My first encounter with ChatGPT produced something unremarkable — a corporate document, competently assembled. But the experience left me with hands clammy and blood cold. Not because the output was impressive, but because of what it implied. This was the worst this AI was ever going to be.
I dropped everything. A past Special Interest in science fiction — in imagined futures, in civilisational trajectories — was suddenly not escapism but preparation. What began as personal crisis became obsession, then mission. Not to master the technology, but to understand its civilisational implications and help others navigate what is coming.
I understand personally what modern work costs: the burnout, the grinding sense of abundance perpetually just out of reach, the exhaustion of systems that were never designed for human beings. That understanding grounds the work. The Good Future is not an abstraction. It is a response to something I have felt.

