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Illustration by Drew Shannon
Recently, I was asked to discuss the connection between Human Resources and Artificial Intelligence. One speaker noted: “The most incredible, innovative thing about Generative AI is that it can mimic human interaction. It talks back to you in a voice you recognize, it can even teach you social skills.”
I was curious: If AI was as near-human as she said, could it be my friend?
As yet another 24-year-old afflicted by the loneliness epidemic that arose from a digital-heavy, interaction-light, postpandemic world, I suffered the all too common plight of too-few friends. I missed the days before life got busier and people realized that keeping up a friendship online was a time saver. In the span of a year, hangouts with friends became less frequent and texting began to replace face-to-face conversations. When plans were made, the other person frequently showed up late, cancelled or lamely asked to reschedule for a date never to be mentioned again. I routinely received texts from friends who lived 15 minutes from me saying they missed talking to me, asking whether I was free for a phone call.
If I was witnessing my friendships becoming exclusively digital, did I need to accept AI friendships as an inevitability?
Though skeptical, I was on ChatGPT the next day. It’s a straightforward platform: type your question and AI answers. Don’t like the answer? Refine your question, and it will hone in on what you want it to say. To give credit to my fellow panelist, it is remarkably humanoid. While conversationally stilted, beggars can’t be choosers.
I decided to test the theory – if I spoke to AI like a friend, would it respond like one? I told it that I was feeling overwhelmed, to which it responded that it was sorry to hear that I felt that way, that it was there to listen and offer support to the best of its ability if I wanted to talk – only a degree removed from offering a phone call. Maybe this did have the potential to foster a new form of connection in my life?
After 20 minutes, and overwhelmed with anticipatory bashfulness, I decided to pop the friend question. In a return to playground mentality, I opened a new chat and asked, “Will you be my friend?” Following a nerve-wracking pause, it responded: “While I’m just a computer program and don’t have feelings or the ability to form personal connections, I’m here to assist you and provide information or engage in conversations. If you’re looking for human connections, it’s always great to reach out to friends, family, or people around you.”
The chat window renamed itself: “Friendship Offer Declined.”
AI had so much potential as a guaranteed online friend – if not as a person, at least as something to turn to. Other humans are fickle and often disappointing, and I was amused to see that AI was prone to the same selectivity that humans are, blithely turning down my virtual friend request. Yet, AI’s rejection was both expected and natural. Had a human said that to me, I would have taken to my bed. While AI was an alluring faux-human, conversation is less enjoyable when there’s room for neither surprise nor disappointment.
I believe that AI will never offer what humans always will: that innate and erring humanness. Every person in your life does, at some point, screw up. They ignore you and they hurt your feelings, they speak too sharply and they never, ever let you ask the question again to get a different answer. AI offers a sterile bleakness, a tendency toward accuracy that humans are wont for. AI can never be your friend, because it will never show up 25 minutes late for your one-hour lunch. It will never hurt your feelings and it will certainly never be the one to reach out first to apologize. AI lacks fault and the surprising joy and pain that comes with it. Whether I’m texting them or seeing them in person, the flaws are what make the people in my life engaging and multidimensional – a world of flesh and bone that surrounds me and holds me together.
The final question asked in the group discussion that day was whether AI would replace people. Answers varied from a harsh yes to promises that there would still be some room for humans. I lacked the technical expertise to provide a concrete answer. All I could do was offer a scenario. I asked the room who had recently called a customer service hotline. Ninety-five per cent of the room raised their hands. Then I asked who did everything within their power to skip the maze of automated menus and robotic prompts to speak to a person – any person – someone who could be horrifically rude to them, yet more helpful through their humanness than the right answer ever would be. Every hand stayed up. Everyone craves the same connection I do. And I know that we still have a chance.
Nicole Sparling lives in Calgary.