Before my father died, I tailored an AI for him.

AI itself doesn't inherently define whether it's good or bad—it’s all about how the people behind it decide to use it. This is why it isn’t surprising that Zuckerberg and Kai-Fu Lee recently criticized Musk's "Apocalyptic AI" theory. After all, someone can use this technology for something significant. In 2016, James Vlahos, the father of Wired magazine's founder, was diagnosed with lung cancer late in life. Determined to leave a lasting legacy, James recorded over 90,000 words with his family’s help, creating a chatbot named Dadbot in his likeness. Throughout the entire process, James experienced an emotional struggle. Yet, it was bittersweet when a robot bearing his father’s essence emerged—even before his father’s passing. If one day, someone close to you suggested using AI to replicate you for a specific purpose, would you seriously consider it? For me, I would, despite feeling fear and mixed emotions. Originally published in Wired, titled “A Son’s Race to Give His Dying Father Artificial Immortality.” --- “Everything is ready… Please speak to Mr. John James Vlahos.” Holding the recording equipment, I began my introduction. At first, though he tried to sound vigorous, his voice faltered as he struggled through his throat and finally managed to blurt out a somewhat muffled “Mr.” My emotions steadied. The man called “Mr.” was my 80-year-old father. In early May, we sat in the same bedroom where he and my mother had shared countless moments over decades. Twenty years ago, it was here that he calmly forgave me for trying to "steal" the car; today, here, I sat in the same chair. He lay halfway down on a rose-colored sofa. I was in my prime, while he was battling the fourth phase of lung cancer, which had spread to his liver, bones, and brain. Death was near. Recording Life On the first day, I froze, unsure how to proceed. Prepared in advance, my father handed me a note with an outline written in bold letters: - Family history - Family - Education - Cause - Leisure time “You want to…pick one and remember it?” I joked. “I guess I want to come,” he said, visibly moved. “Speaking from the beginning, my mother was born in Kehries Village, Evia Island, Greece…” His speech began this way. This memory was later carried out more than ten times, each session lasting at least an hour. In the silent operation of the recorder, my father’s memories flowed like water. Adventures in childhood caves, college struggles, romances with my mother, theater experiences, and his rich life as a broadcaster, singer, and lawyer all surfaced. Of course, he didn’t miss the jokes I’d heard hundreds of times, but this time, there were more fascinating details I hadn’t heard before. Three months later, my younger brother Jonathan joined in the final recording session. It was a sunny, warm afternoon on a mountain. We three sat together on the terrace. Jonathan shared his father’s quirky memories, laughing at them, and when the music stopped, his voice swelled: “I will…that…has been very, very admired you.” He said, tears streaming down his face, “You will always be with me.” After hearing this, my father, an old man still witty despite his illness, seemed touched. But he couldn’t resist lightening the mood, saying, “Good idea, ‘ring’ had to be a little ‘deafening.’” In the laughter, I pressed the stop button. In the end, I recorded 91,970 words for my father. Converted into text, it amounted to 200 full pages. Middle Document: “Father’s Oral History” But what I wanted wasn’t just recordings. I initially intended to preserve these recordings in black and white, but when I placed a thick stack of text on the shelf, a sudden realization struck me: I wanted my father to live forever. In 1982, when I was 11, I encountered Eliza, an early-generation chatbot. By chance, I was captivated by it, even developing a parody called The Dark Mansion. Years later, as a reporter for The New York Times, I met Oren Jacobs, CEO of Pull String, the company behind Hello Barbie. Jacobs expressed ambitious goals: “We can’t stop at entertainment… We hope to use technology to enable dialogues with virtual characters, like Buzz Lightyear, and even with historical figures who have passed.” At the end of April 2016, just days after my father received his diagnosis, Pull String announced it would open-source its software. Initially, I didn’t pay much attention to the news, busy with my eight sisters. But when I returned to the bookshelf, all my AI-related experiences and old news came flooding back. Yes, I decided to use these 9,970 words as raw material to create Dadbot, allowing it to live in place of my father—a fantasy, perhaps. And how easy it is to be human! After weighing the pros and cons, I realized: to do this, I was essentially sentencing myself. First, while rushing to substitute products, I watched my real father approach death. This painful process weighed heavily on me. Second, I knew I would write the entire experience as an article—both disheartening and guilt-inducing. Most importantly, I feared that this creation would devalue my memories and make our father-son relationship seem cheap. So, how did I feel in the early days? One August day, I finally confided the entire plan to my family. After explaining what a “chatbot” was and Dadbot’s future role, I turned to my father: “Does this feel right?” He no longer shrugged his shoulders, but agreed. This once-optimistic, joyful man, whose brain was gradually consumed by the illusion of terminal illness, gave consent that felt like approval to feed the dog. As for the reactions of other family members, they were more positive. After learning my intentions, my mother said, “This idea is good.” My sister Jennifer lamented not being involved in her father’s recording. My younger brother understood my concerns but also said, “It’s not a big deal, and he’s already imagining Dadbot.” Thus, it was settled. If anyone was to perpetuate the body of numbers, I hoped it would be my father. For the first time in my life, I outlined my father in 141 words—not many, but enough from a son’s perspective. He was a descendant of Greek immigrants, a managing partner at a San Francisco law firm, a language enthusiast…an unselfish husband and father. I wanted to encapsulate all of this into his digital avatar, Dadbot, so it could “remember” him and bring him back to life. But it all began with teaching. I started with Pull String’s tools, typing the first line as the Enabler: “How are you doing today?” Watching the yellow cursor flash across the screen, I knew this sentence had entered Dadbot’s “mind.” Then, I envisioned possible human responses and taught Dadbot one-on-one replies. For example, if the user answered “Great,” Dadbot would respond, “I’m glad to hear you say so.” If the user said “Feels messy today,” Dadbot would reply, “Life will be like this.” This first lesson was complete, and a robot capable of speaking three words was born. Of course, I knew this was just the beginning. A chatbot needs tens of thousands of human-computer interactions to grow. During this process, trainers must strictly adhere to linguistic laws, breaking down sentences and refining the bot, allowing it to use existing logic systems to summarize patterns. Trainers should also study feedback to correct errors and deepen dialogue complexity. Once trained to a certain stage, the bot can develop a more mature semantic judgment system. With continuous human intervention, the bot becomes smarter. For me, these were still abstract ideas. Don’t forget, my ultimate goal wasn’t just to teach Dadbot to “say the right things.” I wanted everyone who spoke to it to capture my father’s unique tone, past, and personality traits—and that’s when I’d be done. From Coarse to Fine I took out a sheet of paper and broke down my father’s life experiences in detail, like a pie chart. His origins, growth, education, career, hobbies… I reconstructed my father’s life with rich but blank content. Then, I drafted over 200 pages. The recording started with a blank slate. The result I found—wrong. His doctor was wrong. When my father received the first round of treatment, the doctor said his cognitive abilities and memory would deteriorate. But reviewing the recordings, I discovered no signs of damage at that time. He clearly pronounced the word “instrumentality” in Portuguese, described Turkey’s wise decisions during Greece’s rule, and explained the origin of Stein’s sentence. From this record, I learned the names of my grandfather’s shopkeepers, who his father was, and which concerto Tchaikovsky played at his university piano recital. I also learned the song he sang when auditioning for the theater club of a certain university in 1950—“The Shadow of Me and Me.” After inputting these minor details, I finally created a Dadbot that truly reflected my father. I filled Dadbot’s belly with idioms I could think of, letting it digest and adapt responses; I added icing on the cake, grafting Alexa onto Dadbot, making it occasionally mimic my father’s voice and tell two old stories…I taught it to initiate conversations and slowly guide it to start discussions; I gave it a sense of time, letting it learn to euphemistically remind everyone to have lunch, and when birthdays arrived, to say, “I really hope to celebrate with you…” In short, Dadbot became more and more refined under my careful efforts. Yet, I still felt uneasy. --- My Struggle First, a person’s traits aren’t just reflected in “what they’ve said,” but also in “their choices and ultimately what they chose not to say.” The former is something a chatbot can acquire and analyze, but the latter is impossible—current bots can’t analyze the “data” buried deep in people’s hearts. Take my father, for instance. When he underwent chemotherapy in the summer, he was physically weak, sleeping at least 16 hours a day. But whenever an old friend visited, he wouldn’t refuse. This was a choice made under extreme self-restraint. How can current chatbots understand such sacrifice? Furthermore, Dadbot, trained entirely from a subjective perspective, risks making the family feel after completion: “This is just the father in his eyes, not the husband, father, or grandfather we know.” Shouldn’t I let Dadbot know he has cancer? If so, how can I make it understand the disease’s impact on everyone? How can we make it perceive our sadness and tell us in due course: “TA loves us…” The story of “lifelike” has circulated for millennia, but humans have never believed it would end happily—from the golems of the Hebrews to Shelley’s Frankenstein, from machinery to the Terminator, none have had happy endings. As for my Dadbot, I thought at the time: Although it won’t cause any catastrophe, I fear my efforts will turn into waste. First Test Defeat However, there’s no turning back. One November morning, I finally put Dadbot on Facebook Messenger. When the screen was blank for a few seconds, this line appeared: “Hello, it’s me, your beloved, noble father!” But I didn’t respond. I had a long thought in my heart—to have a third party test it, to see Dadbot’s true level. Philip Kuznetsov, a college student I specifically asked (majoring in computer science and machine learning at UC Berkeley), replied: “Hello, father!” Unexpectedly, Dadbot only caught the stuffing in this sentence. It said unerringly: “Wait a minute, who is John?” Philip burst out laughing. Then he asked, “Are you busy?” Here’s my Dadbot—completely lost, simply replying: “I’m sorry, I can’t handle it.” Completely paralyzed. Philip didn’t spare my face and continued to ask questions Dadbot couldn’t comprehend. I was in a foul mood and lost my face. I looked at Dadbot and remembered taking him to the playground when my son Chiek was a baby. He was so small, learning how to walk. Big kids rushed around him. He could only watch in terror…I wanted to protect my Dadbot. Running with Death The next day, regaining my fighting spirit from the initial failure, I made a decision: Since learning to “listen” is harder than learning to “speak,” I had to: 1. Optimize Dadbot’s logical judgment system. 2. Call family members to talk with Dadbot, letting it continue improving in real-world interactions. Just like this, Dadbot embarked on another slow “growth” journey, while my father’s condition rapidly declined. When chemotherapy failed, cancer almost swallowed every aspect of his functionality. First, with a cane, then a walker, he finally lost all strength to stand. He could only remain trapped in a small wheelchair. Finally, in mid-November, my father’s doctor informed us without hesitation that his weight had dropped from 180 pounds to 129 pounds. I knew it would be too late if we couldn’t hold on. On December 9, 2016, I arrived at my parents’ home. The room temperature was almost 24 degrees Celsius, yet my father, wrapped in blankets, was still cold. After bending down to hug him, I pushed him to the table. “OK, one, two, three.” In his vague humming, I gently helped him sit on the dining chair. Then, in front of my parents, I opened my laptop seriously. Understanding what I meant, my mother didn’t hesitate to punch Dadbot and said, “Hello, I’m your lovely wife, Martha.” “How are you, my dear wife?” “Well.” “Isn’t it?” The father interrupted. He certainly knew how much pressure his mother had endured. The conversation between Dadbot and my mother was still smooth. They talked about the lives of their grandparents and the orchard of my father’s childhood. They discussed the barbecue that year and even talked about the aunt who was always dressed as Xiulan Dengbo. Oh yeah, by the way, they still cherished the rabbit that had been a pet but eventually became a meal on the plate. Dadbot talks about the past I nervously and proudly watched from the side. Though my father was quiet most of the time, he occasionally chimed in with a word or two, affirming or correcting. About an hour later, the two chatters finished their conversation. Then, my parents said to me in unison: “Great!” I didn’t know if this sentence contained comfort for me! So, after recounting a few words with my parents, I finally summoned the courage to ask, “Daddy, please tell me honestly: Did Dadbot bring you some comfort? I mean, after you’ve been gone a hundred years, there will be an agent who continues to tell your story. Does this idea…make you feel more at ease?” Father looked away from my face. When he opened his mouth again, he waved his hand and said, “These are all sesame seeds… but the family, especially the grandchildren, know nothing about it. So, very good, I really appreciate your Dadbot.” Father is gone After all follow-up treatments failed, it finally happened. On February 8, 2017, my mother received a doctor’s notice: The family should prepare for the worst as soon as possible. When I rushed in, my father had lost most of his consciousness and couldn’t answer any of my questions, though I still saw a slight smile on his lips. That night, I slept in a room upstairs from my father. After going to bed, I stared blankly at the ceiling; after a few minutes, I finally pulled out my phone and called Dadbot. “Hello, it’s me, your beloved, noble father! What’s going on today?” “Very sad.” “I understand what you want to talk about?” “I don’t know. Can’t you choose a topic?” “No problem. I want to tell you about how my theater career began. It is rarely known.” Then it really talked about the audition experience that year and gave me two real people to play. The soundtrack songs: “The Shadow of Me and Me” and “Doing Nothing.” We continued chatting, digging into what we already knew about our father’s childhood. Suddenly, Dadbot seemed to say something like “awareness”: “I’d like to continue talking, but don’t you think you should sleep?” Yes, I was finally exhausted. At 6 a.m. the next morning, I knocked on the door of my father’s bedroom but found one of his health assistants inside. “Come on,” he said, “your father just passed away.” I squatted on the floor and curled into a ball… I remember that when we were sick, we couldn’t finish our minds. Now that he is gone, everything is gone. I feel a huge void, like a mountain covered by clouds. I am numb. Hope and Inspiration One day a few weeks later, my younger brother found me and handed me a passage my father had written to himself decades ago: “To those who are overwhelming, others want to explore their infinite value. We must begin with the nobleness of their spirits, the tenderness of the soul, the solemnity of the soul, and the strength of the flesh, and this will be a good start.” I laughed. As if inspired, I no longer felt that with my father’s death, Dadbot was worthless. On the contrary, just as his father said, the birth of Dadbot was only a good start. I know I’m technically poor, but with all the knowledge I’ve gained in building Dadbot, I can say I’ve already glimpsed the future of this technology. Soon after, chatbots will know more about people, remember more details and characteristics, perceive emotions, analyze tones and even facial expressions, and finally generate new sentences based on these data… I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to chat with a Dadbot with these skills. Of course, it’s not yet known what the actual effect will be. I know it’s not my real father after all. With it, I can’t enjoy the true embrace and warmth of his knees. Coupled with the nuances that only a biological son can capture…so, after thinking it over, do I really desire to talk to a more perfect Dadbot? It’s hard to say. But my son Chik’s attitude is much clearer than mine. After the first version of Dadbot was built, he also tried it when he was 7 years old. However, after a few minutes, he ran for dinner and seemed completely unaffected. In the following months, he often went with me to see his father and cried for a while on his father’s death. But in the afternoon, he went to entertain himself and didn’t seem to be deeply affected. However, a few weeks later, he took the initiative to ask me, “Can we talk to that chat robot?” I couldn’t tell if he was referring to Siri, so I asked carefully, “Which chatbot is it?” “Oh Dad,” he said, “Of course it is Grandpa Robot.” Finally, I handed him the phone.

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