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Issue 3.04 | Apr 1995

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What's It Mean to Be Human, Anyway?

Charles Platt reports on the latest battle to determine the most human computer, even as he worries that he may be the least human human.

By Charles Platt

Archive Category:
Robots & AI

Robert Epstein is giving us all a pep talk. "You must work very hard to convince the judges that you're human," he tells us. "You shouldn't have any trouble doing that - because you are human."

A droll fellow, this Epstein. He wears Dr. Martens boots, black jeans, a black shirt, a Mickey Mouse tie, and an earring. His longish hair is brushed straight back and flips up over his collar. Five of us are listening to him in a beige conference room on the brand-new campus of California State University at San Marcos, near San Diego. Soon we will be put in front of computer terminals, where we will follow Epstein's instructions and, yes, do our best to seem human.

Our purpose is to find out whether 10 judges can tell the difference between humans and artificial-intelligence programs, when they are online at the same time. The people and the programs will be ranked in order of humanness; the program that scores highest will win its author US$2,000.

The inspiration for this event dates back to the earliest days of computing. In 1950, pioneer Alan Turing proposed that if a computer could successfully impersonate a human being during a free-form exchange of text messages, then for all practical purposes, the computer should be considered intelligent.

This soon became known as the "Turing test," and it sparked endless academic debate. Could a computer use trickery to emulate human responses without being intelligent? What did "intelligence" really mean, anyway?

The debate was never resolved because, oddly enough, no one ran the experiment until 1991, when a maverick named Hugh Loebner decided to underwrite it with his own money. Loebner offered $100,000 to the first person who could devise a program that would fool 10 judges during three hours of unrestricted conversation.

This was way beyond current capabilities, so Loebner also set up an annual $2,000 prize for the program that seemed most nearly human. And to make things even easier, he allowed each programmer to choose just one topic for conversation.

So here I am at the fourth Loebner contest, sitting and listening to Robert Epstein, the director of the annual event. (Loebner participates mainly as an observer.) In experimental jargon, my companions and I are known as "confederates," because we'll be collaborating with Epstein in our efforts to fool the judges. We must try to seem as human as possible so the computers will have a standard to compete with.

Epstein is a behavioral psychologist who got his doctorate under B. F. Skinner. So, naturally enough, he has invented a tricky little system of rewards and punishments for us. "You are in competition not only with the programs, but with each other," he tells us. "One of you will be presented with an award for most human human. And one of you will be ranked the least human human." He smiles deviously. "Your colleagues may mention this in the media."

Hmm. As I think about it, I realize that I definitely do not want to be written up in the national press as the least human participant in an artificial intelligence contest. I'm going to do whatever it takes to seem totally, 100 percent human when we start chatting online.

But this raises some weird questions. I am human, so why should I need to fake it? Is it possible for me to seem more human than I really am? And if so, what's the best strategy?

This kind of speculation probably isn't a good idea, because it raises more questions than it answers, and I'm liable to find myself paralyzed by self-conscious introspection. In other words, if I try to seem more human, I'll end up seeming less human.

I glance around at the other four confederates. None of them seems to be bothered by this kind self-analysis. The young woman nearest me is a journalist named Linda Tontini who writes for a local newspaper about city-hall politics. She seems friendly, spontaneous, outgoing - the absolute antithesis of "computer geek." As I watch her chatting cheerfully, I think that she can't fail to win the "most human human" award.

As for me, I fear the worst.

After our briefing, I'm introduced to Hugh Loebner. He's an affable character, slightly overweight, smiling benevolently at the world from behind a gray beard and oval wire-framed glasses. He talks quickly, with pedantic precision. I ask him why he's willing to pledge $100,000 for a piece of smart software. Is it all his own money?

"My father passed away and left me, not rich, but with some discretionary income," he says. "And I have my own business, Crown Industries - we make roll-up plastic lighted portable disco dance floors." He smiles and shrugs as if he knows it sounds odd but doesn't care.

Charles Platt (cp@panix.com), a science fiction writer, is a frequent contributor to Wired. He wrote "Satellite Pirates" for Wired 2.08.

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