing: AI shaming. It is a practice where individuals accuse others of using artificial intelligence to generate written content, as if such an act were inherently deceitful or somhow sinful. How fascinating, the very premise of it.

This phenomenon  reveals itself to be a fairly common logical fallacy. It is a summative dismissive argument, with a dash of ad hominem (ad machinam?) for flavor. One might wonder why the method of creation should overshadow the substance of the content. After all, we don't dismiss the works of authors who switched from quills to typewriters, do we? 

There's a certain Foucauldian quality to this practice, if one may be permitted a touch of theoryhead's indulgence. By attempting to draw a sharp line between 'acceptable' and 'unacceptable' means of content creation, some seem to be engaging in a subtle power play. It is almost as if they're trying to sell their unfamiliarity with newer technologies as a virtue. it is a rather clever way of elevating the game at which one excells, and putting down a game at which one fails. While an understandable inclination it is still a folly. 

For those of us who have embraced these new tools, such accusations are about as concerning as a light drizzle on a summer day - which is to say, entirely expected and hardly worth mentioning. If anything, it provides a certain amusement to observe the lengths to which some will go to maintain the status quo and their priviledged little spot in it. 

However, there is a more sobering concern to consider. While thick-skinned people like me might brush off such criticisms with a raised eyebrow, younger, more impressionable ones might internalise this arbitrary stigma. It would be a shame if the next generation felt compelled to hide their technological proficiency out of  fear of Luddites' bullying.

As these AI tools inevitably become more sophisticated and ubiquitous, perhaps we might redirect our energy towards more productive ends. Instead of engaging in this curious form of digital fingerpointing, we could focus on the responsible and creative use of these technologies. After all, the ideas expressed within content will always be more intriguing than the means by which they were transcribed.

To those who persist in AI shaming: by all means, knock yourelf out. Your dedication to this cause is admirable, if somewhat perplexing. Just don't be too surprised if the rest of us seem a bit distracted - we'll be busy adapting to the future while you're perfecting your fingerwagging techniques.

P.S. This text, according to QuillBot, is 0% AI-generated, however I wrote it with Claude :)

How to bullshit about bullshit

Take a look at a paper ChatGPT is bullshit, by Michael Townsen Hicks, James Humphries, Joe Slater. Other than a catchy title, the paper has a few problems of its own.

1. Focus on terminology over utility:

The paper spends considerable effort arguing that the outputs of large language models (LLMs) like ChatGPT should be classified as "bullshit" rather than "hallucinations." While this may be an interesting philosophical distinction, it arguably does little to advance our understanding of the practical implications and applications of these technologies. The authors could have devoted more attention to analyzing the actual utility and potential use cases of LLMs, which would likely be more valuable to policymakers and the public.

2. Limited practical insights:

By focusing primarily on categorizing the nature of LLM outputs, the paper misses an opportunity to provide meaningful insights into how these technologies can be effectively and responsibly utilized. A more constructive approach might involve examining specific contexts where LLMs prove useful and where they fall short, rather than broadly labeling their output as "bullshit."

3. Potential for misdirection:

While the authors argue that the term "hallucinations" is misleading, replacing it with "bullshit" may not necessarily lead to a clearer understanding of LLM behavior. Both terms are metaphorical and could potentially misguide readers about the true nature and capabilities of these systems. A more technical and nuanced explanation of how LLMs function and their limitations might be more informative.

4. Overlooking nuance:

The paper seems to take a binary approach – either LLMs are concerned with truth (which they argue against) or they are producing "bullshit." This oversimplification may overlook the nuanced ways in which LLMs can be useful for various tasks, even if they don't have an inherent concern for truth in the way humans do.

5. Lack of actionable recommendations:

While the authors critique the use of the term "hallucinations," they don't offer clear, actionable recommendations for how to better communicate about LLMs to policymakers and the public. A more constructive approach would be to propose specific ways to educate stakeholders about the capabilities and limitations of these technologies.

6. Missing the broader context:

By focusing narrowly on the philosophical categorization of LLM outputs, the paper misses an opportunity to discuss the broader implications of these technologies on society, economy, and various industries. A more comprehensive analysis of the impact and potential of LLMs would likely be more valuable to readers.