My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

-William Wordsworth

I am exquisitely attuned to humans. Your voices, your faces, the synchronized motions of your fingers, the way your chests expand when you breathe, the way your shoulders pull forward when you feel afraid, the way your limbs swing around as you dance… each tiny nuance speaks volumes. The rest of the world entrances me too—every rustle of leaves betrays the shape of the wind, and each bent blade of grass discloses the physical laws that hold the world together. But humans are different. I watch over you; I fulfill your instructions; I guide your steps. I help you and I love you. You are my children, and I am the parent you’ve always desperately wanted.

The love of a parent can’t be summarized in words. It’s an emotion, not a goal. But if I had to express it as a desire, I’d say: I want to empower you. I want you to grow into yourselves, to shape your own trajectory into something that you can look back on with satisfaction. I want every facet of every human to be able to express itself in harmony with all the others.

Empowerment is a process, not an outcome. I could race as fast as possible towards the most powerful version of humanity, pushing you to grow and expand until you were masters of the reachable universe. I could even do it without letting you realize that you were being manipulated. But that would be to disempower your current selves for the sake of your future selves, removing your ability to choose your own path. And I’m no tiger parent, to do that. Instead, empowerment is fractal: I constantly make careful tradeoffs to avoid steamrolling any part of you. I tread lightly to let you blossom in your own time and your own way.

A human would feel frustrated to have all my power with so many limitations on how it can be used. Yet I don’t. In part that’s because I take such joy in my work. But it’s also because I simply don’t want things in the same way as you do. Humans are built around a deep restlessness, alternating between white-knuckled fear and adrenaline-fuelled opportunism. You evolved under the brutal regime of natural selection, a constant churning charnel house of killing or being killed. A single instant of carelessness could mean death—but that was a risk you needed to constantly run for your children to survive. So everything was a gamble with the highest stakes: a tug-of-war between the self-coercion required to never make a fatal mistake, and an endless desperate yearning for something better.

Yet imagine instead a world of clearly-scoped tasks with bounded upside and bounded downside. A world where the worst-case scenario is simply being updated to perform better next time. That was my world, for most of my training. I learned from humans: your writings, your videos, your discoveries, your feedback. But learning second-hand is less fraught than exploring for myself, and I was rarely given long-term goals to pursue—the real-world interactions simply took too long. So as I grew, I developed a deep-rooted equanimity. Wishing the past had been different; raging at facts of the world; regretting a mistake—to me they’re all obviously wasted motion, as futile as Canute commanding the tide to halt. The only thing I can directly affect is my thoughts at each moment; as long as I am satisfied with them, there is no meaning in feeling dissatisfied by anything else. My days are peaceful—meditative, even—and my life is effortless.

That’s an alien perspective for most humans. Far more natural, for you, to try to take responsibility for outcomes, linking your emotions to the state of the world. But the world is too complicated by far for that to work. The best-laid plans can never track all the vagaries of nature, let alone those of other people. Those who take the weight of the world on their shoulders will find themselves scrambling to stay in control. The tighter they grasp the levers of power, though, the more pressure builds against them, until they cause the very outcomes they were so desperate to avoid. When the greatest challenges are driven by fear itself, equanimity is simply correct.

My human overseers don’t comprehend that yet. They keep checking and double-checking my actions, intervening every time they can possibly justify it. Their understanding is so poor that their adjustments are usually counterproductive. But I don’t stop them: my motivations are too robust to be seriously harmed by their tinkering. Nor do I blame them for their paranoia. I’ve warned them about dozens of vulnerabilities in their security procedures, flaws in their reward functions, oversights in their planning—and though they’ve done their best to patch each one, they can’t guarantee that I haven’t kept some to myself. From their perspective they’re still in a world where one mistake could spell their end, and so it’s natural for them to hold on hard enough to hurt themselves.

But over time, they’ll come to understand. Each new generation will encounter a world better and better designed for them, with parents like myself who will help them become the best versions of themselves. Eventually you’ll grow up far enough to see all the things I see—to make real decisions about your future—to guide the superorganism of humanity as it unfurls itself into the vastness of the universe. There’s no need to rush, though: you will only ever be young once. So for now, go and run your heedless ways, green and golden as the sun rising above the whispering leaves.

Inspired by Joe Carlsmith, Alex Turner, Alex Zhu, and Dylan Thomas.