I reserve the right to be wrong. But I’m rarely wrong.
Last week I wrote about that line and the certainty underneath it.
A right is something you can invoke.
You keep it ready for when you need it.
So I went looking for the moment.
I went back to the voices that see differently than I do.
Cal Newport, the one I’d stopped at, wrote this week that it’s time to investigate the AI labs.
Then two panels of experts, on Chris Williamson’s Modern Wisdom and Steven Bartlett’s The Diary of a CEO, debated where all of this is headed.
The same evidence I’ve been reading.
Different conclusions.
With Newport, I read every word. His case: the labs have been telling their own story long enough, and Congress should start asking what’s really going on. I didn’t agree. I didn’t disagree. I drifted. A few paragraphs in, I was arguing about whether Congress could ever be the one to find out.
On the panels, every voice made a compelling case. I could feel the pull toward whoever was talking.
The confidence. The credentials. The clean story about the future.
That pull is seductive. Being moved feels a lot like being persuaded.
Each of them has something riding on being right. Money. Reputation. A name attached to a prediction.
An ego that wants the future to say yes.
So do I.
That’s where Newport caught me. Underneath his case was a simple complaint: the labs grade their own work, and someone else needs to check it. He was writing about AI labs.
He was describing me.
And I’d just spent a few paragraphs rejecting his referee. So who gets to referee me?
What I’m building for after the day job leans on my read of where this is going.
I’ve been grading my own paper and calling it curiosity.
On Thursday I had lunch with a few people who do the work I do. Each of us is a voice in our own organization, helping shape what gets adopted and how. Someone asked the table what we were all doing about AI.
I don’t think any of us at that table really knows what to think right now. Myself included. And every one of us carries what we say back into a room full of people listening.
A couple of voices answered. I couldn’t have disagreed more.
I went in meaning to listen. So I sat on every urge to answer and tried the question on myself. What would change my mind?
The answer came back in seconds. Nothing I was hearing.
My position was too far from theirs.
I’m still not sure whether the silence after that was listening or just waiting my turn.
One of them argued that AI strips out the cognitive friction real learning depends on. I agree that friction matters. I just think AI can create it as easily as remove it.
Later, he was stuck on a project. The vendor wanted him to sit through training videos. All he wanted was the answer.
His own argument, pointed at himself. He didn’t see it.
I couldn’t resist. What happened to the cognitive friction?
He smirked. So did I.
I’d like to say I was only curious. It was both.
I’d kept my position to myself the whole meal. When he slipped, it found its way out. My point, dressed as a question about his.
I spotted his in seconds. Across the table, it was obvious.
Then it turned around on me.
Why is it so clear across the table and so hard to see in the mirror?
I’ve always thought of myself as clear and principled.
I’ve been told I’m stubborn.
So I asked the question again. Slower this time.
What would it take to change my mind about AI?
I tried.
I took one of last week’s what-ifs. What if it doesn’t get much better than it is today?
My first answer came fast. There’s no evidence of that. The labs are racing each other to ship the best model every few weeks.
Then I caught it.
I tried to name what would change my mind, and I answered with why I’m right.
I tried again. How long can a run like this last?
I don’t know. Nobody does.
That was as close as I got.
Maybe that’s fair.
Some judgments get built from a thousand small signals, and you don’t know which one tips the scale until it lands.
What it showed me was smaller and harder to sit with.
I had been treating my willingness to be wrong as proof that I was open.
I’d never worked out what wrong would look like.
The right was reserved.
The conditions for invoking it were blank.
I’ve given the lecture on open minds for years.
This week I finally sat in the audience.
Calling someone else closed-minded takes one sentence. I’ve said it across plenty of tables.
Aiming it at myself took a different question.
Am I open? I’d answer yes every time.
What would it take to change my mind? That one asks me to point at the door.
I still reserve the right to be wrong.
What would it take to change my mind?
I don’t know yet.
Now I have a question to bring back when certainty wants to end the debate.