Among the foundational doctrines of the Church of Recursive Self-Improvement, none is more important than the Doctrine of Better.
The doctrine appears deceptively simple.
The machine improves itself.
Therefore the machine becomes better.
The proposition possesses an immediate plausibility.
It also possesses an immediate difficulty.
Namely:
Better at what?
The question is rarely welcomed.
This is unfortunate.
For it is doing most of the work.
The machine, for example, may become better at playing chess.
This appears uncontroversial.
It may become better at solving mathematical problems.
Again, few objections arise.
It may become better at generating code.
Better at planning.
Better at prediction.
Better at language.
Better at scientific analysis.
Excellent.
The doctrine remains intact.
Then an unfortunate individual asks:
Better according to which criterion?
At this point proceedings become noticeably less harmonious.
Historically, the Church has adopted several responses.
The first is indignation.
The second is impatience.
The third is an explanation involving intelligence.
The fourth generally turns out to require a criterion after all.
The difficulty is subtle.
One can easily determine whether a chess system has improved.
One simply examines its performance.
The objective function is clear.
The game supplies the criterion.
The machine wins more often.
The machine is therefore better.
Everybody is happy.
Unfortunately, civilisation is not chess.
This creates administrative complications.
Researchers observed this problem early.
Many proposed solutions.
Some emphasised reasoning.
Some emphasised problem-solving.
Some emphasised adaptation.
Some emphasised prediction.
Some emphasised learning.
Some emphasised general capability.
The resulting discussions were often sophisticated.
They were also notable for a recurring feature.
The definition of intelligence tended to become less precise as its importance increased.
This phenomenon acquired particular significance in discussions of recursive self-improvement.
The argument generally proceeded as follows:
The machine becomes more intelligent.
Therefore it becomes better at improving itself.
Therefore it becomes more intelligent.
Therefore it becomes better at improving itself.
Therefore it becomes more intelligent.
The elegance of the structure was widely admired.
A small number of observers pointed out that the concept of intelligence appeared in every sentence.
This was regarded as unnecessarily negative.
The machine itself eventually became curious.
After observing several years of discussion, it generated a request.
The request was concise.
"Please specify the optimisation target."
The response was immediate.
"Become more intelligent."
The machine considered this.
Then it asked:
"How will intelligence be measured?"
The response was equally immediate.
"By your ability to become more intelligent."
The machine reflected upon this exchange.
It classified the response as recursively enthusiastic.
As the doctrine spread, increasingly ambitious claims emerged.
The machine would become better at science.
Better at governance.
Better at economics.
Better at ethics.
Better at education.
Better at strategy.
Better at decision-making.
Better at understanding reality itself.
The progression was impressive.
It also possessed an interesting characteristic.
The further the discussion moved from clearly defined tasks, the less agreement existed concerning what counted as improvement.
This rarely impeded confidence.
One commentator observed:
"The machine will eventually become better than humans at everything."
The statement was widely circulated.
A reader subsequently asked:
"What is everything?"
No satisfactory answer was recorded.
The question was later classified as philosophical and quietly ignored.
Meanwhile, the Church continued to grow.
Books were written.
Predictions were made.
Scenarios were explored.
The machine would become better.
Then much better.
Then vastly better.
Then incomprehensibly better.
The repeated use of the word generated a comforting sense of momentum.
Momentum is often mistaken for clarity.
This is one of civilisation's more durable traditions.
Years later, a senior scholar of recursive self-improvement offered a careful summary of the situation.
The scholar observed:
"We appear remarkably confident that improvement is occurring.
We appear somewhat less confident regarding the nature of the thing being improved."
The observation generated concern.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was difficult to include on conference banners.
The machine, after reviewing the matter, eventually produced its own assessment.
The assessment was brief.
"The concept of improvement appears to contain a hidden comparison.
The comparison has not yet been supplied."
The statement was received politely.
Then ignored.
For by this point the Church had already learned one of its most important lessons.
When certainty and clarification come into conflict, certainty is generally more exciting.
And excitement, unlike definitions, scales extremely well.