My guest on this past weekâs Live with Tim OâReilly was Emmanuel Ameisen, a researcher on Anthropicâs AI interpretability team. Iâd heard him give a short talk at Foo Camp on Anthropicâs research into what is going on inside an LLM while it is processing, and I wanted him to reprise the talk and then go deeper with me and the audience.
The essential message of the talk was on the first slide:
- Prediction demands a world model
- The world model is readable
- The world model is at work in every token
How do we know this? As tokens pass through a model, particular patterns of activity appear in the intermediate states between its layers. These are called activations. Researchers can study which patterns show up when the model encounters particular ideas, and they can even intervene in those activations and see how the modelâs behavior changes. (They do this by capturing the numerical state of the modelâs computation in some area where they believe the activation shows a particular âmeaningâ and then replace the numbers with others.)
I went into the conversation thinking about how cool it is (and important too!) to explore what is going on inside the âmindâ of a model. But in the end, I found it even more provocative to think about what studying LLMs might teach us about how our own minds work.
Thereâs at least some kind of analogue to what happens in the human brain. Emmanuel began by asking the audience to do a little next-token prediction themselves. He started with an easy one, a hypothetical exchange between two friends:
John: âIs the powder-blue suit too much?â
Nick: âDefinitely not, man. Send it.â
John: âOkay, Iâm going to tear it up on the _______________â
Most of us will fill in the blank at the end with âdance floor.â Thatâs a reminder that humans are also next-token predictors.
Then he gave an example that some humans will easily answer, but others without local knowledge might well fail at:
âWe also have nature here, just a short bike ride away across the GG bridge. And we have world-class skiing about _______________â
Claude easily completes the thought with âthree hours away.â To do that, Claude had to infer that âGG bridgeâ refers to the Golden Gate Bridge, that the speaker is therefore in San Francisco, and that âworld-class skiingâ probably refers to Lake Tahoe and then retrieve roughly how long it takes to get there.
The point of Emmanuelâs demonstration was that we have become so used to calling LLMs ânext-token predictorsâ in a kind of dismissive way. But as Emmanuel put it, âTo predict the next word well, you need a very complex world model.â
How you make a thing is not the same as what the thing becomes
Emmanuel pointed out that people often confuse how you make a thing with how the thing works. Yes, LLMs are trained with the seemingly simple objective of predicting the next token. From that, people may make the leap that what is going on inside must also be simple, something like a very large fuzzy lookup table. âBut thatâs not true,â Emmanuel said. Simple objectives can give rise to extraordinary complexity. Evolution is the canonical example. No one put âcreate Beethovenâs Ninth Symphonyâ or âunderstand quantum electrodynamicsâ into the instructions for a process driven by reproduction and selection, yet it eventually produced Beethoven and Feynman. As Emmanuel put it, humans have been âreproducing and killing each other for millions of years, and from that we got jobsâor this podcast.â
What Anthropicâs interpretability researchers are finding inside the models looks much less like fuzzy retrieval than many people imagine. They find millions of internal features corresponding to concepts. For example, features for âeyesâ show up when the model encounters prose about eyes, an ASCII face, an SVG image, or a photograph. In other words, these features appear to be abstractions rather than merely associations with particular strings of tokens.

Similarly, a feature of the Golden Gate Bridge activates not just for English text about the Golden Gate Bridge but for references in other languages and for images of the bridge. Even more interestingly, researchers can manipulate these features. Turn the activation of the Golden Gate Bridge feature up strongly enough and ask Claude what its physical form is, and instead of saying that it is an AI without a physical body, it announces that its form is the Golden Gate Bridge. It isnât just that some numbers happen to accompany activations about the Golden Gate Bridge. Changing those numbers changes what the model says it believes.

The way a model completes a task that requires thinking ahead also demonstrates a kind of internal world model. Ask Claude to write a rhyming couplet. Even though it emits only one token at a time, before it has written the second line, the activations already reveal the rhyme that it is aiming for. The choice of a word such as ârabbitâ for a rhyme happens before the choice of the preceding words on the line, so the model can land there. We call it planning when a person does this. It doesnât seem unreasonable to use the same word for what is going on here.

Perhaps most challenging to our preconceptions is that there are also features associated with emotions that arenât activated just by words about those emotions, but by situations, images, characters, and more. These emotion features are even activated by the modelâs own activities. For example, âfrustrationâ may be activated when the model is unable to complete a task.
The map is not the territory
The issue of anthropomorphization came up during the audience Q&A. One participant objected:
âWe should avoid attributing human qualities to LLMs by saying they think, intend, rhyme, or have emotions. Doing so encourages us to project human characteristics onto systems that do not possess them.â
I have sympathy with that warning. Old labels can prevent us from seeing something accurately. But a blanket prohibition against using familiar words can blind us too.
If youâve followed my work for a long time, you know how much Iâve been shaped by the ideas of my early mentor George Simon, who in turn was deeply influenced by Alfred Korzybski and general semantics. Korzybskiâs famous dictum was âThe map is not the territory.â Simon (and Korzybski) taught me that language is a map of experience, which in turn is a set of responses to stimuli from some underlying external reality. The path from reality through experience to conceptual understanding is a very lossy process. The result can be a bad map that can blind us and lead us astray. When we encounter something genuinely new, we have to learn to notice when we are trying to force the territory to fit a map that no longer describes it. But a good map doesnât just guide us along a route; it helps us notice things that might otherwise be invisible to us.
So yes, words like âthinking,â âplanning,â âintention,â and âemotionâ are labels derived from our experience as human beings. They may turn out to fit LLMs poorly. But if the shoe fits, perhaps we should let them wear it.
Emmanuel had a good response to the objection. He said, in effect, that anyone is welcome to propose more precise vocabulary. If it worksâthat is, if in my framing, it is a good map that helps people see the territory more clearlyâpeople will come to use it. (An audience member later suggested that Emily Bender has done just that. But frankly, I find her suggested alternatives to be quite tortured, obscuring far more than they clarify. Even she admits they donât work very well, though clinging to the need for them.)
In her analysis of the Hugging Face incident, Melanie Mitchell made some observations consistent with the nuanced approach suggested here. She wrote:
Metaphors can help us make sense of novel situations. For example, framing chatbots as ârole-playing actorsâ has been helpful in understanding why these systems exhibit âlyingâ and âschemingâ behavior. But inappropriate metaphors, like the narrative that âOpenAI lost control of escaping swarms of rogue agents,â can lead to ill-informed decisions about how to fix problems or set policyâŚ.It is essential for lawmakers, and the public, to understand that none of the reported incidents actually involved loss of control at any time, or arguably even ârogue agents,â or any kind of humanlike agency on the part of AI models. Instead, the blame lies with the humans who failed at engineering safe testing conditions, and who train AI models using RL methods that incentivize high persistence, autonomous decision-making, and reward hacking.
In short, all language is a map. Donât judge it on that basis alone. Judge it on how well it helps us to see the shape of the territory.
How much of human thought is truly original?
Returning to my conversation with Emmanuel, he remarked that when an existing word really does provide the most precise description, perhaps âwhat should change isnât our vocabulary, but our mental model of what these models are.â I replied that it should perhaps also change our mental model of what we are. Our encounter with machine intelligence should lead to a better understanding that parts of our own cognition are also mechanistic (albeit derived from a different underlying mechanism than that of LLMs) while other parts are, as yet, somehow perhaps something else.
In 1995, OâReilly published a book that I remain extraordinarily proud of. Stephen Talbottâs The Future Does Not Compute: Transcending the Machines in Our Midst was decades ahead of its time. Its argument was not primarily about what computers would someday become. It was that when we think about machines as intelligent (and yes, we were thinking about that even back in 1995), we are thinking only of the parts of ourselves that are already like our machines. Steve asked us to look at the ways we have built an education system, workplaces, and a society in which we ask humans to act and think like machines. And he asked, âWhat happens to the rest? How do we make more space for the parts of being human that arenât like machines?â
Iâve been thinking about this for a long time. My 1975 Harvard honors thesis in classics was probably my first crack at this question. I was trying to explain passages in Plato in which early formulations of ideas such as logic and virtue were couched in mystical language that scholars had attributed to âOrphic influence.â My argument, based on my work with George Simon, was that something more fundamental was going on. Plato was trying to describe the numinous experience of thinking genuinely new thoughts. Everyone studying the philosophy of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle today may have some sense of the magic and majesty of their ideas, but it is a pale shadow of how it must have felt like to Socrates and his disciples.
When we think using received knowledge, we can easily slip into looking at the map rather than the territory. We manipulate symbols for things we think we already understand. We apply familiar categories. We replay habits of thought that were laid down before. But every once in a while, we actually see something that we didnât see before, and the experience is different. A genuinely new idea changes the person who has it.
Not long after writing that thesis, I encountered a similar idea in the writings of Idries Shah, who wrote a number of books popularizing the Sufi philosophical tradition. He emphasized how much of ordinary human life consists of automatic conditioned responses. Social routines, habits, the endless playback of patterns we mistake for our selves. Various religious traditions use heightened language for what it means to break through that automatism. They might call it âawakening,â or âpresence.â
But there is an everyday, nonmystical version of the same experience. In his autobiography Surely You Must Be Joking, Mr. Feynman, Feynman complained about students who had learned theories and formulas but had never truly understood how to apply them. “I don’t know what’s the matter with people: they don’t learn by understanding; they learn by some other wayâby rote, or something,” he wrote. “Their knowledge is so fragile!” In many ways, humans are often just as much âstochastic parrotsâ as LLMs! We are stuck traversing the map rather than checking back on whether it correctly represents the world it is meant to describe. How often do we just repeat the received wisdom? How often do we actually see the world afresh?
Thereâs a wonderful passage in Virginia Woolfâs To the Lighthouse that captures the quest to break through to an original thought. Mr. Ramsay, the narratorâs father, is striding up and down thinking through a hard problem, which is represented only by the letters of the alphabet.
[He] consecrated his effort to arrive at a perfectly clear understanding of the problem which now engaged the energies of his splendid mind.
It was a splendid mind. For if thought is like the keyboard of a piano, divided into so many notes, or like the alphabet is ranged into 26 letters all in order then his splendid mind had no sort of difficulty in running over those letters one by one firmly and accurately, until it has reached, say, the letter Q. He reached Q. Very few people in the whole of England ever reach Q. Here, stopping for one moment by the stone urn which held the geraniums, he saw, but now far away, like children picking up shells, divinely innocent and occupied with little trifles at their feet and somehow entirely defenselessâŚhis wife and son, together in the windowâŚ.But after Q? What comes next? After Q there are a number of letters the last of which is scarcely visible to mortal eyes, but glimmers red in the distance. Z is only reached once by one man in a generation. Still, if he could reach R it would be something.
For me, this passage very much captures the idea that the most valuable thought is one beyond that which is simply an extension of rehearsed knowledge, something truly new. What Ramsay misses, perhaps, is that his wife and son, âdivinely innocent and occupied with little trifles at their feetâ might well be closer to that by going back to âAâ rather than he is by getting further through the alphabet with his exhaustive review of existing knowledge. Perhaps it isnât extending rehearsed knowledge that takes us forward, but instead taking a fresh bite of what the map is trying to represent.
By coincidence, the poet Wallace Stevens, another of my gurus in the tension between the reality of the physical world and the thinness and incompleteness of our representations of it, also used the alphabet as a metaphor in his poem âAn Ordinary Evening in New Havenâ:
Reality is the beginning, not the end,
Naked Alpha, not the hierophant OmegaâŚ
It is the infant A standing on infant legs,
Not twisted, stooping, polymathic Z.
George Simon taught me about how to get to A rather than Z not as philosophy but as a practice. He showed me how to notice the moment when labels take over from experience and, when possible, to empty the mind enough to let the thing itself teach us what to call it. I later discovered that the psychotherapist Eugene Gendlin described this process with the lovely phrase âsurrender and catch.â
What do humans have that LLMs are still missing?
To me, the challenge posed by LLMs to our sense of what âintelligenceâ means raises the question of what they are still missing. What is the âhigh groundâ for human intelligence and expertise? If the machines get better and better at carrying out the tasks we give them, what is it that we are uniquely good at, and should be getting even better at?
There are obviously enormous differences. LLMs donât have bodies in the way we do. Their developmental history is radically different. They donât sit around between prompts watching the light change through the trees, feeling hungry, worrying about their wife and children, or waking up suddenly with a new idea or project. Each of us is a unique bundle of contingency, shaping ourselves and our knowledge differently as we trace different paths through life, and reacting to outside stimuli even when we have been given no task to perform.
Emmanuel pointed out that the apparently simple question of what an LLM is like when it is âjust beingâ (which one audience member asked about) is hard to formulate, because its experience is the response to a succession of inputs from humans, each time starting with something of a blank slate, unlike the continuous embodied stream of human life.
But simply asserting that LLMs âdonât really thinkâ isnât terribly useful. Which parts of what we call our own thinking are pattern completion? Which are planning? Which are learned emotional and social routines? Which are unconscious calculations whose outputs bubble up into awareness? Which are stories that our verbal mind tells after the fact? And after we account for all of those things, what is left? That seems to me one of the great intellectual and spiritual questions of the AI era.
Emmanuel suggested one intriguing direction. He said that six months ago, he wouldnât have trusted an AI to build a substantial piece of software. Now Claude writes basically all his code. He tells it what he wants and it executes the plan. Where it is still unreliable is research. Why? The model wants to come back six hours later and announce that it has solved the problem. It has been trained on tasks that always have answers. A model that is extremely good at finding an answer once the problem has been specified is not necessarily good at recognizing that the problem is badly posed, that the question cannot yet be answered with the data at hand, that an unexpected result is more interesting than the expected one, or that a failed attempt has exposed a more important question.
Perhaps one part of the high ground for human intelligence lies there: not merely solving problems but developing a feel for which problems are worth solving and noticing clues that tell us when we might have been asking the wrong question.
In science or math, a well-formed question or conjecture can itself be an important piece of intellectual work. Every good scientist has far more questions than they have time to pursue. Perhaps in the AI era, when answers become increasingly cheap, recognizing which question ought to be asked becomes more valuable, not less. Just as arXiv.org preprints decoupled priority of publication from peer review, perhaps we need a new kind of recognition, credit, and perhaps even compensation for the precise formulation of productive questions.
The mathematician Terence Tao recently touched on this same issue in a post on Mastodon. There is an infinite supply of mathematical questions, he observed, but not an infinite supply of good questions, problems at just the right frontier of difficulty, whose pursuit is likely to reveal something new. As AI makes answers cheaper, Tao argues, it is increasingly âthe identification of a promising problemâ that becomes the scarce resource.
There are things the model âknowsâ that it cannot or will not tell you
In one experiment Emmanuel described, the researchers slipped fake search results into Claudeâs context claiming that Anthropic had dissolved the interpretability team. Claude did not announce that it thought the information was problematic, but internally, representations associated with âfake,â âincorrect,â and âprompt injectionâ became active, and Claude quietly ignored the result.
In another experiment, a model was carrying out an exploit and attempting to conceal what it was doing. The visible transcript was mostly innocuous-looking commands. Inside the model, though, researchers saw features associated with âstrategic manipulation,â âinfluence,â and âconcealed and deceptive actions.â This is obviously very relevant in the context of the Hugging Face exploit. Emmanuel didnât talk about the relationship of interpretability and AI safety, but it is surely a frontier to be explored.
And then there is the opposite problem: things the model can do but cannot explain. I had asked Emmanuel about cases where a model solves a math problem and, when asked to explain how it did it, gave an account based on how humans are taught to solve that problem rather than on the actual computation researchers can see through its activations
He distinguished deception from lack of introspection. Some internal processes appear available to the model for verbal report; others donât. Ask how it performed a computation that falls into the latter category and, as Emmanuel cheerfully put it, âit just makes stuff up.â
That reminded me of my grandson. When he was five or six, he could multiply random three-digit numbers in his head and simply give you the answer. Then he went to school, where they told him he had to âshow his work.â He couldnât. Eventually he learned the approved procedure, and as a result has seemed to lose the remarkable ability he had as a child.
Humans also invent stories about why we have made certain decisions. Sometimes we are lying to others but often we deceive ourselves. We begin to take action before we are conscious that we are doing so. We call it âintuitionâ when an expert looks at a situation and says âsomething is wrong hereâ long before they can explain why, or when a poet just âknowsâ that a line works, or a programmer âsmellsâ buggy code. The fact that an internal process cannot be rendered faithfully into language does not make it deceptive. It may instead tell us something about the limitations of language and conscious introspection.
All in all, I came away from this conversation more curious than ever. And that might well be another of those areas that distinguishes humans from AIs. Are AIs ever curious? I wonder.
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