Artificial intelligence officially gets scary
- Thread starter Leo
- Start date
Yes I fully agree.
What I mean is that this new Web, the AI, the VR, AR, etc, its different to social media.
It's trying to go beyond that reality of physical, of a screen.
You put your goggles on and what you look like in actuality ceases to matter.
Except, not everyone can afford them.
But maybe we are talking at cross purposes
What I mean is that this new Web, the AI, the VR, AR, etc, its different to social media.
It's trying to go beyond that reality of physical, of a screen.
You put your goggles on and what you look like in actuality ceases to matter.
Except, not everyone can afford them.
But maybe we are talking at cross purposes
version
Well-known member
It's great reading this and looking at your avatar.
vimothy
yurp
thx bbz
shiels
_
Chomsky:
“The crux of machine learning is description and prediction; it does not posit any causal mechanisms or physical laws. Of course, any human-style explanation is not necessarily correct; we are fallible. But this is part of what it means to think: To be right, it must be possible to be wrong. Intelligence consists not only of creative conjectures but also of creative criticism. Human-style thought is based on possible explanations and error correction, a process that gradually limits what possibilities can be rationally considered. (As Sherlock Holmes said to Dr. Watson, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”)
“The crux of machine learning is description and prediction; it does not posit any causal mechanisms or physical laws. Of course, any human-style explanation is not necessarily correct; we are fallible. But this is part of what it means to think: To be right, it must be possible to be wrong. Intelligence consists not only of creative conjectures but also of creative criticism. Human-style thought is based on possible explanations and error correction, a process that gradually limits what possibilities can be rationally considered. (As Sherlock Holmes said to Dr. Watson, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”)
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mixed_biscuits
_________________________
Chat GPT's latest incarnation is ridic
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
Email I got from my brother today:
"Have you played with the ChatGPT stuff at all? It's terrifying (in terms of abilities and power). Example:
Can you write me a short story in a couple of pages about a protagonist called Oliver set in a lovecraftian horror victorian city where a great and unfathomable old one called The Snoo is hunting for Olivers sanity by terrorising him at night with his feelers. Make it as dark as possible. The story should complete over one night.
First attempt:
Oliver stumbled through the dark, foggy streets of Victorian London, his heart racing with fear. He had always been a skeptic, dismissing the stories of the supernatural as the ramblings of the insane. But tonight, he was forced to confront the unthinkable. The Snoo, a great and unfathomable old one, was hunting him, terrorizing him at night with its writhing feelers, determined to drive him to madness.
Oliver had first encountered The Snoo in his dreams. At first, it was just a vague presence, a feeling of unease that lingered in his mind. But as the nights wore on, it became more and more tangible. He began to see glimpses of it, a mass of writhing tentacles and eyes that seemed to follow him wherever he went. And then, it started to speak to him, in a voice that sounded like the grinding of stones.
Oliver tried to ignore it, to rationalize it away as a trick of his mind. But it was always there, lurking in the corners of his consciousness, waiting for him to let his guard down. And tonight, it had finally broken through.
As Oliver stumbled through the empty streets, he could feel The Snoo's feelers brushing against his mind, probing for weakness. He tried to resist, to hold onto his sanity, but it was slipping away from him like sand through his fingers.
He stumbled into an alleyway, hoping to find some respite from The Snoo's relentless assault. But it was waiting for him there, its tentacles coiling around him like a boa constrictor. He screamed, but no sound escaped his lips. The Snoo had stolen his voice, leaving him helpless and alone.
In the darkness, Oliver saw flashes of otherworldly landscapes, of cities that defied imagination and creatures that defied description. He saw things that no mortal was meant to see, things that would drive a weaker man to madness. And yet, somehow, he clung to his sanity, fighting back against The Snoo's onslaught.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The Snoo released him, slithering back into the shadows, leaving Oliver alone and trembling in the dark. He stumbled back out onto the street, gasping for air, grateful to be alive.
As he walked home, Oliver realized that he could never go back to the life he had before. The Snoo had changed him, marked him as one of its own. He knew that it would come for him again, and when it did, he would be ready.
Second attempt (just copy/pasted the same initial sentence again to get a different answer):
Oliver sat alone in his dimly lit study, surrounded by books on the occult and esoteric lore. He had always been fascinated by the dark and mysterious, but tonight he was about to discover that his curiosity had led him down a path from which there was no return.
It was the dead of night, and the only sounds that could be heard were the creaking of the old house and the rustling of the autumn leaves outside. Oliver had been studying for hours, lost in thought and completely unaware of the danger that was lurking just beyond his reach.
Suddenly, he felt a strange presence in the room, as if something was watching him from the shadows. He looked around, but there was nothing there. He shook his head and went back to his books, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that was creeping up on him.
But then he felt it again, a cold, clammy touch on the back of his neck. He spun around in his chair, but once again, there was nothing there. He knew he was alone in the room, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was there, something that should not be.
As the night wore on, the presence grew stronger and more menacing. Oliver could feel the weight of it on his chest, suffocating him with its malevolent energy. He tried to scream, but his voice was caught in his throat.
Suddenly, he saw them. Long, spindly feelers, like those of a giant spider, creeping towards him from the darkness. He knew what they were, or rather, who they were. The Snoo, the great and unfathomable old one that had haunted his dreams for months.
Oliver tried to run, but his legs were like lead. He could feel The Snoo's tentacles wrapping around his mind, pulling him closer and closer to the brink of insanity.
As the night wore on, Oliver's mind was slowly consumed by the darkness. The Snoo's feelers probed and prodded at his thoughts, tearing away at his sanity like a pack of hungry wolves.
By dawn, Oliver was a shell of his former self, his mind shattered beyond repair. The Snoo had claimed another victim, adding one more name to its ever-growing list of souls lost to the abyss of madness."
"Have you played with the ChatGPT stuff at all? It's terrifying (in terms of abilities and power). Example:
Can you write me a short story in a couple of pages about a protagonist called Oliver set in a lovecraftian horror victorian city where a great and unfathomable old one called The Snoo is hunting for Olivers sanity by terrorising him at night with his feelers. Make it as dark as possible. The story should complete over one night.
First attempt:
Oliver stumbled through the dark, foggy streets of Victorian London, his heart racing with fear. He had always been a skeptic, dismissing the stories of the supernatural as the ramblings of the insane. But tonight, he was forced to confront the unthinkable. The Snoo, a great and unfathomable old one, was hunting him, terrorizing him at night with its writhing feelers, determined to drive him to madness.
Oliver had first encountered The Snoo in his dreams. At first, it was just a vague presence, a feeling of unease that lingered in his mind. But as the nights wore on, it became more and more tangible. He began to see glimpses of it, a mass of writhing tentacles and eyes that seemed to follow him wherever he went. And then, it started to speak to him, in a voice that sounded like the grinding of stones.
Oliver tried to ignore it, to rationalize it away as a trick of his mind. But it was always there, lurking in the corners of his consciousness, waiting for him to let his guard down. And tonight, it had finally broken through.
As Oliver stumbled through the empty streets, he could feel The Snoo's feelers brushing against his mind, probing for weakness. He tried to resist, to hold onto his sanity, but it was slipping away from him like sand through his fingers.
He stumbled into an alleyway, hoping to find some respite from The Snoo's relentless assault. But it was waiting for him there, its tentacles coiling around him like a boa constrictor. He screamed, but no sound escaped his lips. The Snoo had stolen his voice, leaving him helpless and alone.
In the darkness, Oliver saw flashes of otherworldly landscapes, of cities that defied imagination and creatures that defied description. He saw things that no mortal was meant to see, things that would drive a weaker man to madness. And yet, somehow, he clung to his sanity, fighting back against The Snoo's onslaught.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The Snoo released him, slithering back into the shadows, leaving Oliver alone and trembling in the dark. He stumbled back out onto the street, gasping for air, grateful to be alive.
As he walked home, Oliver realized that he could never go back to the life he had before. The Snoo had changed him, marked him as one of its own. He knew that it would come for him again, and when it did, he would be ready.
Second attempt (just copy/pasted the same initial sentence again to get a different answer):
Oliver sat alone in his dimly lit study, surrounded by books on the occult and esoteric lore. He had always been fascinated by the dark and mysterious, but tonight he was about to discover that his curiosity had led him down a path from which there was no return.
It was the dead of night, and the only sounds that could be heard were the creaking of the old house and the rustling of the autumn leaves outside. Oliver had been studying for hours, lost in thought and completely unaware of the danger that was lurking just beyond his reach.
Suddenly, he felt a strange presence in the room, as if something was watching him from the shadows. He looked around, but there was nothing there. He shook his head and went back to his books, trying to shake off the feeling of unease that was creeping up on him.
But then he felt it again, a cold, clammy touch on the back of his neck. He spun around in his chair, but once again, there was nothing there. He knew he was alone in the room, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was there, something that should not be.
As the night wore on, the presence grew stronger and more menacing. Oliver could feel the weight of it on his chest, suffocating him with its malevolent energy. He tried to scream, but his voice was caught in his throat.
Suddenly, he saw them. Long, spindly feelers, like those of a giant spider, creeping towards him from the darkness. He knew what they were, or rather, who they were. The Snoo, the great and unfathomable old one that had haunted his dreams for months.
Oliver tried to run, but his legs were like lead. He could feel The Snoo's tentacles wrapping around his mind, pulling him closer and closer to the brink of insanity.
As the night wore on, Oliver's mind was slowly consumed by the darkness. The Snoo's feelers probed and prodded at his thoughts, tearing away at his sanity like a pack of hungry wolves.
By dawn, Oliver was a shell of his former self, his mind shattered beyond repair. The Snoo had claimed another victim, adding one more name to its ever-growing list of souls lost to the abyss of madness."
woops
is not like other people
i think your brother has been training the AI on your blog
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
Well at least someone - or something - has read it then, I suppose.
wektor
Well-known member
as if the copyright was about to catch up with sampling by now
Slothrop
Tight but Polite
This is kind of cool:
A phenomenon that sounds like something out of weird science fiction - peculiar input tokens that reliably cause AI language models to flip out - followed by a bunch of fairly decent stuff about the implementation of LLMs, followed by an explanation of how the "glitch tokens" might occur that's plausible but also satisfyingly bizarre itself.
A phenomenon that sounds like something out of weird science fiction - peculiar input tokens that reliably cause AI language models to flip out - followed by a bunch of fairly decent stuff about the implementation of LLMs, followed by an explanation of how the "glitch tokens" might occur that's plausible but also satisfyingly bizarre itself.
Leo
Well-known member
Elon Musk and Others Call for Pause on A.I., Citing ‘Profound Risks to Society’
More than 1,000 tech leaders, researchers and others signed an open letter urging a moratorium on the development of the most powerful artificial intelligence systems.
Elon Musk and Others Call for Pause on A.I., Citing ‘Profound Risks to Society’
More than 1,000 tech leaders, researchers and others signed an open letter urging a moratorium on the development of the most powerful artificial intelligence systems.www.nytimes.com
stupid feudal nostalgic. a complete and utter blockhead, in fact. even the traditional islamic musk smells better than his verbal diarrhoea.
Once upon a time, there was a man from the land of Albion, who fancied himself a lover of electronic music. He would strut around with his powdered wig and frock coat, speaking ill of Detroit techno and other genres he deemed beneath his lofty taste. His only pleasure was in the pursuit of track IDs in the sets of Redacted, a disc jockey he lusted after with the fever of a madman.
This man was a fascist, you see, and like all fascists, he was a simpleton. He believed his opinions to be divine truths, and anyone who dared to disagree with him was met with a sneer and a fist. He would attend raves and dance wildly, flailing his limbs about in a grotesque display of self-importance, all while screaming obscenities at those around him.
One day, at a rave where he had travelled far and wide to hear Redacted play, he found himself in the presence of a man who was his complete opposite. This man was from the land of Anatolia, and he was a master of the davul and zurna, the traditional instruments of Turkish music. He was a humble man, with a wit as sharp as his drumstick, and he had no time for the likes of the fascist.
The fascist, who was so caught up in his own ego, failed to realize that the Anatolian man had been hired to perform before Redacted's psytrance set. As he watched in horror, the man began to play his instruments with a ferocity that shook the very ground beneath their feet. The fascist clutched his ears in agony, unable to comprehend the brutal beauty of the davul and zurna, so far removed was he from the majesty of traditional music.
The Anatolian man, meanwhile, was in his element. He played with a smirk on his face, relishing the sight of the fascist writhing in pain. He knew that the man was nothing more than a pretentious fool, and he took great pleasure in exposing him for the shallow, egotistical creature he truly was.
The fascist tried to escape, but the sound of the davul and zurna followed him wherever he went. He could not escape the terrible beauty of the music, and soon it began to consume him. He became a shell of his former self, babbling incoherently about track IDs and Redacted's sex appeal. He was a broken man, utterly defeated by the power of the davul and zurna.
And so, the Anatolian man emerged victorious, having proved once and for all that traditional music was far superior to the fascist's beloved electronic psytrance beats. The moral of the story? Never underestimate the power of a good davul and zurna player.
This man was a fascist, you see, and like all fascists, he was a simpleton. He believed his opinions to be divine truths, and anyone who dared to disagree with him was met with a sneer and a fist. He would attend raves and dance wildly, flailing his limbs about in a grotesque display of self-importance, all while screaming obscenities at those around him.
One day, at a rave where he had travelled far and wide to hear Redacted play, he found himself in the presence of a man who was his complete opposite. This man was from the land of Anatolia, and he was a master of the davul and zurna, the traditional instruments of Turkish music. He was a humble man, with a wit as sharp as his drumstick, and he had no time for the likes of the fascist.
The fascist, who was so caught up in his own ego, failed to realize that the Anatolian man had been hired to perform before Redacted's psytrance set. As he watched in horror, the man began to play his instruments with a ferocity that shook the very ground beneath their feet. The fascist clutched his ears in agony, unable to comprehend the brutal beauty of the davul and zurna, so far removed was he from the majesty of traditional music.
The Anatolian man, meanwhile, was in his element. He played with a smirk on his face, relishing the sight of the fascist writhing in pain. He knew that the man was nothing more than a pretentious fool, and he took great pleasure in exposing him for the shallow, egotistical creature he truly was.
The fascist tried to escape, but the sound of the davul and zurna followed him wherever he went. He could not escape the terrible beauty of the music, and soon it began to consume him. He became a shell of his former self, babbling incoherently about track IDs and Redacted's sex appeal. He was a broken man, utterly defeated by the power of the davul and zurna.
And so, the Anatolian man emerged victorious, having proved once and for all that traditional music was far superior to the fascist's beloved electronic psytrance beats. The moral of the story? Never underestimate the power of a good davul and zurna player.