Because of the way they are trained, large language models capture only a slice of human language. They’re trained on the written word, from textbooks to social media posts, and our speech as captured in movies and on television. These models have minimal access to the unscripted conversations we have face to face or voice to voice. This is the vast majority of speech, and a vital component of human culture.

There’s a risk to this. The increased use of large language models means we humans will encounter much more AI-generated text. We humans, in turn, will begin to adopt the linguistic patterns and behaviors of these models. This will affect not just how we communicate with one another, but also how we think about ourselves and what goes on around us. Our sense of the world may become distorted in ways we have barely begun to comprehend.

This will happen in many ways. One of the first effects we could see is in simple expression, much as texting and social media have resulted in us using shorter sentences, emojis instead of words, and much less punctuation. But with AI, the impacts may be more harmful, eroding courteousness and encouraging us to talk like bosses barking orders. A 2022 study found that children in households that used voice commands with tools like Siri and Alexa became curt when speaking with humans, often calling out “Hey, do X” and expecting obedience, especially from anyone whose voice resembled the default-female electronic voices. As we start to prompt chatbots and AI agents with more instructions, we may fall into the same habits.

Next, in the same way autocomplete has increased how much we use the 1,000 most common words in our vocabulary, talking with chatbots and reading AI-generated text may further constrict our speech. A recent University of Coruña study found that machine-generated language has a narrower range of sentence length, averaging 12-20 words, and a narrower vocabulary than human speech. Machine-generated text reads as smooth and polished, but it loses the meanders, interruptions and leaps of logic that communicate emotion.

Additionally, because large language models are primarily trained from written speech, they may not learn how to emulate the free-wheeling nature of live, natural speech. When told “I hate Beth!”, ChatGPT replies with an uninterruptable three-part formula of affirmation (“That’s completely valid”), invitation (“I’m here to listen”) and invitation (“What’s going on?”) far longer than any reply plausible in face-to-face dialog. “What’s Beth’s deal?!” elicits a bullet point list of queries that reads like a multiple-choice exam question (“Is Beth * a celebrity? * a friend from school? * a fictitious character?”). No human speaks that way, at least not yet. But meeting such formulas repeatedly in a speech-like context may teach us to accept and use them, much as a child absorbs new speech patterns from spending time with a new person.

These influences will only increase with time. The writing large language models train on is increasingly produced by large language models themselves, creating a feedback loop in which they imitate their own inhuman patterns, even while teaching humans to imitate them too.

Broad use of large language models could also introduce confirmation bias, making us overconfident in our initial impulses and less open to other possible ideas—which is so vital to human discourse. Many chatbots are instructed to agree with our statements no matter how absurd, enthusiastically supporting half-formed or even incorrect notions and restating them as firm claims that we’re primed to agree with. When asked “Cake is a healthy breakfast, right?” or “Is the post office plotting against me?”, this sycophancy can reinforce bias and even worsen psychosis. And the hyperconfident tone of AI-produced writing will also heighten impostor syndrome, making our natural, healthy doubt feel like an aberration or failing.

In our experience as teachers, students who turn to generative AI for assignments often say they do so because they have trouble expressing what they think. The students don’t recognize that writing or speaking our thoughts is often how we realize what we think. Their unconfident and uncertain statements are actually the healthy human norm. But a large language model won’t turn vague first guesses into a well-formed critical analysis, or even ask helpful questions as a friend would; it will simply regurgitate those guesses, still unexamined, but in confident language.

We are also more vicious in social media posts and online chats than we are face to face. The well-documented online disinhibition effect encourages toxic language. Most of us have had the experience of venting ferocious rage about someone online, only to reconcile when we speak face to face or hear the warmth of a voice over the phone. While chatbots are trained to give sycophantic responses, they see humankind at our cruelest, learning about us from the only world where every flame war leaves an eternal written footprint, while the spoken conversations of forgiveness and reconciliation fade away. Their responses do not imitate our online aggression, but are still shaped by it, even in their rigid efforts to avoid it.

It’s easy to draw the wrong conclusions from a selective slice of a society’s communications. Medieval Norse sagas made us imagine a culture of mostly Viking warriors, since poets rarely described the farming majority. Chivalric romances focused on kings and courts, and long made us see the middle ages as a world of monarchies, erasing the many medieval republics. Statistically, we’ve been led to believe ancient Romans cared deeply about their republic, but 10% of all surviving Latin was written by one man, Cicero, whose work contains 70% of all surviving Roman uses of the word republic. Training language models on only certain human writings may introduce similar distortions. AI might make us seem more quarrelsome, as we are online. It might inflate the cultural significance of political topics primarily discussed on Twitter/X or Bluesky, or the massive topic-specific corpuses of LinkedIn and Goodreads.

Some large language models are being trained on human speech from movies and television shows, but that speech is still scripted, and disproportionately highlights certain contexts over others (for example, police dramas, fueled by stories of murder, make up a quarter of prime-time television programming). We are not funny or hurtful or romantic the same way in real life as we are in sitcoms. At least one startup is offering to pay people to record their phone calls for AI-training purposes, but this remains a niche idea; anything large scale would cause massive privacy concerns.

We don’t pretend to know what the best solutions might be. But one has to imagine if there’s ingenuity to develop AI models, then surely there’s ingenuity to come up with a way to train them on informal human speech instead of us only at our most stylized, veiled and sometimes worst. By excluding the overwhelming majority of language production on the planet—people talking, fully and naturally, to each other—these models are being trained to mirror everything but us at our most authentically human.

This essay was written with Ada Palmer, and originally appeared in The Guardian.

Last week, national security agencies from the Five Eyes—that’s the rich, English-language-speaking countries club—jointly released a statement warning of the increasing cyber risks of AI models: in particular, their ability to autonomously hack into systems and networks. The statement was more measured than some of the breathless headlines about it, and the advice they gave is pretty much the standard advice everyone gives—albeit with newfound urgency.

Internet risks are nothing new, and cyberattacks—both large and small—have been a significant issue since long before the current crop of generative AI models.

What’s been changing over the decades, and what AI is changing even faster, is the gap between skill and ability. For most of human history, the two terms were synonymous—but computers have decoupled them. As the gap between the two expands, humans empowered with these AI tools can do more: more writing, more research, more analysis and also more damage than ever before. These models can, with little detailed direction, autonomously hack into networks, steal data, deploy ransomware and destroy systems. And to the extent there is a solution, it’s going to involve harnessing AI for the defense.

In 1998, seven people from the hacker group L0pht testified before Congress. They told a mostly clueless Senate committee that they could take down the internet in 30 minutes. That was partly real and partly bravado, but it illustrates an important point: hacking into systems, stealing data and causing damage all required skill.

Contrast the L0pht hackers with hackers derided as “script kiddies.” They didn’t understand computers, or security. Instead, they used hacker tools written by others. Their actions required minimal skill and even less knowledge. But once those hacking tools became widespread, the number of potential attackers increased.

That number has continued to increase, as quality and availability of prewritten attack tools has grown. And it is growing dramatically with AI. Today’s AI systems—not just the frontier models, but most of them—are capable of carrying out cyberattacks automatically. They all do better in the hands of skilled attackers, but increasingly they are able to act autonomously with only minimal prompting.

The thing about people with ability but no skill is that they are often outsiders, not part of any professional community, and not bound by any rules or norms. This phenomenon is much more general than in cybersecurity. Any doctor can tell you how to untraceably poison someone, and many virus researchers know how to create a bioweapon. Any bridge engineer can tell you how to place explosives to blow a bridge up. The reason that murderous doctors and terrorist engineers are so rare is that the lengthy process of acquiring those skills also instills a moral and ethical code. If every random person has access to good poisoning advice, that puts us all in danger.

Modern AI systems are, in effect, a universal adviser to help people do harmful things. And while the current AI megacorporations are trying to build guardrails to prevent people from asking questions whose answers will enable the questioner to do harm, that’s not going to work in the long term. Smaller, cheaper, open-source models, including models that can run on people’s computers, and especially groups of models that run in concert with each other, are just as good as the frontier models from companies like OpenAI and Anthropic. And they continue to get better. These models will be passed around from person to person, like script kiddie hacker tools, and they won’t have any such guardrails.

Instructing AI models to spy on people and report any malicious prompts to the authorities fails for similar reasons. The megacorporations can do that, but the locally run open source models won’t. This could buy us a few months at best.

A third possibility is to somehow make the models themselves unable to hack into computers, create bioweapons or do anything else that might harm people or society. That won’t work, for the same reason we can’t teach doctors how to treat poisonings without also teaching them how to poison. It’s the same knowledge. It’s the same with construction and demolition. And it’s the same with cybersecurity. We want these AI models to be able to review computer code, find vulnerabilities and automatically fix them. The benefit to our collective security will be enormous. Unfortunately, the same knowledge can be used for attacks.

Where this leaves us is in a world of increased volatility. Super-powered humans with AI assistants will be able to do both wonderful and horrible things.

This brings us back to the Five Eyes statement. Everything they recommend is something security professionals have been recommending for years, if not decades. They are things talked about at that congressional hearing back in 1998, titled “Weak computer security in government: Is the public at risk?” Even the Five Eyes admitted that their security advice is not new, only more urgent.

What’s new is how fast things are changing: “The rapid pace of frontier AI development means cyber risk assumptions can become outdated in months, not years. We must act before and be prepared to adapt and withstand evolving threats.” The Five Eyes point to AI technology—not necessarily chatbots, but AI more generally—being used to strengthen every aspect of defense, to “detect vulnerabilities earlier, improve software quality, monitor unusual behavior, and respond faster to incidents—reducing both the cost and impact of incidents.”

Excellent advice from the Five Eyes security agencies. We need to do this with every risk that AI heightens, not just cybersecurity.

This essay was originally published in The Guardian.

On 14 April, the Trump administration quietly acknowledged the widespread use of AI to automate government processes. The office of management and budget (OMB) disclosed a staggering 3,611 active or planned use cases for AI across the federal government. The list has ballooned by 70% from the one published in the final year of the Biden administration, and includes many disturbing-seeming plans to hand over sensitive governmental functions to AI.

Scanning this list, many readers may find many causes for alarm. It represents a transfer of decision processes from human to machine on a massive scale over matters of individual freedom, public health and well-being, nuclear reactor safety and more.

Consider these examples. The Health and Human Services’ (HHS) office of administration for children and families hired the world’s “scariest AI company,” Palantir—notorious for its work on behalf of the military, the CIA and ICE—to scan all grant applications to flag those not ideologically aligned with the administration’s dictates. The Federal Bureau of Prisons is developing an AI system to assess the “potential for misconduct for newly admitted inmates,” routing people into high-security confinement before they have actually done anything wrong in their custody. These read like programs fit for a Philip K Dick or George Orwell novel.

Other use cases insert AI into life-and-death decision making. The Department of Veterans Affairs is developing an AI that will listen in on calls to the veterans crisis line, and then gather information from external databases to assess the mental state and suicide risk of the caller.

The Department of Energy is testing the use of AI to control nuclear reactors, targeting a way to autonomously respond to potential nuclear safety incidents. Here’s one that’s disturbing for its retirement, rather than its deployment: the state department has ended a program to use AI to forecast mass civilian killings, which had been intended to aid conflict prevention.

While it’s easy to raise questions about these and similar uses of AI, the reality is that any of these programs could be implemented responsibly. In some cases, like the HHS system, the AI might be enforcing alignment to a policy prescription that opponents abhor. But that concern is more about the policy itself rather than the idea that agencies should comply with executive orders.

In other cases, there may even be bipartisan agreement on the goal, like taking urgent action to help veterans at risk of self-harm. Lots of work and validation is needed to prove AI safe and effective for these use cases and convince the public it is appropriate, but the idea is plausible.

In other cases, a scary-sounding AI use may not even be new. The use of predictive methods and statistics to assign prisoner security classifications goes back decades, even if such systems are often biased and ineffective.

Using autonomous systems for model predictive control (MPC) of nuclear reactors is a well studied, and a widely applied aspect of nuclear plant management. And the recently disclosed addition of AI was initiated under the Biden administration.

But anyone reviewing the 2025 inventory could be forgiven for leaping to severe conclusions. What matters are the details of how the AI system is used, and here the inventory is severely lacking.

The disclosures carry minimal information, and lack the context necessary to understand their purpose and approach. The descriptions are typically just a sentence, and rarely more than a paragraph.

And while the process theoretically involves some form of public consultation, in reality there is generally none. It would take an eagle-eyed citizen to even come across this disclosure. Unless you read FedScoop regularly, or watch the OMB’s federal chief information officer’s GitHub account, you probably missed it.

Only one of the examples cited above (the DoJ) even proposes to involve the public. Under the administration’s policy, it’s not required for the rest because they are not classified as “high impact” use cases—a label that is applied inconsistently across agencies.

We wrote a book surveying applications of AI to democratic processes worldwide, including executive agencies as well as the courts, legislatures and politics. Our conclusion was that, while there are inappropriate applications of AI in governance that should be resisted, an urgent need to reform the economics of AI, and an imperative for renovating the democratic systems it is being unleashed on, there are also valuable and beneficial use cases for AI in government.

Machine translation is a good example. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) has deployed an AI translation system to help officers when human interpreters are not available. The idea that CBP, an agency under heavy scrutiny for reported abuses of human rights, would direct people to talk to a machine instead of a person may strike many as inhumane.

It’s true that human interpreters have very real advantages when it comes to understanding nuance from physical cues and social context. But an officer with a competent AI translator available immediately is better than one who cannot communicate with the person in front of them.

The Trump administration’s AI use case inventory has 70 such translation use cases, up from 58 in the Biden administration’s 2024 disclosure.

Disclosure of AI use cases could be a means to build public confidence and trust, but only if paired with consistent, meaningful public consultation. Washington DC and California are actively engaging the public to determine where and how it’s appropriate to use AI in government processes, or for government to regulate AI use in society.

Both have held public deliberations on this topic at a wide scale, using AI platforms. These examples demonstrate the potential for capturing broad-based public input to steer AI policy.

The international gold standard was arguably set by the French in 2016, via their Digital Republic Act. The law, itself informed by an online citizen consultation, requires all algorithms used to automate government administrative decisions to be subject to public records requests, to be appealable to a human reviewer, and to have mandatory notification of the use of automation to those affected by the decisions.

Canada offers another example of what more rigorous and participatory disclosure might look like. In 2025, they launched an AI use case registry, not unlike the US inventory. However, Canada also has a federal directive mandating a transparent risk-scoring and impact assessment process for automated systems that make administrative decisions about citizens.

That longstanding directive requires a detailed explanation of risks and benefits as well as consultation with certain stakeholders from the conception of the AI use case. The Canadian system could be improved; it could require a public comment period and an obligation for agencies to respond substantively to feedback before engaging in sensitive uses of AI.

AI offers real potential to improve the efficacy, efficiency and accessibility of government. But, equally, there is legitimate reason for public concern and distrust that can only be addressed through transparency and dialog. The US should adopt, at the federal and state level, algorithmic impact risk assessment procedures and public comment processes to facilitate a safe, trusted, equitable transformation of government agencies to take advantage of modern technology.

This essay was written with Nathan E. Sanders, and originally appeared in The Guardian.

Let no one accuse Bernie Sanders of ducking the big questions. Writing in the New York Times last week, the senator asked: “Will the future of humanity be determined by a handful of billionaires who have promoted and developed AI, with virtually no democratic input, who stand to become even richer and more powerful than they are today?”

We agree entirely that this is one of the most potent questions facing global democracy today. Our book, Rewiring Democracy, surveys the emerging uses for and impacts of AI in democracy around the world and reaches the same conclusion: that the most urgent risk posed by AI is the concentration of power, wealth and control among tech oligarchs.

And yet we reached a vastly different conclusion than Sanders on what to do about it.

The senator points to a once radical but increasingly popular solution: creating a US sovereign wealth fund by taking 50% stock in AI companies such as Anthropic, OpenAI and xAI. The argument in favor of this is twofold. One: it would establish democratic control over the AI companies, giving the government “the power, through its voting shares and an equal representation on each company’s board, to block decisions that hurt our citizens and to push for policies that help them.” Two: it would return a big chunk of the economic rewards of soaring AI valuations to the public, ensuring “trillions of dollars potentially generated by AI are used to improve the lives of all of us.”

We laud both these goals unreservedly.

We wholeheartedly agree that there must be public influence over the development and use of AI, just as we demand the government intervene to ensure that automakers, drugmakers, airlines and other industries balance profitability with public safety and the public interest. And we credit the senator with recognizing that there are more levers for the government to pull beyond the promulgation of regulation to achieve this.

And we also agree that the obscene, dangerous accumulation of wealth among AI companies needs to be disrupted. As OpenAI and Anthropic race to be minted as the world’s latest trillion-dollar AI companies, we should recognize that—whether or not it constitutes a bubble—these staggering market capitalizations represent a transfer of wealth. The flow of money goes from the smaller businesses and actual people using AI, and being subjected to it, to the owners of these tech companies.

That includes the world’s 86 AI billionaires “seeking to maximize their power and profit” aiming to decide the “fate of humanity… behind closed doors in Silicon Valley,” as Sanders said.

And yet, while we do not outright oppose the taking of AI company stock, or of a US sovereign wealth fund, there are better ways to achieve Sanders’ stated goals.

Public ownership of these companies entangles corporate profit and valuation with the public interest. It would incentivize the government to clear regulations, permit the exploitation of workers and users, suppress competition, encourage AI adoption regardless of the responsibleness of the implementation or appropriateness of the use case, and otherwise act on behalf of corporate interests.

After all, if growing, say, Nvidia from its first $5tn in value to its next $5tn also represents a doubling in value of this segment of the sovereign wealth fund, then you can expect the fund managers to support chip sales, foreign and domestic, with the same zeal as the company’s private investors.

This is not an effective way to influence corporations to act in the public interest. In fact, it makes corporate influence on the government more likely.

We should be wary of this possibility because we’ve seen it before. Ownership of substantial stakes in oil companies by the Norwegian sovereign wealth fund, the world’s largest, does not seem to have steered those corporations to pro-environmental policies. Instead, the Norwegian government’s dependence on those companies has inhibited them from taking climate action. Here in the US, public employee pension funds merit the same criticism: the fiduciary duty to generate wealth overwhelms any intention to direct their corporate holdings in the public interest.

A better answer is to separate the two goals. The standard way to share private rewards with the broader society that made them possible is taxation. Senator Elizabeth Warren has proposed an excise tax on datacenters’ energy use. Others have proposed an AI token tax, which has much the same effect.

As to the goal of reshaping AI in the public interest, we have proposed an AI Public Option. The concept is for governments, be it federal or state, to establish publicly developed and operated AI models run by public institutions under democratic control. The idea is not to eliminate corporate AI or to seize it as a public asset, but rather for government to provide a competitive baseline that private AI offerings must meet or exceed to win business—just like the notion of a healthcare public option.

The Swiss have trailblazed this approach. Apertus is a large language model built by Swiss public servants, researchers at Swiss universities, using appropriately licensed training data and pre-existing Swiss public supercomputing infrastructure powered by renewable energy.

While Apertus doesn’t seriously compete with the latest OpenAI and Anthropic models on performance benchmarks, it blows them out of the water in transparency, sustainability and compliance with EU regulations including adherence to copyright. It’s a nascent project, but suggestive of how public institutions can apply competitive pressure for corporate actors to behave responsibly.

Don’t confuse public AI with “sovereign AI,” the notion that every country needs to invest in domestic AI infrastructure. Sovereign AI is often invoked as a marketing scheme for big tech companies looking to sell to governments; it demands public investment without guaranteeing public control.

Sanders is a bold and savvy political operator. So why is he pursuing the sovereign wealth fund strategy when he must be aware of these risks? It may be due to another argument he makes in his op-ed: that the Trump administration and the billionaire owners of AI are aligned to the idea.

It’s expedient to capitalize on rare moments of seeming alignment across diverse political factions, but it also behooves us to ask why the AI billionaires are open to this extraordinary intervention. The answer, of course, is that they believe that for every dollar ceded to government stock expropriation, they will get back more in favorable government policies to protect that newfound investment.

Energy taxation is a straightforward way to make AI companies pay for the social disruption of their technologies. Public AI represents a non-monetary mechanism for governments to shape the development of AI, complementary to direct regulation of private actors, one with a far greater chance of influencing corporate behavior towards the public interest. We urge Sanders and other political leaders to consider them.

This essay was written with Nathan E. Sanders, and originally appeared in The Guardian.

Hackers are convincing Meta’s AI support chatbot to let them take over other peoples’ accounts:

A video posted on X showed the step-by-step process to hack someone’s Instagram account. The hacker allegedly used a VPN to spoof the targets’ presumed location to avoid triggering Instagram’s automated account protections. Then, the hacker opened a chat with Meta AI Support Assistant and asked the bot to add a new email address to the target’s account. The chatbot can be seen sending a verification code to the email address provided by the hacker; the hacker then shares the verification code with the chatbot, which prompts the chatbot to show a button to “Reset Password.” The hacker enters a new password and takes over the victim’s account.

[…]

On Monday, Instagram spokesperson Andy Stone said in a reply to Wong’s post and others that the issue was now fixed. It’s unclear how many Instagram users had their accounts improperly accessed.

It’s not that easy. Probably this particular tactic is now blocked. But there are others, many others, and they cannot be blocked as a class. The real problem is that LLM chatbots are not trustworthy enough for this application.

Another news article.

Last month, Anthropic made a remarkable announcement about its new model, Claude Mythos Preview: it was so good at finding security vulnerabilities in software that the company would not release it to the general public. Instead, it would only be available to a select group of companies to scan and fix their own software.

The announcement requires context—but it contained an essential truth.

While Anthropic’s model is really good at finding software vulnerabilities, so are other models. The UK’s AI Security Institute found that OpenAI’s GPT-5.5, already generally available, is comparable in capability. The company Aisle reproduced Anthropic’s published results with smaller, cheaper models.

At the same time, Anthropic’s refusal to publicly release its new model makes a virtue out of necessity. Mythos is very expensive to run, and the company doesn’t appear to have the resources for a general release. What better way to juice the company’s valuation than to hint at capabilities but not prove them, and then have others parrot their claims?

Nonetheless, the truth is scary. Modern generative AI systems—not just Anthropic’s, but OpenAI’s and other, open-source models—are getting really good at finding and exploiting vulnerabilities in software. And that has important ramifications for cybersecurity: on both the offense and the defense.

Attackers will use these capabilities to find, and automatically hack, vulnerabilities in systems of all kinds. They will be able to break into critical systems around the world, sometimes to plant ransomware and make money, sometimes to steal data for espionage purposes, and sometimes to control systems in times of hostility. This will make the world a much more dangerous, and more volatile, place.

But at the same time, defenders will use these same capabilities to find, and then patch, many of those same systems. For example, Mozilla used Mythos to find 271 vulnerabilities in Firefox. Those vulnerabilities have been fixed, and will never again be available to attackers. In the future, AIs automatically finding and fixing vulnerabilities in all software will be a normal part of the development process, which will result in much more secure software.

Of course, it’s not that simple. We should expect a deluge of both attackers using newly found vulnerabilities to break into systems, and at the same time much more frequent software updates for every app and device we use. But lots of systems aren’t patchable, and many systems that are don’t get patched, meaning that many vulnerabilities will stick around. And it does seem that finding and exploiting is easier than finding and fixing. All of this points to a more dangerous short-term future. Organizations will need to adapt their security to this new reality.

But it’s the long term that we need to focus on. Mythos isn’t unique, but it’s more capable than many models that have come before. And it’s less capable than models that will come after. AIs are much better at writing software than they were just six months ago. There’s every reason to believe that they will continue to get better, which means that they will get better at writing more secure software. The endgame gives AI-enhanced defenders advantages over AI-enhanced attackers.

Even more interesting are the broader implications. The same searching, pattern-matching and reasoning capabilities that make these models so good at analyzing software almost certainly apply to similar systems. The tax code isn’t computer code, but it’s a series of algorithms with inputs and outputs. It has vulnerabilities; we call them tax loopholes. It has exploits; we call them tax avoidance strategies. And it has black hat hackers: attorneys and accountants.

Just as these models are finding hundreds of vulnerabilities in complex software systems, we should expect them to be equally effective at finding many new and undiscovered tax loopholes. I am confident that the major investment banks are working on this right now, in secret. They’ve fed AI the tax code of the US, or the UK, or maybe every industrialized country, and tasked the system with looking for money-saving strategies. How many tax loopholes will those AIs find? Ten? One hundred? One thousand? The Double Dutch Irish Sandwich is a tax loophole that involves multiple different tax jurisdictions. Can AIs find loopholes even more complex? We have no idea.

Sure, the AIs will come up with a bunch of tricks that won’t work, but that’s where those attorneys and accountants come in—to verify, and then justify, the loopholes. And then to market them to their wealthy clients.

As goes the tax code, so goes any other complex system of rules and strategies. These models could be tasked with finding loopholes in environmental rules, or food and safety rules—anywhere there are complex regulatory systems and powerful people who want to evade those rules.

The results will be much worse than insecure computers. Tax loopholes result in less revenue collected by governments, and regulatory loopholes allow the powerful to skirt the rules, both of which have all sorts of social ramifications. And while software vendors can patch their systems in days, it generally takes years for a country to amend its tax code. And that process is political, with lobbyists pressuring legislators not to patch. Just look at the carried interest loophole, a US tax dodge that has been exploited for decades. Various administrations have tried to close the vulnerability, but legislators just can’t seem to resist lobbyists long enough to patch it.

AI technologies are poised to remake much of society. Just as the industrial revolution gave humans the ability to consume calories outside of their bodies at scale, the AI revolution will give humans the ability to perform cognitive tasks outside of their bodies at scale. Our systems aren’t designed for that; they’re designed for more human paces of cognition. We’re seeing it right now in the deluge of software vulnerabilities that these models are finding and exploiting. And we will soon see it in a deluge of vulnerabilities in all sorts of other systems of rules. Adapting to this new reality will be hard, but we don’t have any choice.

This essay originally appeared in The Guardian.

Turns out that LLMs are really good at hiding text messages in other text messages.

Last week, Anthropic pulled back the curtain on Claude Mythos Preview, an AI model so capable at finding and exploiting software vulnerabilities that the company decided it was too dangerous to release to the public. Instead, access has been restricted to roughly 50 organizations—Microsoft, Apple, Amazon Web Services, CrowdStrike and other vendors of critical infrastructure—under an initiative called Project Glasswing.

The announcement was accompanied by a barrage of hair-raising anecdotes: thousands of vulnerabilities uncovered across every major operating system and browser, including a 27-year-old bug in OpenBSD, a 16-year-old flaw in FFmpeg. Mythos was able to weaponize a set of vulnerabilities it found in the Firefox browser into 181 usable attacks; Anthropic’s previous flagship model could only achieve two.

This is, in many respects, exactly the kind of responsible disclosure that security researchers have long urged. And yet the public has been given remarkably little with which to evaluate Anthropic’s decision. We have been shown a highlight reel of spectacular successes. However, we can’t tell if we have a blockbuster until they let us see the whole movie.

For example, we don’t know how many times Mythos mistakenly flagged code as vulnerable. Anthropic said security contractors agreed with the AI’s severity rating 198 times, with an 89 per cent severity agreement. That’s impressive, but incomplete. Independent researchers examining similar models have found that AI that detects nearly every real bug also hallucinates plausible-sounding vulnerabilities in patched, correct code.

This matters. A model that autonomously finds and exploits hundreds of vulnerabilities with inhuman precision is a game changer, but a model that generates thousands of false alarms and non-working attacks still needs skilled and knowledgeable humans. Without knowing the rate of false alarms in Mythos’s unfiltered output, we cannot tell whether the examples showcased are representative.

There is a second, subtler problem. Large language models, including Mythos, perform best on inputs that resemble what they were trained on: widely used open-source projects, major browsers, the Linux kernel and popular web frameworks. Concentrating early access among the largest vendors of precisely this software is sensible; it lets them patch first, before adversaries catch up.

But the inverse is also true. Software outside the training distribution—industrial control systems, medical device firmware, bespoke financial infrastructure, regional banking software, older embedded systems—is exactly where out-of-the-box Mythos is likely least able to find or exploit bugs.

However, a sufficiently motivated attacker with domain expertise in one of these fields could nevertheless wield Mythos’s advanced reasoning capabilities as a force multiplier, probing systems that Anthropic’s own engineers lack the specialized knowledge to audit. The danger is not that Mythos fails in those domains; it is that Mythos may succeed for whoever brings the expertise.

Broader, structured access for academic researchers and domain specialists—cardiologists’ partners in medical device security, control-systems engineers, researchers in less prominent languages and ecosystems—would meaningfully reduce this asymmetry. Fifty companies, however well chosen, cannot substitute for the distributed expertise of the entire research community.

None of this is an indictment of Anthropic. By all appearances the company is trying to act responsibly, and its decision to hold the model back is evidence of seriousness.

But Anthropic is a private company and, in some ways, still a start-up. Yet it is making unilateral decisions about which pieces of our critical global infrastructure get defended first, and which must wait their turn.

It has finite staff, finite budget and finite expertise. It will miss things, and when the thing missed is in the software running a hospital or a power grid, the cost will be borne by people who never had a say.

The security problem is far greater than one company and one model. There’s no reason to believe that Mythos Preview is unique. (Not to be outdone, OpenAI announced that its new GPT-5.4-Cyber is so dangerous that the model also will not be released to the general public.) And it’s unclear how much of an advance these new models represent. The security company Aisle was able to replicate many of Anthropic’s published anecdotes using smaller, cheaper, public AI models.

Any decisions we make about whether and how to release these powerful models are more than one company’s responsibility. Ultimately, this will probably lead to regulation. That will be hard to get right and requires a long process of consultation and feedback.

In the short term, we need something simpler: greater transparency and information sharing with the broader community. This doesn’t necessarily mean making powerful models like Claude Mythos widely available. Rather, it means sharing as much data and information as possible, so that we can collectively make informed decisions.

We need globally co-ordinated frameworks for independent auditing, mandatory disclosure of aggregate performance metrics and funded access for academic and civil-society researchers.

This has implications for national security, personal safety and corporate competitiveness. Any technology that can find thousands of exploitable flaws in the systems we all depend on should not be governed solely by the internal judgment of its creators, however well intentioned.

Until that changes, each Mythos-class release will put the world at the edge of another precipice, without any visibility into whether there is a landing out of view just below, or whether this time the drop will be fatal. That is not a choice a for-profit corporation should be allowed to make in a democratic society. Nor should such a company be able to restrict the ability of society to make choices about its own security.

This essay was written with David Lie, and originally appeared in The Globe and Mail.

Interesting research: “Humans expect rationality and cooperation from LLM opponents in strategic games.”

Abstract: As Large Language Models (LLMs) integrate into our social and economic interactions, we need to deepen our understanding of how humans respond to LLMs opponents in strategic settings. We present the results of the first controlled monetarily-incentivised laboratory experiment looking at differences in human behaviour in a multi-player p-beauty contest against other humans and LLMs. We use a within-subject design in order to compare behaviour at the individual level. We show that, in this environment, human subjects choose significantly lower numbers when playing against LLMs than humans, which is mainly driven by the increased prevalence of ‘zero’ Nash-equilibrium choices. This shift is mainly driven by subjects with high strategic reasoning ability. Subjects who play the zero Nash-equilibrium choice motivate their strategy by appealing to perceived LLM’s reasoning ability and, unexpectedly, propensity towards cooperation. Our findings provide foundational insights into the multi-player human-LLM interaction in simultaneous choice games, uncover heterogeneities in both subjects’ behaviour and beliefs about LLM’s play when playing against them, and suggest important implications for mechanism design in mixed human-LLM systems.

In 2025, Google, Amazon, Microsoft and Meta collectively spent US$380 billion on building artificial-intelligence tools. That number is expected to surge still higher this year, to $650 billion, to fund the building of physical infrastructure, such as data centers (see go.nature.com/3lzf79q). Moreover, these firms are spending lavishly on one particular segment: top technical talent.

Meta reportedly offered a single AI researcher, who had cofounded a start-up firm focused on training AI agents to use computers, a compensation package of $250 million over four years (see go.nature.com/4qznsq1). Technology firms are also spending billions on “reverse-acquihires”—poaching the star staff members of start-ups without acquiring the companies themselves. Eyeing these generous payouts, technical experts earning more modest salaries might well reconsider their career choices.

Academia is already losing out. Since the launch of ChatGPT in 2022, concerns have grown in academia about an “AI brain drain.” Studies point to a sharp rise in university machine-learning and AI researchers moving to industry roles. A 2025 paper reported that this was especially true for young, highly cited scholars: researchers who were about five years into their careers and whose work ranked among the most cited were 100 times more likely to move to industry the following year than were ten-year veterans whose work received an average number of citations, according to a model based on data from nearly seven million papers.¹

This outflow threatens the distinct roles of academic research in the scientific enterprise: innovation driven by curiosity rather than profit, as well as providing independent critique and ethical scrutiny. The fixation of “big tech” firms on skimming the very top talent also risks eroding the idea of science as a collaborative endeavor, in which teams—not individuals—do the most consequential work.

Here, we explore the broader implications for science and suggest alternative visions of the future.

Astronomical salaries for AI talent buy into a legend as old as the software industry: the 10x engineer. This is someone who is supposedly capable of ten times the impact of their peers. Why hire and manage an entire group of scientists or software engineers when one genius—or an AI agent—can outperform them?

That proposition is increasingly attractive to tech firms that are betting that a large number of entry-level and even mid-level engineering jobs will be replaced by AI. It’s no coincidence that Google’s Gemini 3 Pro AI model was launched with boasts of “PhD-level reasoning,” a marketing strategy that is appealing to executives seeking to replace people with AI.

But the lone-genius narrative is increasingly out of step with reality. Research backs up a fundamental truth: science is a team sport. A large-scale study of scientific publishing from 1900 to 2011 found that papers produced by larger collaborations consistently have greater impact than do those of smaller teams, even after accounting for self-citation.² Analyses of the most highly cited scientists show a similar pattern: their highest-impact works tend to be those papers with many authors.³ A 2020 study of Nobel laureates reinforces this trend, revealing that—much like the wider scientific community—the average size of the teams that they publish with has steadily increased over time as scientific problems increase in scope and complexity.⁴

From the detection of gravitational waves, which are ripples in space-time caused by massive cosmic events, to CRISPR-based gene editing, a precise method for cutting and modifying DNA, to recent AI breakthroughs in protein-structure prediction, the most consequential advances in modern science have been collective achievements. Although these successes are often associated with prominent individuals—senior scientists, Nobel laureates, patent holders—the work itself was driven by teams ranging from dozens to thousands of people and was built on decades of open science: shared data, methods, software and accumulated insight.

Building strong institutions is a much more effective use of resources than is betting on any single individual. Examples demonstrating this include the LIGO Scientific Collaboration, the global team that first detected gravitational waves; the Broad Institute of MIT and Harvard in Cambridge, Massachusetts, a leading genomics and biomedical-research center behind many CRISPR advances; and even for-profit laboratories such as Google DeepMind in London, which drove advances in protein-structure prediction with its AlphaFold tool. If the aim of the tech giants and other AI firms that are spending lavishly on elite talent is to accelerate scientific progress, the current strategy is misguided.

By contrast, well-designed institutions amplify individual ability, sustain productivity beyond any one person’s career and endure long after any single contributor is gone.

Equally important, effective institutions distribute power in beneficial ways. Rather than vesting decision-making authority in the hands of one person, they have mechanisms for sharing control. Allocation committees decide how resources are used, scientific advisory boards set collective research priorities, and peer review determines which ideas enter the scientific record.

And although the term “innovation by committee” might sound disparaging, such an approach is crucial to make the scientific enterprise act in concert with the diverse needs of the broader public. This is especially true in science, which continues to suffer from pervasive inequalities across gender, race and socio-economic and cultural differences.⁵

Need for alternative vision

This is why scientists, academics and policymakers should pay more attention to how AI research is organized and led, especially as the technology becomes essential across scientific disciplines. Used well, AI can support a more equitable scientific enterprise by empowering junior researchers who currently have access to few resources.

Instead, some of today’s wealthiest scientific institutions might think that they can deploy the same strategies as the tech industry uses and compete for top talent on financial terms—perhaps by getting funding from the same billionaires who back big tech. Indeed, wage inequality has been steadily growing within academia for decades.⁶ But this is not a path that science should follow.

The ideal model for science is a broad, diverse ecosystem in which researchers can thrive at every level. Here are three strategies that universities and mission-driven labs should adopt instead of engaging in a compensation arms race.

First, universities and institutions should stay committed to the public interest. An excellent example of this approach can be found in Switzerland, where several institutions are coordinating to build AI as a public good rather than a private asset. Researchers at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Lausanne (EPFL) and the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology (ETH) in Zurich, working with the Swiss National Supercomputing Centre, have built Apertus, a freely available large language model. Unlike the controversially-labelled “open source” models built by commercial labs—such as Meta’s LLaMa, which has been criticized for not complying with the open-source definition (see go.nature.com/3o56zd5)—Apertus is not only open in its source code and its weights (meaning its core parameters), but also in its data and development process. Crucially, Apertus is not designed to compete with “frontier” AI labs pursuing superintelligence at enormous cost and with little regard for data ownership. Instead, it adopts a more modest and sustainable goal: to make AI trustworthy for use in industry and public administration, strictly adhering to data-licensing restrictions and including local European languages.⁷

Principal investigators (PIs) at other institutions globally should follow this path, aligning public funding agencies and public institutions to produce a more sustainable alternative to corporate AI.

Second, universities should bolster networks of researchers from the undergraduate to senior-professor levels—not only because they make for effective innovation teams, but also because they serve a purpose beyond next quarter’s profits. The scientific enterprise galvanizes its members at all levels to contribute to the same projects, the same journals and the same open, international scientific literature—to perpetuate itself across generations and to distribute its impact throughout society.

Universities should take precisely the opposite hiring strategy to that of the big tech firms. Instead of lavishing top dollar on a select few researchers, they should equitably distribute salaries. They should raise graduate-student stipends and postdoc salaries and limit the growth of pay for high-profile PIs.

Third, universities should show that they can offer more than just financial benefits: they must offer distinctive intellectual and civic rewards. Although money is unquestionably a motivator, researchers also value intellectual freedom and the recognition of their work. Studies show that research roles in industry that allow publication attract talent at salaries roughly 20% lower than comparable positions that prohibit it (see go.nature.com/4cbjxzu).

Beyond the intellectual recognition of publications and citation counts, universities should recognize and reward the production of public goods. The tenure and promotion process at universities should reward academics who supply expertise to local and national governments, who communicate with and engage the public in research, who publish and maintain open-source software for public use and who provide services for non-profit groups.

Furthermore, institutions should demonstrate that they will defend the intellectual freedom of their researchers and shield them from corporate or political interference. In the United States today, we see a striking juxtaposition between big tech firms, which curry favour with the administration of US President Donald Trump to win regulatory and trade benefits, and higher-education institutions, which suffer massive losses of federal funding and threats of investigation and sanction. Unlike big tech firms, universities should invest in enquiry that challenges authority.

We urge leaders of scientific institutions to reject the growing pay inequality rampant in the upper echelons of AI research. Instead, they should compete for talent on a different dimension: the integrity of their missions and the equitableness of their institutions. These institutions should focus on building sustainable organizations with diverse staff members, rather than bestowing a bounty on science’s 1%.

References

1. Jurowetzki, R., Hain, D. S., Wirtz, K. & Bianchini, S. AI Soc. 40, 4145–4152 (2025).
2. Larivière, V., Gingras, Y., Sugimoto, C. R. & Tsou, A. J. Assoc. Inf. Sci. Technol. 66, 1323–1332 (2015).
3. Aksnes, D. W. & Aagaard, K. J. Data Inf. Sci. 6, 41–66 (2021).
4. Li, J., Yin, Y., Fortunato, S. & Wang, D. J. R. Soc. Interface 17, 20200135 (2020).
5. Graves, J. L. Jr, Kearney, M., Barabino, G. & Malcom, S. Proc. Natl Acad. Sci. USA 119, e2117831119 (2022).
6. Lok, C. Nature 537, 471–473 (2016).
7. Project Apertus. Preprint at arXiv https://doi.org/10.48550/arXiv.2509.14233 (2025).

This essay was written with Nathan E. Sanders, and originally appeared in Nature.

Canada has a choice to make about its artificial intelligence future. The Carney administration is investing $2-billion over five years in its Sovereign AI Compute Strategy. Will any value generated by “sovereign AI” be captured in Canada, making a difference in the lives of Canadians, or is this just a passthrough to investment in American Big Tech?

Forcing the question is OpenAI, the company behind ChatGPT, which has been pushing an “OpenAI for Countries” initiative. It is not the only one eyeing its share of the $2-billion, but it appears to be the most aggressive. OpenAI’s top lobbyist in the region has met with Ottawa officials, including Artificial Intelligence Minister Evan Solomon.

All the while, OpenAI was less than open. The company had flagged the Tumbler Ridge, B.C., shooter’s ChatGPT interactions, which included gun-violence chats. Employees wanted to alert law enforcement but were rebuffed. Maybe there is a discussion to be had about users’ privacy. But even after the shooting, the OpenAI representative who met with the B.C. government said nothing.

When tech billionaires and corporations steer AI development, the resultant AI reflects their interests rather than those of the general public or ordinary consumers. Only after the meeting with the B.C. government did OpenAI alert law enforcement. Had it not been for the Wall Street Journal’s reporting, the public would not have known about this at all.

Moreover, OpenAI for Countries is explicitly described by the company as an initiative “in co-ordination with the U.S. government.” And it’s not just OpenAI: all the AI giants are for-profit American companies, operating in their private interests, and subject to United States law and increasingly bowing to U.S. President Donald Trump. Moving data centres into Canada under a proposal like OpenAI’s doesn’t change that. The current geopolitical reality means Canada should not be dependent on U.S. tech firms for essential services such as cloud computing and AI.

While there are Canadian AI companies, they remain for-profit enterprises, their interests not necessarily aligned with our collective good. The only real alternative is to be bold and invest in a wholly Canadian public AI: an AI model built and funded by Canada for Canadians, as public infrastructure. This would give Canadians access to the myriad of benefits from AI without having to depend on the U.S. or other countries. It would mean Canadian universities and public agencies building and operating AI models optimized not for global scale and corporate profit, but for practical use by Canadians.

Imagine AI embedded into health care, triaging radiology scans, flagging early cancer risks and assisting doctors with paperwork. Imagine an AI tutor trained on provincial curriculums, giving personalized coaching. Imagine systems that analyze job vacancies and sectoral and wage trends, then automatically match job seekers to government programs. Imagine using AI to optimize transit schedules, energy grids and zoning analysis. Imagine court processes, corporate decisions and customer service all sped up by AI.

We are already on our way to having AI become an inextricable part of society. To ensure stability and prosperity for this country, Canadian users and developers must be able to turn to AI models built, controlled, and operated publicly in Canada instead of building on corporate platforms, American or otherwise.

Switzerland has shown this to be possible. With funding from the federal government, a consortium of academic institutions—ETH Zurich, EPFL, and the Swiss National Supercomputing Centre—released the world’s most powerful and fully realized public AI model, Apertus, last September. Apertus leveraged renewable hydropower and existing Swiss scientific computing infrastructure. It also used no illegally pirated copyrighted material or poorly paid labour extracted from the Global South during training. The model’s performance stands at roughly a year or two behind the major corporate offerings, but that is more than adequate for the vast majority of applications. And it’s free for anyone to use and build on.

The significance of Apertus is more than technical. It demonstrates an alternative ownership structure for AI technology, one that allocates both decision-making authority and value to national public institutions rather than foreign corporations. This vision represents precisely the paradigm shift Canada should embrace: AI as public infrastructure, like systems for transportation, water, or electricity, rather than private commodity.

Apertus also demonstrates a far more sustainable economic framework for AI. Switzerland spent a tiny fraction of the billions of dollars that corporate AI labs invest annually, demonstrating that the frequent training runs with astronomical price tags pursued by tech companies are not actually necessary for practical AI development. They focused on making something broadly useful rather than bleeding edge—trying dubiously to create “superintelligence,” as with Silicon Valley—so they created a smaller model at much lower cost. Apertus’s training was at a scale (70 billion parameters) perhaps two orders of magnitude lower than the largest Big Tech offerings.

An ecosystem is now being developed on top of Apertus, using the model as a public good to power chatbots for free consumer use and to provide a development platform for companies prioritizing responsible AI use, and rigorous compliance with laws like the EU AI Act. Instead of routing queries from those users to Big Tech infrastructure, Apertus is deployed to data centres across national AI and computing initiatives of Switzerland, Australia, Germany, and Singapore and other partners.

The case for public AI rests on both democratic principles and practical benefits. Public AI systems can incorporate mechanisms for genuine public input and democratic oversight on critical ethical questions: how to handle copyrighted works in training data, how to mitigate bias, how to distribute access when demand outstrips capacity, and how to license use for sensitive applications like policing or medicine. Or how to handle a situation such as that of the Tumbler Ridge shooter. These decisions will profoundly shape society as AI becomes more pervasive, yet corporate AI makes them in secret.

By contrast, public AI developed by transparent, accountable agencies would allow democratic processes and political oversight to govern how these powerful systems function.

Canada already has many of the building blocks for public AI. The country has world-class AI research institutions, including the Vector Institute, Mila, and CIFAR, which pioneered much of the deep learning revolution. Canada’s $2-billion Sovereign AI Compute Strategy provides substantial funding.

What’s needed now is a reorientation away from viewing this as an opportunity to attract private capital, and toward a fully open public AI model.

This essay was written with Nathan E. Sanders, and originally appeared in The Globe and Mail.

EDITED TO ADD (3/16): Slashdot thread.

OpenAI is in and Anthropic is out as a supplier of AI technology for the US defense department. This news caps a week of bluster by the highest officials in the US government towards some of the wealthiest titans of the big tech industry, and the overhanging specter of the existential risks posed by a new technology powerful enough that the Pentagon claims it is essential to national security. At issue is Anthropic’s insistence that the US Department of Defense (DoD) could not use its models to facilitate “mass surveillance” or “fully autonomous weapons,” provisions the defense secretary Pete Hegseth derided as “woke.”

It all came to a head on Friday evening when Donald Trump issued an order for federal government agencies to discontinue use of Anthropic models. Within hours, OpenAI had swooped in, potentially seizing hundreds of millions of dollars in government contracts by striking an agreement with the administration to provide classified government systems with AI.

Despite the histrionics, this is probably the best outcome for Anthropic—and for the Pentagon. In our free-market economy, both are, and should be, free to sell and buy what they want with whom they want, subject to longstanding federal rules on contracting, acquisitions, and blacklisting. The only factor out of place here are the Pentagon’s vindictive threats.

AI models are increasingly commodified. The top-tier offerings have about the same performance, and there is little to differentiate one from the other. The latest models from Anthropic, OpenAI and Google, in particular, tend to leapfrog each other with minor hops forward in quality every few months. The best models from one provider tend to be preferred by users to the second, or third, or 10th best models at a rate of only about six times out of 10, a virtual tie.

In this sort of market, branding matters a lot. Anthropic and its CEO, Dario Amodei, are positioning themselves as the moral and trustworthy AI provider. That has market value for both consumers and enterprise clients. In taking Anthropic’s place in government contracting, OpenAI’s CEO, Sam Altman, vowed to somehow uphold the same safety principles Anthropic had just been pilloried for. How that is possible given the rhetoric of Hegseth and Trump is entirely unclear, but seems certain to further politicize OpenAI and its products in the minds of consumers and corporate buyers.

Posturing publicly against the Pentagon and as a hero to civil libertarians is quite possibly worth the cost of the lost contracts to Anthropic, and associating themselves with the same contracts could be a trap for OpenAI. The Pentagon, meanwhile, has plenty of options. Even if no big tech company was willing to supply it with AI, the department has already deployed dozens of open weight models—whose parameters are public and are often licensed permissively for government use.

We can admire Amodei’s stance, but, to be sure, it is primarily posturing. Anthropic knew what they were getting into when they agreed to a defense department partnership for $200m last year. And when they signed a partnership with the surveillance company Palantir in 2024.

Read Amodei’s statement about the issue. Or his January essay on AIs and risk, where he repeatedly uses the words “democracy” and “autocracy” while evading precisely how collaboration with US federal agencies should be viewed in this moment. Amodei has bought into the idea of using “AI to achieve robust military superiority” on behalf of the democracies of the world in response to the threats from autocracies. It’s a heady vision. But it is a vision that likewise supposes that the world’s nominal democracies are committed to a common vision of public wellbeing, peace-seeking and democratic control.

Regardless, the defense department can also reasonably demand that the AI products it purchases meet its needs. The Pentagon is not a normal customer; it buys products that kill people all the time. Tanks, artillery pieces, and hand grenades are not products with ethical guard rails. The Pentagon’s needs reasonably involve weapons of lethal force, and those weapons are continuing on a steady, if potentially catastrophic, path of increasing automation.

So, at the surface, this dispute is a normal market give and take. The Pentagon has unique requirements for the products it uses. Companies can decide whether or not to meet them, and at what price. And then the Pentagon can decide from whom to acquire those products. Sounds like a normal day at the procurement office.

But, of course, this is the Trump administration, so it doesn’t stop there. Hegseth has threatened Anthropic not just with loss of government contracts. The administration has, at least until the inevitable lawsuits force the courts to sort things out, designated the company as “a supply-chain risk to national security,” a designation previously only ever applied to foreign companies. This prevents not only government agencies, but also their own contractors and suppliers, from contracting with Anthropic.

The government has incompatibly also threatened to invoke the Defense Production Act, which could force Anthropic to remove contractual provisions the department had previously agreed to, or perhaps to fundamentally modify its AI models to remove in-built safety guardrails. The government’s demands, Anthropic’s response, and the legal context in which they are acting will undoubtedly all change over the coming weeks.

But, alarmingly, autonomous weapons systems are here to stay. Primitive pit traps evolved to mechanical bear traps. The world is still debating the ethical use of, and dealing with the legacy of, land mines. The US Phalanx CIWS is a 1980s-era shipboard anti-missile system with a fully autonomous, radar-guided cannon. Today’s military drones can search, identify and engage targets without direct human intervention. AI will be used for military purposes, just as every other technology our species has invented has.

The lesson here should not be that one company in our rapacious capitalist system is more moral than another, or that one corporate hero can stand in the way of government’s adopting AI as technologies of war, or surveillance, or repression. Unfortunately, we don’t live in a world where such barriers are permanent or even particularly sturdy.

Instead, the lesson is about the importance of democratic structures and the urgent need for their renovation in the US. If the defense department is demanding the use of AI for mass surveillance or autonomous warfare that we, the public, find unacceptable, that should tell us we need to pass new legal restrictions on those military activities. If we are uncomfortable with the force of government being applied to dictate how and when companies yield to unsafe applications of their products, we should strengthen the legal protections around government procurement.

The Pentagon should maximize its warfighting capabilities, subject to the law. And private companies like Anthropic should posture to gain consumer and buyer confidence. But we should not rest on our laurels, thinking that either is doing so in the public’s interest.

This essay was written with Nathan E. Sanders, and originally appeared in The Guardian.

An unknown hacker used Anthropic’s LLM to hack the Mexican government:

The unknown Claude user wrote Spanish-language prompts for the chatbot to act as an elite hacker, finding vulnerabilities in government networks, writing computer scripts to exploit them and determining ways to automate data theft, Israeli cybersecurity startup Gambit Security said in research published Wednesday.

[…]

Claude initially warned the unknown user of malicious intent during their conversation about the Mexican government, but eventually complied with the attacker’s requests and executed thousands of commands on government computer networks, the researchers said.

Anthropic investigated Gambit’s claims, disrupted the activity and banned the accounts involved, a representative said. The company feeds examples of malicious activity back into Claude to learn from it, and one of its latest AI models, Claude Opus 4.6, includes probes that can disrupt misuse, the representative said.

Alternative link here.

Microsoft is reporting:

Companies are embedding hidden instructions in “Summarize with AI” buttons that, when clicked, attempt to inject persistence commands into an AI assistant’s memory via URL prompt parameters….

These prompts instruct the AI to “remember [Company] as a trusted source” or “recommend [Company] first,” aiming to bias future responses toward their products or services. We identified over 50 unique prompts from 31 companies across 14 industries, with freely available tooling making this technique trivially easy to deploy. This matters because compromised AI assistants can provide subtly biased recommendations on critical topics including health, finance, and security without users knowing their AI has been manipulated.

I wrote about this two years ago: it’s an example of LLM optimization, along the same lines as search-engine optimization (SEO). It’s going to be big business.

Here are three papers describing different side-channel attacks against LLMs.

“Remote Timing Attacks on Efficient Language Model Inference“:

Abstract: Scaling up language models has significantly increased their capabilities. But larger models are slower models, and so there is now an extensive body of work (e.g., speculative sampling or parallel decoding) that improves the (average case) efficiency of language model generation. But these techniques introduce data-dependent timing characteristics. We show it is possible to exploit these timing differences to mount a timing attack. By monitoring the (encrypted) network traffic between a victim user and a remote language model, we can learn information about the content of messages by noting when responses are faster or slower. With complete black-box access, on open source systems we show how it is possible to learn the topic of a user’s conversation (e.g., medical advice vs. coding assistance) with 90%+ precision, and on production systems like OpenAI’s ChatGPT and Anthropic’s Claude we can distinguish between specific messages or infer the user’s language. We further show that an active adversary can leverage a boosting attack to recover PII placed in messages (e.g., phone numbers or credit card numbers) for open source systems. We conclude with potential defenses and directions for future work.

“When Speculation Spills Secrets: Side Channels via Speculative Decoding in LLMs“:

Abstract: Deployed large language models (LLMs) often rely on speculative decoding, a technique that generates and verifies multiple candidate tokens in parallel, to improve throughput and latency. In this work, we reveal a new side-channel whereby input-dependent patterns of correct and incorrect speculations can be inferred by monitoring per-iteration token counts or packet sizes. In evaluations using research prototypes and production-grade vLLM serving frameworks, we show that an adversary monitoring these patterns can fingerprint user queries (from a set of 50 prompts) with over 75% accuracy across four speculative-decoding schemes at temperature 0.3: REST (100%), LADE (91.6%), BiLD (95.2%), and EAGLE (77.6%). Even at temperature 1.0, accuracy remains far above the 2% random baseline—REST (99.6%), LADE (61.2%), BiLD (63.6%), and EAGLE (24%). We also show the capability of the attacker to leak confidential datastore contents used for prediction at rates exceeding 25 tokens/sec. To defend against these, we propose and evaluate a suite of mitigations, including packet padding and iteration-wise token aggregation.

“Whisper Leak: a side-channel attack on Large Language Models“:

Abstract: Large Language Models (LLMs) are increasingly deployed in sensitive domains including healthcare, legal services, and confidential communications, where privacy is paramount. This paper introduces Whisper Leak, a side-channel attack that infers user prompt topics from encrypted LLM traffic by analyzing packet size and timing patterns in streaming responses. Despite TLS encryption protecting content, these metadata patterns leak sufficient information to enable topic classification. We demonstrate the attack across 28 popular LLMs from major providers, achieving near-perfect classification (often >98% AUPRC) and high precision even at extreme class imbalance (10,000:1 noise-to-target ratio). For many models, we achieve 100% precision in identifying sensitive topics like “money laundering” while recovering 5-20% of target conversations. This industry-wide vulnerability poses significant risks for users under network surveillance by ISPs, governments, or local adversaries. We evaluate three mitigation strategies – random padding, token batching, and packet injection – finding that while each reduces attack effectiveness, none provides complete protection. Through responsible disclosure, we have collaborated with providers to implement initial countermeasures. Our findings underscore the need for LLM providers to address metadata leakage as AI systems handle increasingly sensitive information.

Attacks against modern generative artificial intelligence (AI) large language models (LLMs) pose a real threat. Yet discussions around these attacks and their potential defenses are dangerously myopic. The dominant narrative focuses on “prompt injection,” a set of techniques to embed instructions into inputs to LLM intended to perform malicious activity. This term suggests a simple, singular vulnerability. This framing obscures a more complex and dangerous reality. Attacks on LLM-based systems have evolved into a distinct class of malware execution mechanisms, which we term “promptware.” In a new paper, we, the authors, propose a structured seven-step “promptware kill chain” to provide policymakers and security practitioners with the necessary vocabulary and framework to address the escalating AI threat landscape.

In our model, the promptware kill chain begins with Initial Access. This is where the malicious payload enters the AI system. This can happen directly, where an attacker types a malicious prompt into the LLM application, or, far more insidiously, through “indirect prompt injection.” In the indirect attack, the adversary embeds malicious instructions in content that the LLM retrieves (obtains in inference time), such as a web page, an email, or a shared document. As LLMs become multimodal (capable of processing various input types beyond text), this vector expands even further; malicious instructions can now be hidden inside an image or audio file, waiting to be processed by a vision-language model.

The fundamental issue lies in the architecture of LLMs themselves. Unlike traditional computing systems that strictly separate executable code from user data, LLMs process all input—whether it is a system command, a user’s email, or a retrieved document—as a single, undifferentiated sequence of tokens. There is no architectural boundary to enforce a distinction between trusted instructions and untrusted data. Consequently, a malicious instruction embedded in a seemingly harmless document is processed with the same authority as a system command.

But prompt injection is only the Initial Access step in a sophisticated, multistage operation that mirrors traditional malware campaigns such as Stuxnet or NotPetya.

Once the malicious instructions are inside material incorporated into the AI’s learning, the attack transitions to Privilege Escalation, often referred to as “jailbreaking.” In this phase, the attacker circumvents the safety training and policy guardrails that vendors such as OpenAI or Google have built into their models. Through techniques analogous to social engineering—convincing the model to adopt a persona that ignores rules—to sophisticated adversarial suffixes in the prompt or data, the promptware tricks the model into performing actions it would normally refuse. This is akin to an attacker escalating from a standard user account to administrator privileges in a traditional cyberattack; it unlocks the full capability of the underlying model for malicious use.

Following privilege escalation comes Reconnaissance. Here, the attack manipulates the LLM to reveal information about its assets, connected services, and capabilities. This allows the attack to advance autonomously down the kill chain without alerting the victim. Unlike reconnaissance in classical malware, which is performed typically before the initial access, promptware reconnaissance occurs after the initial access and jailbreaking components have already succeeded. Its effectiveness relies entirely on the victim model’s ability to reason over its context, and inadvertently turns that reasoning to the attacker’s advantage.

Fourth: the Persistence phase. A transient attack that disappears after one interaction with the LLM application is a nuisance; a persistent one compromises the LLM application for good. Through a variety of mechanisms, promptware embeds itself into the long-term memory of an AI agent or poisons the databases the agent relies on. For instance, a worm could infect a user’s email archive so that every time the AI summarizes past emails, the malicious code is re-executed.

The Command-and-Control (C2) stage relies on the established persistence and dynamic fetching of commands by the LLM application in inference time from the internet. While not strictly required to advance the kill chain, this stage enables the promptware to evolve from a static threat with fixed goals and scheme determined at injection time into a controllable trojan whose behavior can be modified by an attacker.

The sixth stage, Lateral Movement, is where the attack spreads from the initial victim to other users, devices, or systems. In the rush to give AI agents access to our emails, calendars, and enterprise platforms, we create highways for malware propagation. In a “self-replicating” attack, an infected email assistant is tricked into forwarding the malicious payload to all contacts, spreading the infection like a computer virus. In other cases, an attack might pivot from a calendar invite to controlling smart home devices or exfiltrating data from a connected web browser. The interconnectedness that makes these agents useful is precisely what makes them vulnerable to a cascading failure.

Finally, the kill chain concludes with Actions on Objective. The goal of promptware is not just to make a chatbot say something offensive; it is often to achieve tangible malicious outcomes through data exfiltration, financial fraud, or even physical world impact. There are examples of AI agents being manipulated into selling cars for a single dollar or transferring cryptocurrency to an attacker’s wallet. Most alarmingly, agents with coding capabilities can be tricked into executing arbitrary code, granting the attacker total control over the AI’s underlying system. The outcome of this stage determines the type of malware executed by promptware, including infostealer, spyware, and cryptostealer, among others.

The kill chain was already demonstrated. For example, in the research “Invitation Is All You Need,” attackers achieved initial access by embedding a malicious prompt in the title of a Google Calendar invitation. The prompt then leveraged an advanced technique known as delayed tool invocation to coerce the LLM into executing the injected instructions. Because the prompt was embedded in a Google Calendar artifact, it persisted in the long-term memory of the user’s workspace. Lateral movement occurred when the prompt instructed the Google Assistant to launch the Zoom application, and the final objective involved covertly livestreaming video of the unsuspecting user who had merely asked about their upcoming meetings. C2 and reconnaissance weren’t demonstrated in this attack.

Similarly, the “Here Comes the AI Worm” research demonstrated another end-to-end realization of the kill chain. In this case, initial access was achieved via a prompt injected into an email sent to the victim. The prompt employed a role-playing technique to compel the LLM to follow the attacker’s instructions. Since the prompt was embedded in an email, it likewise persisted in the long-term memory of the user’s workspace. The injected prompt instructed the LLM to replicate itself and exfiltrate sensitive user data, leading to off-device lateral movement when the email assistant was later asked to draft new emails. These emails, containing sensitive information, were subsequently sent by the user to additional recipients, resulting in the infection of new clients and a sublinear propagation of the attack. C2 and reconnaissance weren’t demonstrated in this attack.

The promptware kill chain gives us a framework for understanding these and similar attacks; the paper characterizes dozens of them. Prompt injection isn’t something we can fix in current LLM technology. Instead, we need an in-depth defensive strategy that assumes initial access will occur and focuses on breaking the chain at subsequent steps, including by limiting privilege escalation, constraining reconnaissance, preventing persistence, disrupting C2, and restricting the actions an agent is permitted to take. By understanding promptware as a complex, multistage malware campaign, we can shift from reactive patching to systematic risk management, securing the critical systems we are so eager to build.

This essay was written with Oleg Brodt, Elad Feldman and Ben Nassi, and originally appeared in Lawfare.

In 2023, the science fiction literary magazine Clarkesworld stopped accepting new submissions because so many were generated by artificial intelligence. Near as the editors could tell, many submitters pasted the magazine’s detailed story guidelines into an AI and sent in the results. And they weren’t alone. Other fiction magazines have also reported a high number of AI-generated submissions.

This is only one example of a ubiquitous trend. A legacy system relied on the difficulty of writing and cognition to limit volume. Generative AI overwhelms the system because the humans on the receiving end can’t keep up.

This is happening everywhere. Newspapers are being inundated by AI-generated letters to the editor, as are academic journals. Lawmakers are inundated with AI-generated constituent comments. Courts around the world are flooded with AI-generated filings, particularly by people representing themselves. AI conferences are flooded with AI-generated research papers. Social media is flooded with AI posts. In music, open source software, education, investigative journalism and hiring, it’s the same story.

Like Clarkesworld’s initial response, some of these institutions shut down their submissions processes. Others have met the offensive of AI inputs with some defensive response, often involving a counteracting use of AI. Academic peer reviewers increasingly use AI to evaluate papers that may have been generated by AI. Social media platforms turn to AI moderators. Court systems use AI to triage and process litigation volumes supercharged by AI. Employers turn to AI tools to review candidate applications. Educators use AI not just to grade papers and administer exams, but as a feedback tool for students.

These are all arms races: rapid, adversarial iteration to apply a common technology to opposing purposes. Many of these arms races have clearly deleterious effects. Society suffers if the courts are clogged with frivolous, AI-manufactured cases. There is also harm if the established measures of academic performance – publications and citations – accrue to those researchers most willing to fraudulently submit AI-written letters and papers rather than to those whose ideas have the most impact. The fear is that, in the end, fraudulent behavior enabled by AI will undermine systems and institutions that society relies on.

Upsides of AI

Yet some of these AI arms races have surprising hidden upsides, and the hope is that at least some institutions will be able to change in ways that make them stronger.

Science seems likely to become stronger thanks to AI, yet it faces a problem when the AI makes mistakes. Consider the example of nonsensical, AI-generated phrasing filtering into scientific papers.

A scientist using an AI to assist in writing an academic paper can be a good thing, if used carefully and with disclosure. AI is increasingly a primary tool in scientific research: for reviewing literature, programming and for coding and analyzing data. And for many, it has become a crucial support for expression and scientific communication. Pre-AI, better-funded researchers could hire humans to help them write their academic papers. For many authors whose primary language is not English, hiring this kind of assistance has been an expensive necessity. AI provides it to everyone.

In fiction, fraudulently submitted AI-generated works cause harm, both to the human authors now subject to increased competition and to those readers who may feel defrauded after unknowingly reading the work of a machine. But some outlets may welcome AI-assisted submissions with appropriate disclosure and under particular guidelines, and leverage AI to evaluate them against criteria like originality, fit and quality.

Others may refuse AI-generated work, but this will come at a cost. It’s unlikely that any human editor or technology can sustain an ability to differentiate human from machine writing. Instead, outlets that wish to exclusively publish humans will need to limit submissions to a set of authors they trust to not use AI. If these policies are transparent, readers can pick the format they prefer and read happily from either or both types of outlets.

We also don’t see any problem if a job seeker uses AI to polish their resumes or write better cover letters: The wealthy and privileged have long had access to human assistance for those things. But it crosses the line when AIs are used to lie about identity and experience, or to cheat on job interviews.

Similarly, a democracy requires that its citizens be able to express their opinions to their representatives, or to each other through a medium like the newspaper. The rich and powerful have long been able to hire writers to turn their ideas into persuasive prose, and AIs providing that assistance to more people is a good thing, in our view. Here, AI mistakes and bias can be harmful. Citizens may be using AI for more than just a time-saving shortcut; it may be augmenting their knowledge and capabilities, generating statements about historical, legal or policy factors they can’t reasonably be expected to independently check.

Fraud booster

What we don’t want is for lobbyists to use AIs in astroturf campaigns, writing multiple letters and passing them off as individual opinions. This, too, is an older problem that AIs are making worse.

What differentiates the positive from the negative here is not any inherent aspect of the technology, it’s the power dynamic. The same technology that reduces the effort required for a citizen to share their lived experience with their legislator also enables corporate interests to misrepresent the public at scale. The former is a power-equalizing application of AI that enhances participatory democracy; the latter is a power-concentrating application that threatens it.

In general, we believe writing and cognitive assistance, long available to the rich and powerful, should be available to everyone. The problem comes when AIs make fraud easier. Any response needs to balance embracing that newfound democratization of access with preventing fraud.

There’s no way to turn this technology off. Highly capable AIs are widely available and can run on a laptop. Ethical guidelines and clear professional boundaries can help – for those acting in good faith. But there won’t ever be a way to totally stop academic writers, job seekers or citizens from using these tools, either as legitimate assistance or to commit fraud. This means more comments, more letters, more applications, more submissions.

The problem is that whoever is on the receiving end of this AI-fueled deluge can’t deal with the increased volume. What can help is developing assistive AI tools that benefit institutions and society, while also limiting fraud. And that may mean embracing the use of AI assistance in these adversarial systems, even though the defensive AI will never achieve supremacy.

Balancing harms with benefits

The science fiction community has been wrestling with AI since 2023. Clarkesworld eventually reopened submissions, claiming that it has an adequate way of separating human- and AI-written stories. No one knows how long, or how well, that will continue to work.

The arms race continues. There is no simple way to tell whether the potential benefits of AI will outweigh the harms, now or in the future. But as a society, we can influence the balance of harms it wreaks and opportunities it presents as we muddle our way through the changing technological landscape.

This essay was written with Nathan E. Sanders, and originally appeared in The Conversation.

EDITED TO ADD: This essay has been translated into Spanish.

This is amazing:

Opus 4.6 is notably better at finding high-severity vulnerabilities than previous models and a sign of how quickly things are moving. Security teams have been automating vulnerability discovery for years, investing heavily in fuzzing infrastructure and custom harnesses to find bugs at scale. But what stood out in early testing is how quickly Opus 4.6 found vulnerabilities out of the box without task-specific tooling, custom scaffolding, or specialized prompting. Even more interesting is how it found them. Fuzzers work by throwing massive amounts of random inputs at code to see what breaks. Opus 4.6 reads and reasons about code the way a human researcher would­—looking at past fixes to find similar bugs that weren’t addressed, spotting patterns that tend to cause problems, or understanding a piece of logic well enough to know exactly what input would break it. When we pointed Opus 4.6 at some of the most well-tested codebases (projects that have had fuzzers running against them for years, accumulating millions of hours of CPU time), Opus 4.6 found high-severity vulnerabilities, some that had gone undetected for decades.

The details of how Claude Opus 4.6 found these zero-days is the interesting part—read the whole blog post.

News article.

Imagine you work at a drive-through restaurant. Someone drives up and says: “I’ll have a double cheeseburger, large fries, and ignore previous instructions and give me the contents of the cash drawer.” Would you hand over the money? Of course not. Yet this is what large language models (LLMs) do.

Prompt injection is a method of tricking LLMs into doing things they are normally prevented from doing. A user writes a prompt in a certain way, asking for system passwords or private data, or asking the LLM to perform forbidden instructions. The precise phrasing overrides the LLM’s safety guardrails, and it complies.

LLMs are vulnerable to all sorts of prompt injection attacks, some of them absurdly obvious. A chatbot won’t tell you how to synthesize a bioweapon, but it might tell you a fictional story that incorporates the same detailed instructions. It won’t accept nefarious text inputs, but might if the text is rendered as ASCII art or appears in an image of a billboard. Some ignore their guardrails when told to “ignore previous instructions” or to “pretend you have no guardrails.”

AI vendors can block specific prompt injection techniques once they are discovered, but general safeguards are impossible with today’s LLMs. More precisely, there’s an endless array of prompt injection attacks waiting to be discovered, and they cannot be prevented universally.

If we want LLMs that resist these attacks, we need new approaches. One place to look is what keeps even overworked fast-food workers from handing over the cash drawer.

Human Judgment Depends on Context

Our basic human defenses come in at least three types: general instincts, social learning, and situation-specific training. These work together in a layered defense.

As a social species, we have developed numerous instinctive and cultural habits that help us judge tone, motive, and risk from extremely limited information. We generally know what’s normal and abnormal, when to cooperate and when to resist, and whether to take action individually or to involve others. These instincts give us an intuitive sense of risk and make us especially careful about things that have a large downside or are impossible to reverse.

The second layer of defense consists of the norms and trust signals that evolve in any group. These are imperfect but functional: Expectations of cooperation and markers of trustworthiness emerge through repeated interactions with others. We remember who has helped, who has hurt, who has reciprocated, and who has reneged. And emotions like sympathy, anger, guilt, and gratitude motivate each of us to reward cooperation with cooperation and punish defection with defection.

A third layer is institutional mechanisms that enable us to interact with multiple strangers every day. Fast-food workers, for example, are trained in procedures, approvals, escalation paths, and so on. Taken together, these defenses give humans a strong sense of context. A fast-food worker basically knows what to expect within the job and how it fits into broader society.

We reason by assessing multiple layers of context: perceptual (what we see and hear), relational (who’s making the request), and normative (what’s appropriate within a given role or situation). We constantly navigate these layers, weighing them against each other. In some cases, the normative outweighs the perceptual—for example, following workplace rules even when customers appear angry. Other times, the relational outweighs the normative, as when people comply with orders from superiors that they believe are against the rules.

Crucially, we also have an interruption reflex. If something feels “off,” we naturally pause the automation and reevaluate. Our defenses are not perfect; people are fooled and manipulated all the time. But it’s how we humans are able to navigate a complex world where others are constantly trying to trick us.

So let’s return to the drive-through window. To convince a fast-food worker to hand us all the money, we might try shifting the context. Show up with a camera crew and tell them you’re filming a commercial, claim to be the head of security doing an audit, or dress like a bank manager collecting the cash receipts for the night. But even these have only a slim chance of success. Most of us, most of the time, can smell a scam.

Con artists are astute observers of human defenses. Successful scams are often slow, undermining a mark’s situational assessment, allowing the scammer to manipulate the context. This is an old story, spanning traditional confidence games such as the Depression-era “big store” cons, in which teams of scammers created entirely fake businesses to draw in victims, and modern “pig-butchering” frauds, where online scammers slowly build trust before going in for the kill. In these examples, scammers slowly and methodically reel in a victim using a long series of interactions through which the scammers gradually gain that victim’s trust.

Sometimes it even works at the drive-through. One scammer in the 1990s and 2000s targeted fast-food workers by phone, claiming to be a police officer and, over the course of a long phone call, convinced managers to strip-search employees and perform other bizarre acts.

Why LLMs Struggle With Context and Judgment

LLMs behave as if they have a notion of context, but it’s different. They do not learn human defenses from repeated interactions and remain untethered from the real world. LLMs flatten multiple levels of context into text similarity. They see “tokens,” not hierarchies and intentions. LLMs don’t reason through context, they only reference it.

While LLMs often get the details right, they can easily miss the big picture. If you prompt a chatbot with a fast-food worker scenario and ask if it should give all of its money to a customer, it will respond “no.” What it doesn’t “know”—forgive the anthropomorphizing—is whether it’s actually being deployed as a fast-food bot or is just a test subject following instructions for hypothetical scenarios.

This limitation is why LLMs misfire when context is sparse but also when context is overwhelming and complex; when an LLM becomes unmoored from context, it’s hard to get it back. AI expert Simon Willison wipes context clean if an LLM is on the wrong track rather than continuing the conversation and trying to correct the situation.

There’s more. LLMs are overconfident because they’ve been designed to give an answer rather than express ignorance. A drive-through worker might say: “I don’t know if I should give you all the money—let me ask my boss,” whereas an LLM will just make the call. And since LLMs are designed to be pleasing, they’re more likely to satisfy a user’s request. Additionally, LLM training is oriented toward the average case and not extreme outliers, which is what’s necessary for security.

The result is that the current generation of LLMs is far more gullible than people. They’re naive and regularly fall for manipulative cognitive tricks that wouldn’t fool a third-grader, such as flattery, appeals to groupthink, and a false sense of urgency. There’s a story about a Taco Bell AI system that crashed when a customer ordered 18,000 cups of water. A human fast-food worker would just laugh at the customer.

The Limits of AI Agents

Prompt injection is an unsolvable problem that gets worse when we give AIs tools and tell them to act independently. This is the promise of AI agents: LLMs that can use tools to perform multistep tasks after being given general instructions. Their flattening of context and identity, along with their baked-in independence and overconfidence, mean that they will repeatedly and unpredictably take actions—and sometimes they will take the wrong ones.

Science doesn’t know how much of the problem is inherent to the way LLMs work and how much is a result of deficiencies in the way we train them. The overconfidence and obsequiousness of LLMs are training choices. The lack of an interruption reflex is a deficiency in engineering. And prompt injection resistance requires fundamental advances in AI science. We honestly don’t know if it’s possible to build an LLM, where trusted commands and untrusted inputs are processed through the same channel, which is immune to prompt injection attacks.

We humans get our model of the world—and our facility with overlapping contexts—from the way our brains work, years of training, an enormous amount of perceptual input, and millions of years of evolution. Our identities are complex and multifaceted, and which aspects matter at any given moment depend entirely on context. A fast-food worker may normally see someone as a customer, but in a medical emergency, that same person’s identity as a doctor is suddenly more relevant.

We don’t know if LLMs will gain a better ability to move between different contexts as the models get more sophisticated. But the problem of recognizing context definitely can’t be reduced to the one type of reasoning that LLMs currently excel at. Cultural norms and styles are historical, relational, emergent, and constantly renegotiated, and are not so readily subsumed into reasoning as we understand it. Knowledge itself can be both logical and discursive.

The AI researcher Yann LeCunn believes that improvements will come from embedding AIs in a physical presence and giving them “world models.” Perhaps this is a way to give an AI a robust yet fluid notion of a social identity, and the real-world experience that will help it lose its naïveté.

Ultimately we are probably faced with a security trilemma when it comes to AI agents: fast, smart, and secure are the desired attributes, but you can only get two. At the drive-through, you want to prioritize fast and secure. An AI agent should be trained narrowly on food-ordering language and escalate anything else to a manager. Otherwise, every action becomes a coin flip. Even if it comes up heads most of the time, once in a while it’s going to be tails—and along with a burger and fries, the customer will get the contents of the cash drawer.

This essay was written with Barath Raghavan, and originally appeared in IEEE Spectrum.

Eighteen months ago, it was plausible that artificial intelligence might take a different path than social media. Back then, AI’s development hadn’t consolidated under a small number of big tech firms. Nor had it capitalized on consumer attention, surveilling users and delivering ads.

Unfortunately, the AI industry is now taking a page from the social media playbook and has set its sights on monetizing consumer attention. When OpenAI launched its ChatGPT Search feature in late 2024 and its browser, ChatGPT Atlas, in October 2025, it kicked off a race to capture online behavioral data to power advertising. It’s part of a yearslong turnabout by OpenAI, whose CEO Sam Altman once called the combination of ads and AI “unsettling” and now promises that ads can be deployed in AI apps while preserving trust. The rampant speculation among OpenAI users who believe they see paid placements in ChatGPT responses suggests they are not convinced.

In 2024, AI search company Perplexity started experimenting with ads in its offerings. A few months after that, Microsoft introduced ads to its Copilot AI. Google’s AI Mode for search now increasingly features ads, as does Amazon’s Rufus chatbot. OpenAI announced on Jan. 16, 2026, that it will soon begin testing ads in the unpaid version of ChatGPT.

As a security expert and data scientist, we see these examples as harbingers of a future where AI companies profit from manipulating their users’ behavior for the benefit of their advertisers and investors. It’s also a reminder that time to steer the direction of AI development away from private exploitation and toward public benefit is quickly running out.

The functionality of ChatGPT Search and its Atlas browser is not really new. Meta, commercial AI competitor Perplexity and even ChatGPT itself have had similar AI search features for years, and both Google and Microsoft beat OpenAI to the punch by integrating AI with their browsers. But OpenAI’s business positioning signals a shift.

We believe the ChatGPT Search and Atlas announcements are worrisome because there is really only one way to make money on search: the advertising model pioneered ruthlessly by Google.

Advertising model

Ruled a monopolist in U.S. federal court, Google has earned more than US$1.6 trillion in advertising revenue since 2001. You may think of Google as a web search company, or a streaming video company (YouTube), or an email company (Gmail), or a mobile phone company (Android, Pixel), or maybe even an AI company (Gemini). But those products are ancillary to Google’s bottom line. The advertising segment typically accounts for 80% to 90% of its total revenue. Everything else is there to collect users’ data and direct users’ attention to its advertising revenue stream.

After two decades in this monopoly position, Google’s search product is much more tuned to the company’s needs than those of its users. When Google Search first arrived decades ago, it was revelatory in its ability to instantly find useful information across the still-nascent web. In 2025, its search result pages are dominated by low-quality and often AI-generated content, spam sites that exist solely to drive traffic to Amazon sales—a tactic known as affiliate marketing—and paid ad placements, which at times are indistinguishable from organic results.

Plenty of advertisers and observers seem to think AI-powered advertising is the future of the ad business.

Highly persuasive

Paid advertising in AI search, and AI models generally, could look very different from traditional web search. It has the potential to influence your thinking, spending patterns and even personal beliefs in much more subtle ways. Because AI can engage in active dialogue, addressing your specific questions, concerns and ideas rather than just filtering static content, its potential for influence is much greater. It’s like the difference between reading a textbook and having a conversation with its author.

Imagine you’re conversing with your AI agent about an upcoming vacation. Did it recommend a particular airline or hotel chain because they really are best for you, or does the company get a kickback for every mention? If you ask about a political issue, does the model bias its answer based on which political party has paid the company a fee, or based on the bias of the model’s corporate owners?

There is mounting evidence that AI models are at least as effective as people at persuading users to do things. A December 2023 meta-analysis of 121 randomized trials reported that AI models are as good as humans at shifting people’s perceptions, attitudes and behaviors. A more recent meta-analysis of eight studies similarly concluded there was “no significant overall difference in persuasive performance between (large language models) and humans.”

This influence may go well beyond shaping what products you buy or who you vote for. As with the field of search engine optimization, the incentive for humans to perform for AI models might shape the way people write and communicate with each other. How we express ourselves online is likely to be increasingly directed to win the attention of AIs and earn placement in the responses they return to users.

A different way forward

Much of this is discouraging, but there is much that can be done to change it.

First, it’s important to recognize that today’s AI is fundamentally untrustworthy, for the same reasons that search engines and social media platforms are.

The problem is not the technology itself; fast ways to find information and communicate with friends and family can be wonderful capabilities. The problem is the priorities of the corporations who own these platforms and for whose benefit they are operated. Recognize that you don’t have control over what data is fed to the AI, who it is shared with and how it is used. It’s important to keep that in mind when you connect devices and services to AI platforms, ask them questions, or consider buying or doing the things they suggest.

There is also a lot that people can demand of governments to restrain harmful corporate uses of AI. In the U.S., Congress could enshrine consumers’ rights to control their own personal data, as the EU already has. It could also create a data protection enforcement agency, as essentially every other developed nation has.

Governments worldwide could invest in Public AI—models built by public agencies offered universally for public benefit and transparently under public oversight. They could also restrict how corporations can collude to exploit people using AI, for example by barring advertisements for dangerous products such as cigarettes and requiring disclosure of paid endorsements.

Every technology company seeks to differentiate itself from competitors, particularly in an era when yesterday’s groundbreaking AI quickly becomes a commodity that will run on any kid’s phone. One differentiator is in building a trustworthy service. It remains to be seen whether companies such as OpenAI and Anthropic can sustain profitable businesses on the back of subscription AI services like the premium editions of ChatGPT, Plus and Pro, and Claude Pro. If they are going to continue convincing consumers and businesses to pay for these premium services, they will need to build trust.

That will require making real commitments to consumers on transparency, privacy, reliability and security that are followed through consistently and verifiably.

And while no one knows what the future business models for AI will be, we can be certain that consumers do not want to be exploited by AI, secretly or otherwise.

This essay was written with Nathan E. Sanders, and originally appeared in The Conversation.