The Most Important Question of the A.I. Era: What’s the Point of the Fire?
A few weeks ago, I was talking with two friends at an event. I'm very lucky these friends possess three traits in particular:
Trait #1: They were bored and/or confused enough to befriend me over the years. (This trait is the most important by far.)
Trait #2: They are unbelievably hardworking and talented and accomplished creative people. (Their names are Robert Rose and Ann Handley.)
Trait #3: They, like me, need less than 0.5 seconds of conversation time to get deep about the creative process.
As I got all philosophical with these bored and/or confused friends, we arrived at a tricky topic. AI-generated content. When someone resorts to producing their work wholesale through these tools (and make no mistake, that’s all they are: tools), there’s something noticeably absent to the work. It’s not the “correctness” of the sentences or even the substance of the advice in a given piece. It felt more vague, harder to describe, but we could feel it.
What’s missing? It’s definitely missing … something.
In that moment, the universe decided to tap me on the shoulder and remind me of something from five years ago. I hadn’t thought about it in awhile, but it’s a seminal moment in podcast history. It also provided the best description of what’s missing from most internet content.
* * *
In January 2020, the great Robert Krulwich retired from co-hosting Radiolab. For their final episode together, Krulwich and his co-host, show creator Jad Abumrad, opted to skip their typical episode style (Radiolab is famously immersive, using incredible sound design and music). Instead, they simply sat in the studio and discussed their relationship.
Partway through the episode, the key moment arrives. Jad tells Robert how much he'd grown to appreciate the first 20 minutes of their studio recordings together. Then we hear this:
JAD ABUMRAD: We're sitting in these seats for, like, four hours sometimes. But the first 20 minutes of every time we sit down, we just start...
ROBERT KRULWICH: Oh, they're just like—they're not radio parts. They're just making noises together parts.
ABUMRAD: Yeah [...] Most of the time we're like, "Oh, we've got to get these things done," but then you and I sit and we just banter for 20 minutes before we actually start working. [They're] always these really important calibrating moments for me.
KRULWICH: What do you mean?
ABUMRAD: Well, it's like I walk into the studio with all of these problems in my head.
KRULWICH: Right.
ABUMRAD: Problems with the stories I'm trying to solve and the things I'm trying to edit.
KRULWICH: All the cobwebby things.
ABUMRAD: All the cobwebs, and maybe there's somebody unhappy and there are meetings that I haven't prepared for, and it's all kind of in there. And then we sit down and then for 20 minutes we start to banter. And it's friendly banter, but there's always like 15 minutes in or 18 minutes in, there's a moment where I feel the shift in me, and I discover that I was like, oh, this is really fun. Like, we have so much fun together. It's almost like relearning, being reborn every single time. It's such a joy and a pleasure to do this with you. And you've always served that role for me, where in those 20 minutes, you remind me that we need to have delight and joy. It's like, I'm that way too, but I forget.
KRULWICH: Right.
ABUMRAD: And you've always served this role to remind me. You're the guy who reminds me.
KRULWICH: Also, I kind of noticed at a certain point that what was really making the show work for the audience was probably a little bit less what the subjects were—because I'm not sure there was a ravenous interest in physics and philosophy and all these things—but when two people are having real fun.
ABUMRAD: Mm.
KRULWICH: It's sort of like a warm fire or something. People just want to sort of sit next to it. And I like that. I like that—that this is true. [...] We are really engaged here. And there's something just nice about it.
* * *
Those last lines in particular are the message this moment requires:
It's like a warm fire. People just want to sit next to it. And I like that. I like the fact that this is true. And I like that people just want to sit next to it. There's something nice about it.
Back in my conversation with Ann and Robert (Rose), I realized:
"Warmth. The work doesn’t give off any warmth."
“Exactly!” they shouted together.
Dear reader, we’ve reached a moment in internet history when an odd question is perhaps the most important question we can ask and answer:
What’s the point of the fire?
Scanning this AI-scarred internet, I'm reminded of a terrible toy my kids own. It's a plastic campfire. Red plumes on the top, gray logs on the bottom. Flip a hidden switch, and it makes a noise like a fire. (Although to anyone who has heard an actual fire, it sounds more like 75 crickets screaming in pain into a recording device from the 1980s.) That toy is so much content we encounter online today. Yes, it distantly or even precisely resembles fire. Depending on which side of the debate you prefer, that fact either enrages you or excites you. The thing is, how “correctly fire” it appears is irrelevant. It’s why the fire exists which matters.
Robert Krulwich understood. He wasn’t talking about AI, of course. He was talking about why we create and communicate. He cut to the very core of what we’re allegedly in the business of doing. We make things so that others might see it, walk over, and stay awhile. It’s nice here. Like a warm fire. People just want to sit next to it.
That, dear reader, is the point of this work, and that’s sorely missing from so much content we encounter.
It doesn’t make me mad. It doesn’t make me afraid. It makes me sad. I look around the internet, and I see so many creators simply missing the point. I'm reminded of something else Ann mentioned to us that day. She quoted Annie Dillard's The Writing Life:
A well-known writer got collared by a university student who asked, "Do you think I could be a writer?"
"Well," the writer said, "I don't know... Do you like sentences?"
The writer could see the student's amazement. Sentences? Do I like sentences? If he had liked sentences, of course, he could begin, like a joyful painter I knew. I asked him how he came to be a painter. He said, "I liked the smell of the paint."
I am so sick of people who don't understand people creating technologies that influence tons of people. We don’t want to skip the process. We don’t want to press a button and out pops more stuff. Lovingly making a thing is the point. Shared experiences are the point.
If you agree, I have great news. You and I are far from alone in feeling this way.
My conversation with Ann and Robert took place in the halls of the Content Entrepreneur Expo in Cleveland. Together, hundreds of entrepreneurs, content creators, and experts gathered to learn, swap stories, and grow. The things I discussed with my friends and the sentiment I’m sharing in this essay were NOT the exception. They were the whole vibe.
Parading across the main stage came speaker after speaker who loudly and defiantly declared what this moment requires of experts, creators, and people who understand what fire is really for.
Chenell Basilio preached the importance of "Insanely Valuable Content," telling stories of people who invested silly amounts of time and energy into profoundly valuable, original pieces and projects. They made fewer, better things.
Jay Clouse urged more creators to find their differentiators, not just follow trends or create content about generic topics.
Mark Schaefer declared that humans still corner the market on crazy, as he encouraged us to be more audacious and take the emotion of awe more seriously.
Robert launched his new book, Valuable Friction.
Ann challenged us to slow down and push ourselves creatively, just as she was doing with her next book.
In my keynote, I pushed audiences to stop aiming for the low bar set by others and instead leap over it by becoming stronger public speakers, since speaking is one of the most differentiating, high-value, and undeniably human skills.
Over two days in Cleveland, some of the most brilliant minds on the planet (and I was there also) looked at what was happening to the internet and collectively decided nope.
I took hope in that.
The Hope of Nope.
My friend, YOU have been presented with a wonderful opportunity. While so many people seem happy to produce mediocrity at scale, you can go deeper. When the usual mentality of “more” has given way to “more and more loudly,” you can quietly choose better. You can give others what they most crave. Nobody in the history of humanity craved more generic stuff, but we all desperately crave connection and experiences, stories and inspiration, purpose and emotion.
Your work can be the fire where they find it. More than glance your way, they come walking over, say hello, sit down, and stay awhile. They swap stories and ideas with you and others who gather there too. They tell their friends, and together, they all come back for more.
YOUR work can do that. I hope you realize that, but first you need to remember:
The point of the fire is warmth.
***
You can listen to Robert Krulwich's final Radiolab episode here.