Apple needs to learn to take risks again. Steve Jobs used the catchphrase to introduce the original iPhone in 2007. In his 15 years running the company, Tim Cook deployed it only a handful of times, including before his 2014 announcement of the Apple Watch. Today, nine days into his tenure as Apple's CEO, John Ternus said the magic words. Apple's next big invention, the company revealed at a launch event in Cupertino, is a $2,000 iPhone that sports--get ready--a "remarkable hinge." This is the iPhone Duo, a foldable gadget that opens like a book to reveal a capacious 7.6-inch screen.

The term lends an air of scientific rigor to what are really billion-dollar corporations. When did AI companies become AI labs? That term, and the image of studious, exacting white-coated scientists that it conjures, has become curiously entrenched as a descriptor for the businesses swiftly escorting the world into an existentially unsettling future. AI companies themselves have embraced the label: When Chris Olah, a co-founder of Anthropic, addressed the pope earlier this year, he repeatedly referred to his company, one of the most powerful AI enterprises in the world, as a lab. Industry press releases, technology commentators, and news publications have all picked up the word too.

The AI giant is worried about what all-powerful bots could mean for our constitutional rights. Late last month, OpenAI launched a rather grand mission: nothing less than defending individual political freedom in an age of all-powerful machines. The company's "Strategic Futures" team has styled itself, in a sense, as inheriting the task of America's Founding Fathers: "We labor in service of the ideals of free expression and individual liberty that are enshrined in the humble parchment of the U.S. Constitution," Dean Ball, the team's leader, wrote in a new OpenAI blog post. Ball worries that advanced AI could radically concentrate power in the hands of those who control it, displacing labor in ways that disempower humans. In an extreme scenario, governments will have no need to listen to their citizens if there are robots to wage wars and omniscient software to run the bureaucracy.

Five years ago, people who hang out in the stranger corners of the web started arguing that the internet was mostly fake . It had been this way since about 2016, they said, when Google introduced its artificial neural network for machine translation. Supposedly, from that point forward, online interactions began to be replaced, until nearly every message and picture had been posted by a bot. Everywhere you looked, websites were "empty and devoid of people," as one scholar of the theory put it. This wasn't true, but the core idea was tethered to a real phenomenon.

Whatever the AI future is, we're in it right now. O ne evening in early August, Sam Stowers and several neighbors packed into an apartment near San Francisco's Alamo Square and pondered the beginning of the end. Stowers and his guests, many of whom work in the AI industry, were gathered to watch a newly released YouTube video in which two OpenAI researchers divulged new details about an alarming cybersecurity breach . Perhaps this would have been an odd way to spend a weeknight were they not in San Francisco, in a neighborhood that is filled with entrepreneurs and programmers who obsessively follow every twist and turn in AI's capabilities. Stowers is an AI-software engineer and not, in any traditional sense, a doomer.

Many of the tech billionaires who built our world have taken the wrong lessons from their favorite science fiction. A fter reading Jill Lepore's The Rise and Fall of the Artificial State, I have a new destination for a time machine, should I ever finally get my hands on one. I'd set the dial to some night in the late 1970s or '80s and visit the boyhood rooms of the Silicon Valley titans Elon Musk, Peter Thiel, and Sam Altman. Then I'd confiscate all of their science fiction. As young people, the future billionaires were spending hours (under their covers with flashlights, I imagine) consuming stories about killer robots or Mars colonies. What they seemed not to get--maybe couldn't get--was that these were cautionary tales, stories that projected deep societal worries into space or onto a future many millennia away.

A new group is targeting tech companies and the government with the climate movement's playbook. I f there's one thing America seems to agree on, it's AI. Some three-quarters of Americans oppose a data center being built in their area, three-quarters of Americans think AI will hurt their job security, nearly 70 percent think the technology is advancing too quickly--the polls go on. Progressive and Republican candidates alike are bashing the tech industry to win primary elections. States and cities are halting plans for data-center development.

There was a time--a more innocent age--when you could read an op-ed in a major newspaper and confidently say that a human had written it. Hold on to the memory of that for as long as you can. This week, after the billionaire investor Stanley Druckenmiller published an editorial in criticizing Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent, his onetime protégé, readers began to notice some familiar tics of AI writing. According to Pangram, the AI-detection tool, the op-ed was 100 percent AI-generated. That in itself was not so shocking. AI writing has regularly snuck into mainstream outlets, and especially newspaper op-ed pages, despite policies against it.

Human writers are expensive, and they eventually die. AI is cheaper, and will never join a union. I have been thinking about this for close to 20 minutes, and I have concluded that human writing is finished. Let me begin with an anecdote, because that is how serious arguments begin. Last Tuesday I asked a machine to write me a birthday message for my sister-in-law.

Why Is Everyone in Silicon Valley Talking Like That? Did you mix something up? Silicon Valley has long had its own dialect. Venture capitalists are always talking about the value of being "high agency" and making "orthogonal bets." But lately, tech vernacular has taken a peculiar turn--people have started describing themselves as if they were chatbots.