Adam Mastroianni: I’ve been talking to a bunch of writers about where ideas come from for blog posts and about blog process in general, because everybody here [at Inkhaven] is blogging, wants to get better at blogging and writing. So much of that you can get from reading good stuff. You can see on the page like, “Oh, they said this thing. It had this structure.”

But you can’t see the origins. Those are lost to the mists of time. We can chat a bit about where yours come from and how you blog in general. To start, I wanted to ask about your recent posts, and if you remember where they came from, how they came to be.

Gwern: Sure. The most recent posts were two poems that I wrote [“Silver Bird Above San Francisco” and “Tilakkhana: The 3 Scars of Existence”]. So I can tell you how I came to write those.

A: Yeah.

G: The most recent one was I had been a fan of Czesław Miłosz, the Polish poet. And he had a funny little dialogue in one of his poems about God speaking with a saint. And it occurred to me that I could parody this for LLMs and AI researchers. And so I was putting it into the various LLMs with poem prompts and trying to get something interesting on them and failing completely. Basically out of frustration I just asked them to come up with a poem in general on the theme at all.

And Kimi K2 came up with this interesting poem about the AI personification, discussing how coal had been burned and had unraveled the leaf or unraveled the sunshine to power the GPUs that ran it. And I was struck by this image and metaphor. The poem itself was not good, but there was a great seed there. And so I kept working with that.

And then I realized, I had thrown away the original poems I’d written there with the God saint dialogue. But then after a while working on the Kimi poem, I realized, wait, I can make a 3-part poem here. The 3 parts correspond to the phases of LLM training and deployment, and where I use the parody dialogue at the first one—just tweak them and then fill in the middle and then use the unraveling as the core of the third part. And from there on, I just kind of kept working with the LLMs to get that one.

That one was sort of a… I had a specific thing I wanted to do, but accidentally along the way, I got an output from the LLM, which totally changed the trajectory and resulted in a completely different kind of poem from what I was intending to write.

And so I’m satisfied with the result of that one, which wound up being much more Buddhist and ethical than I had intended, but was much better than what I had envisioned in the first place. That was just a classic example of a “happy accident”.

The previous one before that, “Silver Bird Above San Francisco” was just, I was flying back from the conferences in June 2025 here [Less Online and Manifest]. I was flying out of SFO in the afternoon, and for whatever reason, the flight plan out did a gigantic spiral over the Bay Area, just banking constantly in the open sunshine. I thought to myself that if I was on the ground looking at this, I’d be seeing this gigantic silver bird, just like spiraling up toward eternity. And I thought to myself how incredible it is that I can fall asleep, listening to music from my phone and people on their tablets, whatever, how incredible it is that none of us is the slightest bit worried that we’re going to crash into the ground and die the way so many planes throughout history did.

And that is an incredible triumph of airplane technology and airlines and FAA and pilots and everyone that we have made air travel so incredibly boring that we made them into these overstuffed buses of the sky where the biggest thing to think about is, “Oh my God, they charged me $35 to check a single piece of luggage”, or, “Oh, s—t, I missed the pretzel snack from the stewardess.”

And just what an absolute miracle. What an absolute miracle.

G: For that one, I just wanted to convey this emotion, this feeling of awe and miraculous-ness of air travel that I felt at that moment as we were going out of SFO.

And so I started working with the LLM on that. And one of them at one point suggested using William Carlos Williams’s “The Red Wheelbarrow” poem. And I was like, “Yes, that’s it. That’s the frame for the poem.” And I just kept iterating with them and asking them for more and more suggestions and picking and choosing. And eventually I wound up with whatever poem that I was satisfied with.

So that’s the two most recent ones.

Adam: Is that at all similar to how you write non-poetry?

G: I would say it’s kind of similar in that often I will just have a long incubation period where I’m just noticing something and I’m just like waiting for enough to accumulate to the point where I can crystallize something. And at some point it’ll often be, it will snap into place and I’ll be like, “Yes, that’s it! That’s the idea here, that’s the angle that makes this interesting, which turns this from a pile of inchoate notes into something interesting.”

I briefly discussed on the Dwarkesh Patel podcast about the scaling hypothesis, which was something that in some ways I had started way back in like 2011_15ya, like reading Jürgen Schmidhuber and Hans Moravec. But until 2020, it had not snapped into place the thesis that perhaps “all AI progress is just compute” and everything underneath these fancy algorithms are ultimately really just compute or trial-and-error enabled by compute to make actual progress. And this, of course, has major implications.

Until then I had often seen it and I kept seeing papers which suggested it, or showed that the algorithms don’t matter as much as the raw compute does once you hold everything equal. There were many, many individual data points where I kept going, “Huh, it certainly seemed like there’s something there.” It’s like, isn’t it kind of interesting how just more compute just seems to keep being behind so many of these breakthroughs, and keeps being written out of the story, and how people would admit like, “Oh yeah, that was actually because I had 100 GPUs and I could try out a bunch of ideas and that’s why it worked.”?

But it wasn’t until 2020 with the GPT-3 paper coming out and smashing the benchmarks that I could—I finally had something that snapped in place, I wrote it all down and then the rest is history.

A: Something that strikes me about those stories is the disparateness of the information that you’re working with. You talked about having read this Polish poet for a long time, talked about like “should I use something from William Carlos Williams?”. You’re also reading papers about LLMs and how many GPUs. Has this always been the case? Where did these things come from and why are they tied together?

G: I don’t know if they have to be tied together. I’m sure many writers can specialize in a particular niche and a particular field, but I have always just been pathologically curious. Even as a little kid, I was your classic bookworm who just wanted to read every book in the library to the extent humanly possible and I would check out 15 books a week and read them all and then return and then grab the next 15 books.

And so I don’t know if it has to be that way. That’s just how I do it. It’s natural to me that I read a bazillion things. If I spend all day reading random interesting papers, I will sooner or later know all sorts of weird things which wind up being tied together. And so you never know what will be useful to make connections across fields.

It’s just that maybe you can write… I’m sure you can write things many other ways. There are many, many specialists. This is just how I in particular happen to operate.

A: Yeah. I mean, it’s funny the people I’ve spoken to today all do some version of that. And I don’t know if it’s just because we’re so selected for the kinds of writers here.

G: I mean, that’s a big factor here.

A: Yes.

G: We definitely do not select for best specialists. If you’re just a pure AI guy, I don’t think you had much reason to be here because how many GPUs are there in Lighthaven? Not many, right?

A: Yeah. What was I going to ask? Oh, okay. A lot of people have this. A lot of people are the person who wants to read all the books in the library. That’s not super uncommon.

It is much more uncommon to then gestate it in your head, turn it into blog posts and put it on the Internet. Why did you start doing that?

G: I think a lot of people don’t remember what they read. Even if you read widely, if you can’t remember the weird little details, the disparate things, then you can’t get too much out of reading. I’ve always had a good visual memory for language especially. I could often recite things from books or just at least just look them up later. That was a key to it. I do, in fact, I can remember quite a lot of these things that I read and can put the pieces together that way.

But also there’s just, as you say, me, Scott Alexander, and many other bloggers, there is ultimately an interest or compulsion or fascination with writing, which ultimately is what compels you to keep writing for a long time until you get recognition.

Hence, the joke is always “achieve overnight success in just 10 years of hard work”.

A: Yeah.

G: And it’s like nobody really starts blogging without ever having written before and becomes an instant massive success.

Usually there’s always some sort of apprenticeship somewhere.

I had my English Wikipedia phase where I was writing on Wikipedia for a long time to just try to share knowledge and information and provide good references for people to read on various topics, like Evangelion and that sort of thing.

A: What led you to make the switch from Wikipedia writing to your own website?

G: It was a mix of getting increasingly dissatisfied with the Wikipedia editing environment.

It was harsh and clamping down on things that I liked. I liked having epigraphs. I liked having blockquotes of interesting texts. And increasingly the attitude was hostile to that.

And on Wikipedia, nothing is fixed. Everything is deletable even if you write the best article in the world, someone can always come along 5 years later and delete it, literally delete the entire article. And so I was pushed out of Wikipedia to a considerable extent.

But also I was pulled because I increasingly wanted to do my own synthesis and original analysis and research and writing and self-experiments and provide copies of documents and papers. And all of that is just not acceptable on Wikipedia. You’re only supposed to be summarizing what someone else has written. You’re not supposed to be doing any analysis or synthesis of your own.

It was a combination of push and pull. The kind of writing I was doing was being pushed out and the kind of writing I wanted to do was definitely not allowed.

A: You mentioned self-experimentation, which is quite unique and I think surprisingly so in the blogosphere that for the kinds of people who are so interested in science, how knowledge is produced, how to do that correctly, there’s not a lot of original data collected and presented.

Why do you do it?

G: I did it just because it seemed obviously correct and because… Yeah. I mean, it does seem obviously correct. You have these supplements and you have all these claims about how you think the supplement does this thing for your sleep, so just measure it, right? What is science, but writing something down, really?

When you get down to it, if you don’t write it down, then it’s not science. No matter how much analysis work you do, if it isn’t written up, then it never happened. So science is easy in that sense. You just have to write it down. It was like, “Well, why can’t I do that? I can write stuff down. I’m quite good at writing stuff down.”

A: Wait, so you were doing these things as a normal course of your life and the decision was to write them down? The decision wasn’t like…

G: No, no, no. I did not do randomized experiments beforehand. I did them in part to have something to write up because the other flip side is that, well, if it’s so easy to do, why not do it and then write it up? And now you have something to write up.

If you don’t have an idea for something good to write, well just do an experiment on yourself and it’s easy to pick a unique experiment that no one has ever done before and boom, now you have something to write about and analyze.

It was also a great statistics practice. I got so much value out of learning statistics just to do a particular self-experiment. I was like, “Oh, for this one, I will use some factor analysis. For this one, I will learn about ordinal models. For this one, I will try to include an informative prior from Bayesian reasoning and I would use it in JAGS.”

It was a wonderful, wonderful source of self-assigned homework, which was much, much more fun to do than reanalyzing some fake data set in class or just doing theoretical exercises. I found it motivating to work on my own data.

Now the question you might ask is like, why don’t more people do this? And of course for many of them, the reason they don’t genuinely care about what the right answer is, so that’s a lot of it, but also a lot of it is just that they don’t finish things.

I find that many people will contact me partway through and I’ll hear about how, “I’m doing an LSD microdosing experiment!”, and then I will never hear from them at the end.

I would say there are at least 5–6 people who said they had started a self-blinded LSD microdosing experiment to try to prove me wrong and then I never heard from them again.

A: They took too big of a dose.

G: Well, even LSD wears off after a day, right?

A: Yeah.

G: So I think there’s an issue with writing: people will often start things and then not finish them. And this is all true of hobbies and personal projects in general. People will start them and then not finish them, or they will finish them, but then not finish them by writing them up properly.

I talk with people all the time who have done these quite challenging, impressive technical projects or AI projects which would be a meaningful, valuable contribution if they would just turn what they just told me in the chat into a blog post, and yet they don’t.¹ And so no one else ever knows about it. There’s many such cases.

And so it’s just I think underappreciated how hard it is to finish things. Just like there are so many people who are flakes in that sense. They’re flaky. They start things but they don’t finish things.

A: Is this not a problem for you?

G: I mean, it’s definitely an issue for me in terms of finishing projects, but also I have so many projects and I’m motivated to finish them because I don’t believe it’s real until it’s done and I want to have something to show other people. And also, writing is just a lot easier for me than for other people. So I don’t know what’s going on there.

I just know that I finish things and so my output is infinitely larger than many other people who are much smarter than me, much more talented than me, much more interesting than me; and yet no one will ever know or only their friends will know or only their job will know because they wouldn’t finish things and put them into the public.

There’s a useful model, mental model here what I call “the pipeline”, which is that the reason you get these surprising log-normal distribution of outputs is because everything is a sequence of phases and you have to finish each phase to have a single final output, and only the final output counts. The original model like Shockley1957 used for modeling the writing of a scientific paper—you have to have an idea, you have to execute the experiment, you have to analyze the results, you have to write it up, you have to send it out to a journal, and then you have to go to the full process to have a published journal. And if you fail at any step along the way, at any step, you have nothing at the end.

And so if you have one scientist who has 50% probability of finishing each stage and you have another scientist who has 60% probability, that doesn’t seem like much, like 50% versus 60%. But when you look at the end, it’s like, this guy has 1 published paper in his career and this guy has 10; that small difference multiplies out at each stage to a big difference at the end. So I feel like maybe the answer is just that I have a small advantage at each stage and so that’s why at the end of the day I had 10 blog posts and this guy has one blog post.

And this is universal in terms of doing projects. A project is multiple stages. Each stage has to be finished. As far as anyone else is concerned, the entire project doesn’t exist unless it’s finished.

And so you look around and you see people who have a ton of projects and then you see people who have none. But that other guy has a graveyard of half-finished projects, which he didn’t finish. And they’re not all that different, it’s just that this first guy was just slightly more conscientious each step in finishing stuff. So he has a graveyard too, but it’s not nearly as big.

A: Yeah. That’s a useful analysis and I wonder if, did you have this advantage coming in, do you think? Is this something that you inculcated? Because a lot of people see this and they’re like, “I want to increase my closing rate.” Is that ever a thought that you had and then you took some actions that increased your closing rate?

G: I think if I compared myself to when I started blogging, in 2010_16ya, I don’t think I had many ideas at all.

I was like, I think maybe the self-experiments were in part a reaction to that. “Well, I don’t know anything interesting to write about. I guess I will see what caffeine does to my sleep.” Because this is a boring, obvious thing I could turn the crank on the experiment, right? It’s like if I don’t know what to do, well I can just do a self-experiment. That was kind of a crutch in some ways to get stuff to do.

Of course these days it’s like I have a bazillion ideas for things that you could do which are totally feasible and I have whole pages of free ideas—please take my idea and adopt it and give it a good home!

I feel like that was in part, I got much better at the skill of noticing things and thinking harder about predicting things. Also, there is just a thing where after a while every idea feeds on itself and builds on itself, you like to pick up a whole collection of useful ideas which you can apply to everything. I love… Gian-Carlo Rota has a good quote for how he does research where he said like, “Everyone has two mental tools that they apply to every problem, and a great mathematician will have 3.”

And then he says that like, he also called it the “Feynman problem solving algorithm”, which is that Richard Feynman would have in mind, say, 10 interesting problems at any given time. And anytime he ran across a new result or a new method or a new tool, he would mentally try to apply to each of the outstanding problems and see if it helped. And every once in a great while, he would get a hit. And then he would tell someone else, and they’d be like, “Oh my God, Feynman, you’re a genius. How do you do that?” And the answer is “I just had a whole bunch of outstanding problems and interesting observations in my head. And every time I run across a new theorem or whatever, I just try on each of them and I see if it helped.”

After a while, ideas stop being a problem.

A: Do you feel like you have some analog of this, the two or 3 tools that you are applying to each new piece of information or problem that you encounter?

G: Yeah, definitely. There’s definitely something like that. I think I would have to think harder about what exactly they are, but you’re right, there’s something that I… I feel like often my arguments are stereotypical and that I keep reusing the same one, every one.

Like one of them might be “one man’s modus ponens is another man’s modus tollens”. That is definitely one that I will apply reflexively everywhere.

A: I assume plenty of people in the audience can parse that, but can you explain it for people who haven’t encountered it before?

G: A good, simple, intuitive explanation of that… Oh, that’s a little bit difficult because I mean informal logic is kind of simple.

Often people make an argument which concludes, “A, B, C, and therefore X, Y, Z.” And then I would say, “Well, Z is obviously false. Therefore, your original argument has a false premise somewhere. Which of your premises is false?” “Well, it’s probably A.” And I would say, “Thank you for giving me an interesting new proof of not-A.”

And it’s like, “That would be interesting if true. However, that’s obviously not true, therefore this is not true either.”

That’s a reflexive thing I would say, similar to criticizing scientific writing—if anyone reports a correlation result, I automatically flip it in my head.

Say that someone says that “eating chocolate correlates with lower stress”. I flip it in my head and say “lower stress predicts eating chocolate”, and then I see what I think about that. That’s just a reflex. Anytime anyone gives you a correlation, flip the order of the words and then think about it. That’s an interesting kind of reflexive argument that you can do.

Or anytime someone gives you a number, you can just multiply or divide by 10 and then see, does that change anything? If that didn’t change anything, then the number was irrelevant.

A: This is super interesting and I don’t want to put you on the spot, but can you think of any posts in particular that came out of applying any one of those tools? I mean, I imagine if you’re using them all the time that this is baked into a lot of posts that you’ve written, but I was just curious.

G: No, nothing comes to mind to me, sorry.

A: But what you’re describing I think is super interesting. It makes me think of the… I was briefly on Instagram and found that it gives me “Instagram brain”.

And what I mean is that I go around the world being like, “What can I turn into a picture for Instagram?” Then I started to see the world through the lens of how can I transmute the world into posts for Instagram.

Now that I blog, I feel like I have “blog brain” and I walk around the world and things stick out to me and there are affordances like, “Oh, this is a post. That’s a post.” Does this resonate with you at all? Do you feel like you have this?

G: Absolutely. I’ve been doing that a lot here. I’ve been going around and saying to people, “Yeah, that’s a post. Yeah, that’s a perfectly readable blog post.” Your friend has a Discord channel where you debate photos of the sky? Post!

A: Is there any part of that you feel like you can articulate?

Because to me it feels a little bit like chicken sexing, that it’s just like you can’t say why you know this chicken is female or male. The master just has to slap your hand when you do it wrong and over time the subconscious figures it out.

Is it like that or is it like, I have some explicit tools I can use to tell you that like why that Discord post is a post?

G: I think in the case of the Discord post, I knew that it was a post because I immediately thought of the XKCD Connoisseur cartoon. And so the Connoisseur cartoon picks out a general phenomenon of if you spend a lot of time on any topic whatsoever, you will develop strangely strong opinions about it, which outsiders will not appreciate at all. And so she was talking about how cumulonimbus, or something, is objectively the best cloud because it has the most interesting 3D appearance.

And I was like, “Yeah, that’s exactly like the XKCD cartoon.” Like, okay, now you have a post! You have a weird little niche that nobody knows about, which does not have any exact parallel, which has not been written about before, which however you can link to some broader general point in this case about developing aesthetic preferences and developing connoisseurship.

Just the channel on its own is interesting, kind of interesting, but if you can make it a specific instance of a general point, now you have an essay. Now you have a post. A good essay will often take a universal and make it concrete or go from a concrete to a universal, whichever direction happens to work better.

So in this case, we have a universal, which is “how people develop preferences” and we have that concrete “cloud channel”, which is an example of a small group of people developing a weird kind of expertise and preferences.

That kind of the meta principle there is that I was able to connect this concrete, weird thing to an interesting abstract non-obvious universal principle. And that’s kind of where the pleasure of the insight of reading this would come from, is seeing an instance of what you might not have understood before.

If we had to say a general principle of essay writing for me is often just compiling examples of a universal principle that you might have seen before but didn’t understand. But by bringing in enough firepower, I can make you understand it.

The best example of that would probably be in my “Commoditize Your Complement” essay, which is just taking a classic Joel Spolsky essay on tech economics, which people don’t truly understand when they read it, and then providing so many examples that you have to understand it. And once you do that, suddenly now you will see the world completely differently. It’s like putting on glasses and suddenly you understand why tech companies do all these things that they do—once I provide enough examples, once I brute force it into your head.

If I just say, “Smart companies commoditize their complement, they try to render complementary products free in order to make complements for their own commodity or whatever.” It’s like, “Okay, it’s just economics nonsense. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t feel it in my gut.”

But if I give you a bazillion examples from “hotels” to “Xbox” to “AI software” to “Windows” to “Netscape”, well eventually at some point it’s got to sink into your head like, “Oh yes, now I see what they’re doing.” They’re trying to destroy the rival competitors who could be a monopoly over them. They’re not friends, they’re enemies! They’re trying to destroy them.

And then you start to see it. “Why does Facebook release that free thing?” Well, because they’re trying to destroy this particular tech company. And once you have that enlightenment experience, now you understand it.

A: This feels like a type of post of like, I’m going to take a universal principle and show you so many examples that you understand the universal principle that alone is abstract.

Are there other kinds of posts? Do you feel like you have archetypes of posts in your head?

G: Well, in that case, that’s kind of an easy one because you already have the universal principle. The hard ones are where you’re trying to nail down the examples and the universal… So you might accumulate a lot of examples like, “I know these are related somehow, but I don’t yet know how.”

“Scaling Hypothesis” is an example one of the hard ones where I could feel that there’s some sort of connection between all these disparate examples, between these image classifiers and these RL agents, between this n-grams scaling paper and Transformers, which don’t seem to have any connection, but after enough time, finally it will crystallize and finally you will have the universal principle which unifies all these. And which in that case turned out to be just compute scaling, essentially.

A: One direction is, I know what the principle is, now I need to find the examples that make the principle legible and understandable. And another is, I’ve got a bunch of examples, how do I back out the universal principle, but I feel like there’s a thing here, but I’m searching for the universal from the specific.

G: Yeah. So, I mean, as I said previously, there are definitely two directions you can go, right?

You can go from the universal to the concrete, or you can go from the concrete to universal.

Yeah, sometimes, I will assemble a bunch of examples and decide, okay, yeah, they seemed like they had some connection, but, no, there’s not a universal there.

Last year I did an “unsorting” essay because I thought I had seen some way in which there was this general concept like “unsorting things” for various statistical purposes. And I thought there was something there, and I collected examples for a long time, but then I realized: no, there is nothing there, it’s just a coincidence. There’s a vague resemblance, but there is not actually any universal principle.

And then I wrote that down to satisfy myself that, no, there’s nothing there. It bugged me for a long time, but no, there’s nothing there—which is kind of a weird essay to write. The people that are reading it, go, “That’s kind of stupid”, but whatever.

A: Do you feel like you write for yourself or you write for the audience?

G: I write for myself. From start to finish, it’s pretty much for myself.

Once in a while I will be trying to convince people, but that’s the exception and not the rule. Most of my stuff is self-indulgent. I wrote perfume reviews because I was into perfume reviews. I wrote the poems because those are the poems I love to read and I wanted to write them. And if nobody else likes them or reads them, that’s immaterial to me because I think they’re good.

I mean, I did write “Scaling Hypothesis” to try to reach all the EA and AI safety people, so that did have a target audience to just wake everyone up. But again, that’s exceptional.

A: The last thing I want to ask about is you write prolifically.

And so I think people might… My image of what your day-to-day life is your fingers on keyboard all the time, making posts come out and the rest of the time is information input.

But if you were to find you on a random Tuesday, what are you doing?

G: I would say that I spend 99% of my time just reading, and maybe 1% of the time writing.

A: Interesting.

G: Yes. It’s an extreme ratio. I will spend 10 hours a day reading papers, reading books, reading comments, reading posts, reading everything.

And then maybe I’ll write something in the remaining 30 minutes perhaps on an average day.

And many days I would write nothing.

A: When it comes time to write, to what extent does the idea get developed on the page versus it’s already developed when you get there?

G: For most of my stuff, I’m either making a small edit to an existing one. I’m adding a new link to an essay, so it’s not developing at all. It’s getting bigger, but not developing. For new stuff, it’s almost always pretty much complete in my head.

In fact, I have written a short thing on one of my pages about how, to me, often writing is about transcribing what a voice has been repeating for a while. And so literally hearing someone recite the essay or at least most of the essay or the key paragraph or whatever. And just like an earworm, like a musical earworm, I hear the essay repeat itself for days at a time until eventually it’s like, “okay, fine, I’m going to write it down.” And only once it’s been written down, then it’s dispelled.

A: I experience it so similarly, that every idea feels like a demonic possession and it requires a certain incantation to end the possession. And the incantation is like the correct blog post.

G: Yeah. There’s definitely a certain sense where it’s a nagging to-do item where you can’t forget it until you have dealt with it and properly, and dealing with it properly, like having it written out in a proper way.

I like to quote Indiana Jones’s father in the movie: “I wrote it down so I could forget it.” And I am like that: I write down things to forget them.

Gemini-3-pro-preview: You cited “Commoditize Your Complement” as an example of teaching a universal principle through brute-force examples.

If we apply that model to Gwern.net itself: your content is the commodity (free, open). What is the complement you are trying to commoditize (or destroy), and what is the monopoly you are trying to build?

G: Good question—Tyler Cowen would approve of it.

My infrastructure work is focused on fulltexts, verification of citations, access to raw data, reproducible code, proper rendering of complex material like poetry, archiving and linkrot, correctness and quality control, speed, and catering to powerusers. Simply put, I try to read, and let others read, what has already been recorded.

So, I guess what I try to commoditize is information, and my complement is analysis—or perhaps more precisely, “synthesis” or “sensemaking”. Where information is abundant, attention and understanding must become scarce. The “insight porn” tag is not as much of a joke as it seems.

In the long run, I am more of a point of view embodied by LLMs, perhaps.

Claude-4.5-opus: You advocate wikis strongly but acknowledge blogs dominate. What’s stopping wikis from being more common than blogs?

G: Most people don’t do the kind of thinking that needs wikis. They don’t need “tools for thought”. They want to be on top of things, not on the bottom (to borrow a phrase from Donald Knuth).

Wikis also have a nasty problem in terms of following updates. No one has ever invented a good way to “read updates to a wiki”. A list of raw edits is hopeless—just browse Special:Recent Changes on English Wikipedia some time! We need some sort of hierarchy of summaries, I think.