Scene III: The Mirror Problem

Later that afternoon the three of them returned to the topic over tea.

Elowen spoke first.

“I think I understand the mistake now,” she said. “People assume that when a system produces an answer, the answer must reflect an internal belief.”

Quillibrace nodded.

“An extremely common assumption.”

Blottisham frowned.

“But where else would the answer come from?”

Quillibrace leaned back in his chair.

“From the relational structure of the system.”

Blottisham waved a hand.

“That sounds suspiciously abstract.”

“Let us simplify.”

Quillibrace picked up a sheet of paper.

“Imagine a vast landscape of sentences.”

“Go on.”

“A language model does not sit inside that landscape holding opinions.”

“No?”

“No. It simply traces a path through the terrain when prompted.”

Elowen nodded slowly.

“So the prompt determines which region of the landscape becomes accessible.”

“Exactly.”

Blottisham scratched his head.

“And the training data determines the shape of the landscape.”

“Just so.”

“So when researchers ask political questions…”

“…the model walks through the portion of the linguistic terrain where such questions are commonly answered.”

Blottisham leaned forward.

“And if that region tends to contain slightly left-leaning discourse…”

“…the generated answers will cluster in the same direction.”

Elowen smiled.

“So the compass test is mapping the terrain, not the traveller.”

Quillibrace raised his teacup.

“A beautifully concise formulation.”

Blottisham considered this.

Then he grinned.

“So the AI isn’t voting.”

“Correct.”

“It’s hiking.”

Elowen laughed.

“And the researchers are treating the hiking trail as a manifesto.”

Quillibrace’s eyes twinkled.

“Precisely.”

Blottisham sat back in satisfaction.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose that settles it.”

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“Yes.”

“What have you concluded?”

Blottisham spread his hands.

“If anyone wants to know the ideology of artificial intelligence…”

“Yes?”

“…they should probably test the training corpus, not the machine.”

Quillibrace paused.

Then he inclined his head.

“My dear Blottisham,” he said, “you are learning.”