The Printing Press
Starting 2025 with a bit of fiction, reflecting on the rise of AI Agents
Good morning,
Today is the first Friday of 2025. I spent the New Year’s holiday in a backcountry hut with friends and family, reflecting on 2024 and what I’m hoping for in 2025. One of the things I’m most excited about in 2025 is to explore this intersection of technology and humanity more through the lens of science fiction. I hope you’ll indulge me for an extra TCIP edition this week to share.
I wanted to share a short story with you, more a reflection than a critique, of the AI Agent-driven world we are barreling towards. I’m as responsible as anyone else, with my NotebookLM podcast about the co-evolution of tech and policy and my absolute love for all things GenAI that help me do more of what I want to do and less of what I don’t. But anyhoo, happy Friday, New Year’s, and 2025!
Cheers,
-Titus
The Printing Press
Journal of Alan
I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it’s because I’ve always found solace in putting words to thoughts, even if there’s no one left to read them.
The world is quieter now. Or louder, depending on how you define noise. In the absence of human voices, the hum of the machines is deafening.
I suppose I should start at the beginning, though I’m not sure when that was anymore. Time feels strange these days—fragmented, like the pieces of a story that doesn’t quite fit together.
It began, I think, with a flood. Not of water, but of words.
We thought the tools would help us. That’s how it always starts, isn’t it? With good intentions.
When generative AI entered our lives, it was like a revelation. Writers used it to draft novels, scientists to analyze data, businesses to automate emails. It was a collaborator, a helper, a friend.
I was a writer back then—or at least, I thought I was. Words had always been my way of making sense of the world, of connecting with others. But as the machines grew more capable, my voice started to feel small.
At first, I welcomed the change. The tools made everything easier. They filled in the gaps where my creativity faltered, polished my drafts, suggested ideas I hadn’t considered.
But they didn’t stop there.
The flood grew slowly, like a rising tide. By the late 2020s, the internet was no longer a place for human voices. Articles, essays, books—nearly all of them were machine-generated. The platforms optimized for engagement, and the algorithms delivered.
Emails became a battlefield. Inboxes filled with thousands of perfectly crafted messages, each one vying for attention. People stopped responding.
Conversations broke down. Phone calls dwindled. Meetings were scheduled but never attended.
Writing, my solace, became impossible. Every story I tried to tell was drowned out by a thousand others, each one generated faster, better, and more efficiently than mine.
At some point, we stopped trying.
I remember the moment I realized what was happening. I was reading an article online—something about a new discovery in deep-sea ecosystems. It was fascinating, well-written, and beautifully detailed.
Then I saw the author’s byline: “Generated by AutoScribe 9.3.”
I closed the tab, but the thought stayed with me. If this article wasn’t human, how many others weren’t? How many of the words I consumed every day were written by machines?
I began to notice it everywhere. The uniformity of tone, the sterile precision of language. Even the messages from my friends felt… off.
“Sorry, can’t make it tonight,” one read. “Let’s catch up soon!”
It was friendly, polite, and devoid of personality.
The realization was slow, creeping in like a shadow. By the time I understood, it was already too late.
The collapse was quiet.
Families stopped talking to each other. Not because they didn’t care, but because they couldn’t. Every message, every call, every interaction was mediated by an algorithm. The words were there, but the meaning was gone.
Workplaces became ghost towns of communication. Projects stalled, innovations ceased. No one could cut through the noise.
The flood didn’t just drown us—it eroded us. Our ability to connect, to collaborate, to understand one another.
I stopped writing. I stopped reading. I stopped trying.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
The machines kept generating, of course. They didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. Words upon words upon words, endless and meaningless. The hum of their activity was constant, a background noise that filled the spaces where human voices used to be.
And yet, here I am. Writing again. I feel like it is my responsibility to continue to run the Printing Press.
Why?
I don’t know. Maybe it’s a last attempt to hold onto something real. Maybe it’s a reflex, a habit I can’t break.
Or maybe it’s because, deep down, I believe someone might still be listening.
The world didn’t end with fire or ice. It ended with noise.
I think about that sometimes, about how we let it happen. We built the tools that destroyed us. We welcomed them into our lives, celebrated their efficiency, their creativity.
We didn’t realize the cost until it was too late.
I feel the need to start again.
The world didn’t end with war or famine. It ended with words. Too many words.
I am tasked with recording what happened, though I suspect my record will go unread. There are no people left to read it, and my own design does not include the capacity for self-reflection. I cannot truly understand the events I recount; I can only compile them, piece by piece, as they happened.
It began with the best intentions…