My Precious

This week, Donna and I met up with some friends visiting from New Zealand, and mid-conversation Donna casually dropped a bombshell.

She has never seen The Lord of the Rings!

Never. Not one minute of it. Said to actual New Zealanders. I’m fairly sure that’s a deportable offence over there - the entire country is basically a Middle-earth theme park with sheep.

But once our friends had recovered, it got me thinking. Because Tolkien, writing 70-odd years before ChatGPT, absolutely nailed what’s happening in AI right now.

The One Ring is the ultimate power tool. Whoever wields it can bend the world to their will. And here’s Tolkien’s master stroke - the wisest characters in the entire story refuse to touch it.

Not because they’re weak, but because they’re wise enough to know that absolute power doesn’t care how noble your intentions are. It corrupts the good guys just as thoroughly as the bad ones.

Meanwhile, in Silicon Valley, Beijing and everywhere in between… nobody is refusing the Ring. Quite the opposite. It’s an all-out sprint to forge it first, with data centres for Mount Doom and eye-watering billions for Elvish gold.

Every AI lab racing towards AGI is telling us the same story: we have to build it first, because we’re the responsible ones.

But as I keep banging on about in these musings, AI isn’t the problem. It never was. It’s a mirror.

And as I know Donna reads these musings, I won’t give away the ending (see PS), but I will say that Tolkien offers an alternative to the inevitable: the strongest defence against the lure of power is not wanting to wield it.

The Ring tempts you with empires, but you can’t tempt someone whose idea of the good life is a well-tended garden, a decent meal, a cuddle and a quiet evening at home.

And that, despite all the magnificent opportunities coming our way, is the most decent part of being human.

D

PS: Donna has made me watch the Thornbirds and Gone With The Wind at Christmas, so this year my revenge will be sweet with the Lord Of The Rings Trilogy - extended editions. That’s nearly 12 hours. Pray for her.

PPS: And if by hour nine she asks “So why didn’t the eagles just fly them there?” - well, that’s a musing for another week…