Lifestyle
Writer Ted Chiang on AI and grappling with big ideas
Ted Chiang was recently awarded the PEN/Faulkner Foundation’s prize for short story excellence.
Alan Berner
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Alan Berner
Science fiction author Ted Chiang wishes he could write faster.
His entire body of work from the last 34 years almost completely fits into two book-length collections of short stories, and he says he feels the pressure that many writers do — to be more prolific.
“I can’t claim any moral high ground or deliberate strategy. It’s mostly just that I’m just a very slow writer,” Chiang said.
But each of his stories is meticulously crafted, the result of big philosophical questions that gnaw at him for months or even years. And he is no stranger to success: His novella-length “Story of Your Life” was the basis of the film Arrival. Many of his works have won science fiction’s highest accolades and prizes.
Chiang recently added another prestigious award to that list. He is the recipient of this year’s PEN/Malamud Award, which celebrates “excellence in the short story.”
Chiang sat down with All Things Considered host Scott Detrow to talk about his writing process, the philosophical ideas that undergird science fiction and why he doesn’t think AI is capable of making art.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Ted Chiang’s “Story of Your Life” was the basis of the film Arrival.
Penguin Random House
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Penguin Random House
Interview highlights
Scott Detrow: I want to start really broadly because I think so many of your stories seem to be asking big questions, whether it’s how humans would behave when they encounter a disruptive new technology, or an alien race, or the physical presence of God. But then all the stories come back to the human reaction to that, as opposed to the existential problem itself. When you’re coming up with these stories, do you start with the big question? Do you start with the character? Where does your mind typically drift first?
Ted Chiang: I usually start with what you would call “the big question.” I am interested in philosophical questions, but I think that thought experiments are often very abstract, and it can be somewhat hard for people to engage with them. What science fiction is good at is, it offers a way to dramatize thought experiments. The way it happens for me is that ideas come and ideas go. But when an idea keeps recurring to me over a period of time, months or sometimes years, that is an indicator to me that I should pay more attention to this idea, that this idea is gnawing at me. The only way for me to really get it to stop gnawing at me is to write a story.
Detrow: In the last year or so, you’ve published a series of articles in The New Yorker taking a critical look at AI and often making arguments that this is being framed the wrong way when popular culture talks about artificial intelligence [or] large language models like ChatGPT. What is it about AI in this moment that interests you?
Chiang: As a science fiction writer, I’ve always had a certain interest in artificial intelligence. But as someone who studied computer science in college, I’ve always been acutely aware of the vast chasm between science-fictional depictions of AI and the reality of AI. I think the companies who are trying to sell you AI benefit from blurring this distinction. They want you to think that they are selling a kind of science-fictional vision of your superhelpful robot butler. But the technology they have is so radically unlike what science fiction has traditionally depicted.

Detrow: In one of these essays that I think perhaps got the most attention, you were making the argument that AI is not going to be making great art. Can you walk us through your thinking, your argument about the fact that ChatGPT probably isn’t going to write a great novel or DALL-E is not going to be creating really valuable fundamental works of art?
Chiang: So the premise of generative AI is that you, as the user, expend very little effort, and then you get a high-quality output. You might enter a short prompt, and then you get a long piece of text, like a short story or maybe a novel. Or you enter a short prompt, and then you get a highly detailed image, like a painting. You cannot specify a lot in a short text prompt. An artist needs to have control of every aspect of a painting. A writer needs to have control over every sentence in a novel. And you simply cannot have control over every sentence in a novel if all you gave was a pretty short text prompt.
Detrow: Tying this back to your fictional work, I think a lot of your stories will propose a new innovation or a scientific discovery that just rocks the society that it comes upon. Is it fair to say that, at least when we’re talking about generative AI, when we’re talking about AI in the current conversation, is it fair to say that you do not see it as that kind of game-changing development?
Chiang: I think that generative AI will have massive repercussions, not because it is fundamentally a transformative tool, but because companies will be quick to adopt it as a way of cutting costs. And by the time they realize that it is not actually that effective, they may have destroyed entire industries. But in the meantime, they might have made a lot of short-term money. And it costs thousands or millions of people their jobs.
Detrow: There are these big societal changes in your pieces. But in a lot of the stories, the main character won’t necessarily change that much of their identity. Whatever massive shift is happening seems just kind of to confirm their sense of purpose or their sense of identity. I’m wondering how you think about that, and if you think that’s maybe a hopeful takeaway from some of these stories.
Chiang: So, I would say that big technological changes, they often will demand that we kind of rethink a lot of things, but they don’t automatically change our fundamental values. If you loved your children before, you should continue to love your children — there’s no technological advance that will make you think, “Oh, actually, loving my children, I guess I’m going to discard that idea.” So, I wouldn’t say that the characters are unaffected or that they just go on being the same. It’s more that they hopefully find some way to live, which allows them to be faithful to their core beliefs, their core values, even in the face of a world that has changed in a very unexpected way.
Lifestyle
‘How to Rule the World’ explores education and power at Stanford University
Students walk on the Stanford University campus on March 14, 2019, in Stanford, Calif.
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Ben Margot/AP
When Theo Baker arrived at Stanford University a few years ago, he joined the student newspaper, following the path of his journalist parents, Peter Baker, a White House correspondent for The New York Times, and Susan Glasser, a writer for The New Yorker.
Through his reporting as a student journalist, he eventually broke a story about manipulated data in Stanford President Marc Tessier-Lavigne’s neuroscience research that helped lead to the university president’s resignation.
Theo Baker’s book, How to Rule the World: An Education in Power at Stanford University was released May 19. In it, Baker describes Stanford as a place where proximity to Silicon Valley gives rise to a parallel system of influence, recruitment and money, with investors looking to identify promising students almost as soon as they arrive on campus.
He told Morning Edition host Steve Inskeep there was “a sort of Stanford inside Stanford,” where elite students are drawn into an “alternate reality” of excess and access to cut corners.
In the interview, he discusses how Stanford is not just a university but also a pipeline where status and power can matter as much as ideas.
We reached out to Stanford University for comment and have not heard back.
Listen to the interview by clicking play on the blue box above.
Lifestyle
OTB Takes Full Control of Viktor & Rolf
Lifestyle
How having zero points in tennis — or ‘love’ — came to sound so sweet
The scoreboard shows the results of the women’s singles final match between Iga Swiatek of Poland and Amanda Anisimova of the U.S. at the Wimbledon Tennis Championships in London, Saturday, July 12, 2025.
Kirsty Wigglesworth/AP
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Kirsty Wigglesworth/AP
Fifteen points in tennis? Nice. Thirty, 40 — even better. Advantage — that sounds good. “Love” — that also must be great, right? Well, not quite.
As the French Open rolls on and Serena Williams has announced her return to the sport, maybe you’ve been paying a little more attention to tennis. The sport’s scoring system is notably distinct, and can sometimes be hard to grasp for newcomers. But even tennis aficionados might not know why, or how, “love” became the unmistakable callout for zero points. For this installment of NPR’s Word of the Week, we’re exploring how a word that signifies trailing behind got such a sweet name.
“Love” comes from the heart — or an egg?
It’s hard to pinpoint when the first tennis ball went over the net. Tennis is a derivative of lots of other sports, such as “jeu de paume,” a handball game played in France, said JT Buzanga, the collections manager at the International Tennis Hall of Fame museum.

But tennis became a patented, official sport in 1874, said Steve Flink, a journalist whose tennis coverage got him inducted into the International Tennis Hall of Fame. It has retained its unique, mysterious scoring system ever since.
“By and large, the original system has held up almost entirely,” Flink said.
The use of “love” goes back to the late 18th century, said Jesse Sheidlower, a lexicographer. But it was used earlier than that in card games such as whist and bridge. Before the term made its way to tennis, the sport favored plain old “nothing,” or “nil,” he said.
Why love in the first place, though? Historians don’t really know for sure, but there are a few theories.
The French could have something to do with it. Some historians believe “love” derives from “l’oeuf,” which means “the egg” in French. Because eggs are shaped like zeros, terms such as “goose egg” and “duck’s egg” have been used in other contexts to mean zero, Sheidlower said.
It’s also possible English speakers mispronounced l’oeuf as “love.” But Sheidlower isn’t convinced that’s the answer.
“It’s the French equivalent of an English expression. But since that expression doesn’t appear in French, the French word wouldn’t have been used,” he said.
To be sure, France has had a lot of influence on tennis culture, Buzanga said. For example, “deuce” or a game tied at 40 points, comes from the French word for “two”: “deux.” But he prefers another prominent theory: that “love” comes from the idiom “for the love of the game.” Even if a player hasn’t scored, it doesn’t matter, because their heart is in it. It’s the theory Sheidlower said is the most plausible, because the idiom was used by the English before tennis was popularized.

Another variation of the “love of the game” theory is that the word could have come from the Dutch “lof,” or “honor” — or the Latin “amare,” meaning “to love,” Flink said.
But if tennis’ “love” doesn’t come from a French word, the theory at least has a French sensibility.
“I think the ‘for the love of the game’ is kind of romantic,” Buzanga said.
“Love” probably isn’t going anywhere
Tennis used to be a sport of leisure. The style of play has changed a lot over the years; players are more athletic and competitive, for instance, Flink said. But the rules of the sport are more steadfast, he said.
“There’s this incredible, enduring respect for tradition in tennis,” he said. “Changes are not made easily.”
There has been one major change in modern history: the tie-break. Matches can go on and on because players have to score two consecutive points to break a deuce, or by two games to break a tied set. But the onset of television meant matches would have to get shorter if the sport wanted to capture a larger audience, Flink said.

Change even came for “love.” An alternative sprouted up in the 1970s, and is still used today: “bagel,” named for its zero shape, Sheidlower said. Novices may say “zero,” and insiders will understand what they mean, but they “will needle them about it,” Flink said.
But “love” still prevails.
“People kind of like it,” Flink said. “It’s different. Why say zero when you can say love?”
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