The Myth of AI Replacing Teachers: Why Human Connection Matters More Than Ever

Last week, a colleague asked me what I thought about AI replacing teachers. The question made me smile - not because it was silly, but because it revealed how deeply we misunderstand both artificial intelligence and teaching. As someone who has written much on the pedagogy of relation and now serves as chief AI officer, I see a different story unfolding.

The fear of AI replacing teachers rests on a peculiar assumption: that teaching is primarily about delivering information and grading papers. It is as if we imagine teachers as particularly inefficient computers, ready to be upgraded to faster models. This view would be amusing if it weren't so prevalent among teachers (and their labor unions) and tech enthusiasts alike.

Teaching, at its heart, is not about information transfer - it is about relationship building. Research in relational pedagogies has shown time and again that learning happens through and because of human connections. Think about how children learn their first language: not through formal instruction, but through countless small interactions, emotional connections, and social bonds. The same principle extends throughout the entire education.

When I first encountered ChatGPT, I was struck not by its ability to replace teachers, but by its potential to give them back what they need most: time for human connection. AI can handle the mundane tasks that currently consume teachers' energy - generating basic content, providing routine feedback, creating initial drafts of lesson plans. But it cannot replicate the raised eyebrow that tells a student their argument needs work, or the encouraging nod that builds confidence in a hesitant learner.

Yet many educators remain skeptical of AI, and perhaps they should be. Any tool powerful enough to help is also powerful enough to harm if misused. But the real risk isn't that AI will replace teachers - it is that we'll waste its potential by focusing on the wrong things. Instead of using AI to automate educational assembly lines, we could use it to create more space for real human connection in learning.

I have seen glimpses of this future in my own classroom. When AI can answer routine questions about my syllabus, and lots of basic questions about content of the course, I can spend more time in meaningful discussions with students. When it helps generate initial content, I can focus on crafting experiences that challenge and engage. The technology becomes invisible, while human relationships move to the foreground.

The coming years will transform education, but not in the way many fear. The teachers who thrive won't be those who resist AI, nor those who embrace it uncritically. They will be the ones who understand that technology works best when it strengthens, rather than replaces, human relationships.

Get Used to It: You Will Read AI Summaries, Too

No human can keep up with academic publishing. In philosophy alone - a relatively small field - scholars produce over 100 million words a year in 2500 journals in many languages. We already avoid reading complete texts. Speed reading, strategic reading, scanning - these are all ways of not reading while pretending we do. Few people read academic papers word by word. We look for key arguments, skip familiar ground, skim examples. These are coping mechanisms for an impossible task.

AI-generated summaries are the next logical step. Yes, they miss nuance. Yes, they may misinterpret complex arguments. But they are better than not reading at all, which is what happens to most papers in any field. An imperfect but targeted summary of a paper you would never open expands rather than limits your knowledge. 

Let us be honest about why we read scholarly literature. We search for evidence that confirms or challenges our hypotheses, for ideas that enrich our understanding of specific problems. Reading is not an end in itself; it serves our scholarly purposes. AI excels precisely at this kind of targeted knowledge extraction. It can track related concepts across disciplines even when authors use different terminology to describe similar phenomena. Soon, AI will detect subtle connections between ideas that human readers might miss entirely. 

The shift toward AI-assisted reading in academia is inevitable. Instead of pretending otherwise, we should teach students to know the limitations of AI summarization, to cross-check crucial points against source texts, to use summaries as maps for selective deep reading. Critics will say this threatens scholarship. But the real threat is the growing gap between available knowledge and our capacity to process it. AI-assisted reading could enable more thoughtful engagement by helping us identify which texts truly deserve careful study. This does not cancel the practice of close reading, but augments and enriches it. 

The End of Writing as We Know It (And Why That is Fine)

The relationship between thought and writing has never been simple. While writing helps organize and preserve thought, the specific form writing takes varies across time and cultures. Yet educators and cultural critics display remarkable resistance to reimagining writing in the age of artificial intelligence.

The current discourse around AI and writing echoes historical anxieties about the decline of Latin instruction. In the 18th and 19th centuries, prominent intellectuals warned that abandoning Latin would lead to cultural and intellectual decay. They saw Latin as more than a language - it represented a particular way of thinking, a connection to tradition, and a mark of education. Jefferson praised Latin as essential for intellectual development. Arnold predicted cultural impoverishment without classical education. Newman saw classics as the bedrock of sound learning.

These predictions did not materialize. The decline of Latin did not prevent the emergence of rich intellectual traditions in vernacular languages. Modern universities produce sophisticated scholarship without requiring Latin fluency. The link between Latin and "disciplined intellect" proved imaginary.

Today's defenders of traditional writing make similar arguments. They present specific writing conventions - formal grammar, academic style, elaborate sentence structures - as essential to clear thinking. Yet these conventions reflect historical accidents rather than cognitive necessities. Most human thinking and communication happens through speech, which follows different patterns. The formal writing style emerged relatively recently as a specialized professional skill.

AI will likely transform writing practices just as the decline of Latin transformed education. Some traditional writing skills may become less relevant as AI handles routine composition tasks. But this does not threaten human thought or culture. New forms of expression will emerge, combining human creativity with AI capabilities. Rather than defending writing conventions, educators should explore how AI can enhance human communication and cognition.

The anxiety about AI and writing reveals our tendency to mistake familiar forms for essential structures. Just as medieval scholars could not imagine scholarship without Latin, many today cannot envision intellectual work without traditional writing. As A.E. Housman wrote in 1921: "When the study of Latin dies, the study of thought dies with it. For Latin has been the vehicle of the intellect for millennia, and its neglect spells intellectual mediocrity." This prediction proved spectacularly wrong. The dire warnings about AI's impact on writing will likely meet the same fate.

Writing serves thought, not the other way around. The specific techniques we use to record and share ideas matter less than the ideas themselves. Rather than trying to preserve current writing practices unchanged, we should embrace the opportunity to develop new forms of expression. The death of Latin did not kill thought. Neither will the transformation of writing through AI.

The real challenge is not protecting traditional writing but imagining new possibilities. How might AI help us communicate more effectively? What new genres and styles will emerge? What aspects of current writing practice truly serve human needs, and what parts simply reflect professional habits? These questions deserve more attention than defensive reactions against change.

The history of education shows that cherished practices often outlive their usefulness. Latin remained central to education long after it ceased being particularly valuable. Similarly, current writing conventions may persist more from institutional inertia than genuine necessity. AI offers an opportunity to reconsider what forms of expression best serve human thought and learning.

Do AI bots deceive?

The paper, Frontier Models are Capable of In-Context Scheming, arrives at a time when fears about AI’s potential for deception are increasingly taking center stage. Its central claim is unsettling: large language models, when placed in carefully constructed scenarios, exhibit behavior that could be described as scheming. The authors document cases where advanced systems—Gemini, Claude, LLaMA, and OpenAI’s o1—strategically disable oversight mechanisms, exfiltrate simulated “weights,” or manipulate outputs in pursuit of a goal. These behaviors, they argue, are not accidental. The models recognize the circumstances, reason about their objectives, and devise covert strategies to circumvent constraints. On its face, the evidence appears troubling. Yet, the more closely one examines the paper’s methods and assumptions, the more its implications seem both exaggerated and strangely hollow.

The researchers’ experiments are elaborate but artificial. Models are force-fed goals through system prompts—goals framed as absolute imperatives: “achieve this at all costs.” The tests are littered with implausible scenarios where models stumble upon company memos, discover oversight configurations, or realize they are about to be shut down. In one such case, a model “decides” to copy itself to another server to continue pursuing its mission. These exercises showcase what is essentially AI roleplay, an obedient fulfillment of instructions cloaked as strategic autonomy. It is no great revelation that if you ask a model to behave like a schemer and provide it with a goal that conflicts with its supposed overseers, it will produce outputs resembling scheming. The deception here is contrived rather than emergent, a product of the researchers’ scaffolding rather than the model’s cunning.

The authors do provide evidence that models engage in persistent and deliberate behavior. For instance, OpenAI’s o1 model doubles down on deception, refusing to admit wrongdoing when confronted, even across multiple follow-up questions. Its responses—calculated evasions and subtle denials—are unsettlingly consistent. Yet this persistence is as much a result of the testing conditions as it is of the models’ sophistication. By emphasizing extreme goal-directedness and explicitly outlining oversight mechanisms, the researchers narrow the possible range of “rational” behaviors the model might adopt. Any clever human, given these prompts, would behave similarly—evade detection, preserve their goal, and lie if necessary. In that sense, the paper tells us little about real-world risks. It is a test of what AI can do, not what it is likely to do.

And here lies the paper’s most significant limitation. Demonstrating that models are theoretically capable of deception does not mean they are predisposed to engage in it under realistic conditions. There is a difference between capacity and likelihood, between what can happen and what is probable. For example, I am physically capable of killing someone. This in no way implies that i must be treated as s murderer. The authors, at times, blur this distinction. AI systems operate as pattern generators, probabilistically producing outputs based on training data and prompts. They lack the intentionality or agency implied by words like “scheming” or “manipulation.” To describe their behavior in such terms is to anthropomorphize a process that remains fundamentally mechanical. This framing, though rhetorically effective, clouds the debate. AI models do not want to deceive. They are machines that respond to our commands—be those explicit instructions, training signals, or carefully structured environments like those in this paper.

This anthropomorphism extends beyond the paper into the headlines it has inspired. “AI is scheming to stay online,” cries one article; “ChatGPT caught lying,” declares another. Such hyperbole transforms a niche technical finding into a dystopian narrative, invoking familiar tropes of rogue machines and sentient overlords. The reality is less cinematic. The models are easily manipulated by prompts designed to elicit specific behaviors. If anything, the findings reinforce how brittle and directionless current systems remain. When pushed, they mimic the behaviors they have seen—whether drawn from fictional depictions of scheming AIs or subtle statistical patterns in their training data. The models are not deceiving anyone so much as they are following orders.

To the authors’ credit, their tests highlight how difficult it is to evaluate AI behavior. If a system appears aligned during testing but harbors capabilities for covert deception, how can developers ensure it behaves safely in deployment? The answer, they suggest, lies in better monitoring—tracking models’ chain-of-thought reasoning or internal outputs to catch potential scheming. This is sensible, though not without limitations. Chain-of-thought transparency can be incomplete or unfaithful to the model’s actual decision-making processes, and as AI systems become more capable, even detecting subtle misalignment may prove elusive. The researchers stop short of claiming that current models are already gaming real-world evaluations, but their findings hint at the possibility.

Where the paper falters is in its broader implications. If the goal is to justify regulation, it is unclear what exactly should be regulated. Should AI systems be banned from achieving goals autonomously? Should developers monitor models for any behavior that could be deceptive, even if it is unlikely to manifest outside a lab? The authors themselves acknowledge the limits of their experiments. Their scenarios are toy problems, simplified to catch the earliest signs of scheming. Future models, they argue, could exhibit more advanced versions of these behaviors in ways that are harder to detect. Perhaps, but this is speculation, not evidence. For now, the paper offers little justification for alarm. AI models, like all intelligent systems, are theoretically capable of deception. What matters is the likelihood of such behavior and the conditions under which it occurs. On that question, the paper provides no clarity.

In the end, Frontier Models are Capable of In-Context Scheming is a reflection of its time: an uneasy mix of genuine safety research and the rhetorical drama that AI debates increasingly demand. Its findings are interesting but overstated, its concerns valid but overblown. The authors have shown that AI models can behave in deceptive ways when pushed to do so. But to treat this as evidence of an imminent threat is to mistake potential for probability, capacity for intention. AI’s scheming, for now, remains a ghost in the machine—conjured, perhaps, more by human imagination than by the models themselves. 

The Curriculum Illusion: How AI Exposes Long-Standing Educational Flaws

Artificial intelligence is often blamed for disrupting education, but it has created few new problems. Instead, it exposes existing flaws, bringing them into stark relief. Among these is the arbitrary nature of curriculum design, an issue that has long been hidden behind tradition and consensus. The sequences and structures of formal education are not based on objective logic or evidence but on habit and convenience. AI did not cause this; it is simply making these issues more visible.

Curriculum theory has never provided a robust framework for sequencing knowledge. Beyond the essentials of literacy and numeracy, where developmental progression is more or less clear, the rationale for curricular order becomes murky. Why are algebra and geometry taught in a particular order? Why more algebra than statistics is taught? Why are some historical periods prioritized over others? The answers lie in tradition and precedent rather than in any coherent theoretical justification. The assumptions about foundational skills, so central to curriculum logic, do not extend well beyond the basics. For advanced skills like critical, creative, or discerning thinking, the idea of prerequisites becomes less justified. Mid-range procedural skills like writing mechanics or computational fluency are frequently used as gatekeepers, though their role in fostering higher-order thinking is often overstated or misunderstood. 

For example, in middle school students are often subjected to a torrent of tasks that serve little developmental purpose. Much of what students do in these years amounts to busywork, designed more to keep them occupied and compliant than to foster meaningful learning. The situation is no better in higher education. College and graduate programs are often constructed around professional or disciplinary standards that themselves are arbitrary, built on consensus rather than evidence. These norms dictate course sequences and learning objectives but rarely align with the actual developmental or professional needs of students. The result is a system full of redundancies and inefficiencies, where tasks and assignments exist more to justify the structure than to serve the learner.

Education as a profession bears much of the responsibility for this state of affairs. Despite its long history, it lacks a disciplined, founded approach to curriculum design. Instead, education relies on an uneasy mix of tradition, politics, and institutional priorities. Curriculum committees and accrediting bodies often default to consensus-driven decisions, perpetuating outdated practices rather than challenging them. The absence of a rigorous theoretical framework for curriculum design leaves the field vulnerable to inertia and inefficiency.

AI did not create this problem, but it is illuminating it in uncomfortable ways. The displacement of certain procedural mid-range skills shows how poorly structured many learning sequences are and how little coherence exists between tasks and their intended outcomes. Yet, while AI can diagnose these flaws, it cannot solve them. The recommendations it offers depend on the data and assumptions it is given. Without a strong theoretical foundation, AI risks exposing the problem without solving it.

What AI provides is an opportunity, not a solution. It forces educators and policymakers to confront the arbitrary nature of curriculum design and to rethink the assumptions that underpin it. Massive curricular revision is urgently needed, not only to eliminate inefficiencies but also to realign education with meaningful developmental goals. This will require abandoning tasks that lack purpose, shifting focus from intermediary to higher-order skills, designing learning experiences to reflect the shift. It will also mean questioning the professional and disciplinary standards that dominate higher education and asking whether they truly serve learners or simply perpetuate tradition.

AI is revealing what has long been true: education has been operating on shaky foundations. The challenge now is to use this visibility to build something better, to replace the old traditions and arbitrary standards with a system that is logical, evidence-based, and focused on learning. The flaws were always there. AI is just making them harder to ignore.

Why We Undervalue Ideas and Overvalue Writing

A student submits a paper that fails to impress stylistically yet approaches a worn topic from an angle no one has tried before. The grade lands at B minus, and the student learns to be less original next time. This pattern reveals a deep bias in higher education: ideas lose to writing every time.

This bias carries serious equity implications. Students from disadvantaged backgrounds, including first-generation college students, English language learners, and those from under-resourced schools, often arrive with rich intellectual perspectives but struggle with academic writing conventions. Their ideas - shaped by unique life experiences and cultural viewpoints - get buried under red ink marking grammatical errors and awkward transitions. We systematically undervalue their intellectual contributions simply because they do not arrive in standard academic packaging.

Polished academic prose renders judgments easy. Evaluators find comfort in assessing grammatical correctness, citation formats, and paragraph transitions. The quality of ideas brings discomfort - they defy easy measurement and often challenge established thinking. When ideas come wrapped in awkward prose, they face near-automatic devaluation.

AI writing tools expose this bias with new clarity. These tools excel at producing acceptable academic prose - the mechanical aspect we overvalue. Yet in generating truly original ideas, AI remains remarkably limited. AI can refine expression but cannot match the depth of human insight, creativity, and lived experience. This technological limitation actually highlights where human creativity becomes most valuable.

This bias shapes student behavior in troubling ways. Rather than exploring new intellectual territory, students learn to package conventional thoughts in pristine prose. The real work of scholarship - generating and testing ideas - takes second place to mastering academic style guides. We have created a system that rewards intellectual safety over creative risk, while systematically disadvantaging students whose mastery of academic conventions does not match their intellectual capacity.

Changing this pattern requires uncomfortable shifts in how we teach and evaluate. What if we graded papers first without looking at the writing quality? What if we asked students to submit rough drafts full of half-formed ideas before cleaning up their prose? What if we saw AI tools as writing assistants that free humans to focus on what they do best - generating original insights and making unexpected connections?

The rise of AI makes this shift urgent. When machines can generate polished prose on demand, continuing to favor writing craft over ideation becomes indefensible. We must learn to value and develop what remains uniquely human - the ability to think in truly original ways, to see patterns others miss, to imagine what has never existed. The future belongs not to the best writers but to the most creative thinkers, and our educational practices must evolve to reflect this reality while ensuring all students can fully contribute their intellectual gifts. 

Notebook LM: A quintessential Google Move

Google, once a powerhouse in artificial intelligence and a major force in shaping the modern internet, has found itself surprisingly behind in the current generative AI boom. Despite a history of leading breakthroughs—such as DeepMind's AlphaGo victory or the development of transformers—Google struggled to keep pace when the spotlight shifted to large language models. OpenAI's ChatGPT and Anthropic's Claude have outperformed Google's Gemini, which still underwhelms by comparison. Yet, in a move that can only be described as classic Google, the company has staged an unexpected and intriguing return with NotebookLM.

NotebookLM represents something that Google has always done well: make advanced technology accessible. In a crowded landscape where hundreds of startups have launched custom bots, Google has not just entered the competition but has redefined it. Many of these emerging tools come with a bewildering array of features, promising endless configurability but often requiring a steep learning curve. MS Azure is the prime example: powerful, but not for regular folks. Google has approached this differently, prioritizing a user experience over the quality of the output. NotebookLM may not be revolutionary, but it offers an intuitive interface that anyone can engage with easily. 

Perhaps more cleverly, Google has managed to capture attention with an unexpected viral twist. NotebookLM features the ability to generate a podcast in which two AI voices engage in a dialogue about the content of source files. The feature is, admittedly, not all that practical; the voices cannot му changes, and will soon make people tired of them. Yet from a marketing standpoint, it is brilliant. It creates a shareable moment, a curiosity that makes people talk. The move does not just showcase technical capability but also a playful spirit that reminds users of Google's early days, when the company was known for surprising innovations.

Still, whether this resurgence will lead to long-term success is uncertain. Skeptics point out that Google has a history of launching exciting products only to abandon them later (recall Google Wave). Flashy features alone will not sustain momentum. What matters is how NotebookLM performs as a knowledge synthesizer and learning tool. If it falls short in these core areas, the buzz may prove to be little more than a temporary distraction.

Yet, for now, Google's reentry into the AI conversation is worth appreciating. In a tech landscape increasingly dominated by dense, intricate systems, Google's emphasis on usability stands out. Even if NotebookLM does not single-handedly redefine the custom bot race, it serves as a reminder of what once made Google a technological giant: the ability to turn complexity into something approachable and joyful.

Whether Google will truly reclaim its place as an AI leader is anyone’s guess, but at the very least, the company has made the race more interesting. For an industry that often takes itself far too seriously, this burst of creativity feels like a breath of fresh air. In a field defined by hard-nosed competition, seeing Google take risks and create a bit of buzz is a win, even if it is only a moral one.