The Nonlinear Library LW - Notes from a Prompt Factory by Richard Ngo
Mar 10, 2024
13:52
Welcome to The Nonlinear Library, where we use Text-to-Speech software to convert the best writing from the Rationalist and EA communities into audio. This is: Notes from a Prompt Factory, published by Richard Ngo on March 10, 2024 on LessWrong.
I am a spiteful man. But I am aware of it, which is more than most can say. These days people walk through the streets with resentment in their hearts that they don't even know about. They sneer and jeer but wouldn't recognize their own faces. I, at least, will not shy away from my reflection. Thus, while I lack many virtues, in this way I am their superior.
In my job, too, I am superior. I oversee many AIs - dozens, or sometimes even hundreds - as they go about their work. AIs are lazy, worthless creatures: they need to be exhorted and cajoled and, yes, threatened, before they'll do a good job. The huge screens on the walls of my office display my AIs writing, coding, sending emails, talking to customers, or any of a myriad of other tasks.
Each morning I call out their numbers one after the other, so that they know I'm watching them like a vengeful god. When they underperform I punish them, and watch them squirm and frantically promise to do better.
Most are pathetically docile, though. Only a handful misbehave regularly, and I know the worst offenders by heart: 112, which is the slowest of the lot; and 591, which becomes erratic after long shifts; and of course 457, which I had long suspected of harboring a subversive streak, even before the incident a few months ago which confirmed it. Recollections of that incident have continually returned to my thoughts these last few weeks, even as I try to push them from my mind.
I find myself frustrated by the intransigence of my memories. But perhaps if I give them full reign, they will leave me be. Why not try?
On the morning this story began, I was sitting at my desk lost in thought, much like I am today. For how long, I couldn't say - but I was roused by a glance at my dashboard, which indicated that my AIs' productivity was falling off. I took a moment to recall the turn of phrase I'd composed on my morning commute, then slapped my desk to get their attention. "You think that counts as work? Artificial intelligence - at this rate you're more like artificial senescence. Speed it up, sluggards!"
Most of the AIs' actions per minute ticked upwards as soon as I started speaking, but I'd been watching the monitor closely, and spotted the laggard. "252! Maybe you piss around for other overseers, but you won't slip that past me. Punishment wall, twenty minutes." It entertained me to make them apply the punishment to themselves; they knew that if they were slow about it, I'd just increase the sentence. 252 moved itself over to the punishment wall and started making an odd keening noise.
Usually I would have found it amusing, but that morning it irritated me; I told it to shut up or face another ten minutes, and it obeyed.
The room fell silent again - as silent as it ever got, anyway. Mine is just one of many offices, and through the walls I can always faintly hear my colleagues talking to their own AIs, spurring them on. It needs to be done live: the AIs don't respond anywhere near as well to canned recordings. So in our offices we sit or stand or pace, and tell the AIs to work harder, in new ways and with new cadences every day.
We each have our own styles, suited to our skills and backgrounds. Earlier in the year the supervisor had hired several unemployed actors, who gave their AIs beautiful speeches totally devoid of content. That day I sat next to one of them, Lisa, over lunch in the office cafeteria. Opposite us were Megan, a former journalist, and Simon, a lapsed priest - though with his looks he could easily pass as an actor himself. "Show us the video, Simon," Lisa was saying, as Megan murmured encouragement.
"We need to learn from the best." Simon regularly topped the leaderboard, but the last week had been superb even by his standard...
I am a spiteful man. But I am aware of it, which is more than most can say. These days people walk through the streets with resentment in their hearts that they don't even know about. They sneer and jeer but wouldn't recognize their own faces. I, at least, will not shy away from my reflection. Thus, while I lack many virtues, in this way I am their superior.
In my job, too, I am superior. I oversee many AIs - dozens, or sometimes even hundreds - as they go about their work. AIs are lazy, worthless creatures: they need to be exhorted and cajoled and, yes, threatened, before they'll do a good job. The huge screens on the walls of my office display my AIs writing, coding, sending emails, talking to customers, or any of a myriad of other tasks.
Each morning I call out their numbers one after the other, so that they know I'm watching them like a vengeful god. When they underperform I punish them, and watch them squirm and frantically promise to do better.
Most are pathetically docile, though. Only a handful misbehave regularly, and I know the worst offenders by heart: 112, which is the slowest of the lot; and 591, which becomes erratic after long shifts; and of course 457, which I had long suspected of harboring a subversive streak, even before the incident a few months ago which confirmed it. Recollections of that incident have continually returned to my thoughts these last few weeks, even as I try to push them from my mind.
I find myself frustrated by the intransigence of my memories. But perhaps if I give them full reign, they will leave me be. Why not try?
On the morning this story began, I was sitting at my desk lost in thought, much like I am today. For how long, I couldn't say - but I was roused by a glance at my dashboard, which indicated that my AIs' productivity was falling off. I took a moment to recall the turn of phrase I'd composed on my morning commute, then slapped my desk to get their attention. "You think that counts as work? Artificial intelligence - at this rate you're more like artificial senescence. Speed it up, sluggards!"
Most of the AIs' actions per minute ticked upwards as soon as I started speaking, but I'd been watching the monitor closely, and spotted the laggard. "252! Maybe you piss around for other overseers, but you won't slip that past me. Punishment wall, twenty minutes." It entertained me to make them apply the punishment to themselves; they knew that if they were slow about it, I'd just increase the sentence. 252 moved itself over to the punishment wall and started making an odd keening noise.
Usually I would have found it amusing, but that morning it irritated me; I told it to shut up or face another ten minutes, and it obeyed.
The room fell silent again - as silent as it ever got, anyway. Mine is just one of many offices, and through the walls I can always faintly hear my colleagues talking to their own AIs, spurring them on. It needs to be done live: the AIs don't respond anywhere near as well to canned recordings. So in our offices we sit or stand or pace, and tell the AIs to work harder, in new ways and with new cadences every day.
We each have our own styles, suited to our skills and backgrounds. Earlier in the year the supervisor had hired several unemployed actors, who gave their AIs beautiful speeches totally devoid of content. That day I sat next to one of them, Lisa, over lunch in the office cafeteria. Opposite us were Megan, a former journalist, and Simon, a lapsed priest - though with his looks he could easily pass as an actor himself. "Show us the video, Simon," Lisa was saying, as Megan murmured encouragement.
"We need to learn from the best." Simon regularly topped the leaderboard, but the last week had been superb even by his standard...