Editor’s note: This work is part of AI Watchdog, The Atlantic’s ongoing investigation into the generative-AI industry.

Earlier this summer, Tamra Westberry received a Facebook notification that made her heart sink. A fellow author had taken to social media to endorse Westberry’s latest book, Project Erebus, after reading about it in a weekly roundup of the latest paranormal-romance releases. Independent authors like Westberry, who is based in Texas and has published dozens of books under the pen name Tara West, usually welcome an encouraging word and a bit of cross-promotion. But Westberry was dismayed. She had never heard of a book called Project Erebus. And she certainly wasn’t its author.

She looked up her author profile on Amazon, and there it was: Project Erebus, a book that featured character names she’d previously used, with a cover echoing that of her recent work. Translations were available in German, French, Italian, and Spanish. The book was a complete mystery to her, but after she read its sample pages, she suspected it was made by someone who’d used AI tools. (I ran the book’s cover and promotional blurb through Pangram, which suggested that they were completely AI-generated.)

Westberry emailed Amazon and requested that the company delink the unaffiliated books from her profile. Amazon removed the books from the platform within a week or so—but not before some of her fans purchased them, read them, and left reviews. “No real detail, characters remain undeveloped. I almost felt I was reading an essay written by a school child,” one disappointed reader wrote in a two-star review for Project Erebus on Goodreads, a literary social network owned by Amazon that had also attributed the book to West.

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Across categories—fantasy, horror, even coloring books—writers say they’re seeing AI-generated listings crop up on their Amazon author pages. Some of these works are in entirely different genres from their usual work—such as a children’s series misattributed to a writer of steamy love stories—whereas others echo the subject matter or jacket designs of preexisting books. One writer reported someone sneaking in a fake edition under the listing of their real book. Because Amazon often sends out emails notifying author-page followers about new listings, these titles are able to leech a writer’s fan base, make ill-gotten revenue, and confuse readers.

AI companies pirated millions of books to train today’s most popular models, as The Atlantic has previously reported. Those models are now being used to churn out books in a matter of minutes and place them alongside books that represent years of hard work. In some cases, people go beyond mass-producing second-rate content or publishing copycats of new releases, using the names of established authors on parasitic works that feed off preexisting brands. Writers feel that they have little recourse regarding what AI models ingest, or spit out. “It’s deeply unsettling, after I spent years crafting stories and building my brand, that some no-talent grifter can bottom-feed off my fan base with AI slop,” Westberry, who’s written more than 50 books that were included in a data set used by the likes of OpenAI, Meta, and Anthropic, told me.

The parasite-creator problem is pervasive. Professors have found AI-generated academic papers published under their names; recent reporting suggests that sneaking AI-generated songs onto artists’ streaming profiles is a relatively simple move. The issue has also become endemic to Amazon, the world’s largest online book retailer, which sells hundreds of millions of books annually in the U.S. alone. The platform groups works with the same byline under a unified profile thanks to a largely automatic system. Authors say that Amazon has failed to make a concerted effort to address the phenomenon, and that the onus falls on them to monitor their pages, in a crazy-making game of whack-a-mole.

An Amazon spokesperson told me that the company does take measures to prevent, detect, and remove content that violates its guidelines, but it did not provide more details about how these systems work. “We are committed to a bookstore that readers love and publishers and authors trust, and work directly with authors to address any issues or errors affecting their accounts,” the spokesperson said.

To some degree, Amazon’s parasite-author problem predates the widespread advent of AI. A decade ago, Stephen King publicly urged the site to stop associating his own works with those of Stephen R. King., another horror author whose name was confusing fans. Such instances, however, were few and far between because of the time and effort it required to publish a title. Now that anyone can use LLMs to churn out a novel, the issue has both grown and mutated. While the sheer number of new books published on the platform might inevitably lead to more authors of the same name, Orna Ross, the founder of the Alliance of Independent Authors, noted that many titles are purposefully designed to blend in with a real author’s catalog. “It needs only to fool the algorithm and a rushed buyer for long enough to skim the sale,” she told me.

Authors told me that Amazon is typically quick to delink books from author pages once they’ve been flagged. But getting them removed from the platform entirely can be trickier, especially if a writer hasn’t trademarked their name. Amazon can treat such incidents as a matter of “name coincidence,” Ross said, and leave books up even after decoupling them from profiles. Writers struggling to receive direct action from Amazon have also escalated cases through the Authors Guild, the largest professional organization for writers in America, whose recent reports have warned of AI books falsely attributed to writers.

For many writers of genre fiction, which relies on high output and familiar tropes, staying afloat means playing a volume game, releasing numerous books a year to make a living. That makes certain genres particularly susceptible to AI dupes, which can blend in with the thousands of real titles released annually. Because producing AI versions is so cheap, even a few sales can be profitable. “The people that are making money selling AI copies are generally doing so by selling one or two or three copies of the thousand different books that they publish,” Julie Trelstad, a publishing consultant, told me.

The identity of the individuals behind these books is a mystery to real authors, and often difficult to track down. Regardless, authors don’t view such books as a major sales threat, given that they tend to be less appealing to buyers than genuine works, with slapdash covers and lackluster page counts. What writers are really concerned about is the potential for long-lasting reputational harm among readers, who typically trust that a book listed on an Amazon author page was, indeed, written by said author.

Last year, Vanessa O’Loughlin, an Irish author who writes crime books under the name Sam Blake, was alerted to a trilogy of “dark romantasy” books on her profile that she suspected were made with AI. She didn’t write them, for one, and the pages she read felt off. The books revolved around a character named Elara Vance, a combination of popular first and last names used by AI models. O’Loughlin managed to get the stories delinked from her profile within a few days, although they remained online with Sam Blake listed as the author for some weeks after, and sold a few copies. “Dang it! I got fooled by this,” one fan wrote after O’Loughlin warned followers about the books on social media. O’Loughlin fears that new readers who accidentally came across the trilogy might never pick up a Sam Blake book again.

In some cases, parasite titles can even latch on to real ones. This past July, Noelle W. Ihli published The Last to Drown, a successful thriller that’s listed at $16 for a paperback on Amazon. But earlier this month, the book’s Amazon page also gave viewers the option to purchase another paperback version that featured the same title and a nearly indistinguishable cover. This edition included a slightly different summary that is 100 percent AI-generated, according to Pangram, and its interior pages appeared to be AI-written as well. It also sold for $5 more. Ihli discovered the title after being alerted by confused readers who had received a suspicious copy in the mail, and it was removed earlier this week, shortly after she filed an intellectual-property-infringement claim with Amazon. “Unless I’m checking obsessively every day, it’s really easy for something like this to slip through the cracks,” Ihli told me.

Amazon has introduced some safeguards in response to the onslaught of AI-generated listings. The company restricts the number of books an author can self-publish to 10 a week per book format, and sometimes requests identity verification for accounts. Even so, authors continue to run into variations of the same issue. A romance author who writes under the name Olivia Sinclair (and who asked to keep her legal name private for work and family reasons) previously got Amazon to remove a number of suspected AI books from her profile and thought the problem had been solved until six children’s books about the adventures of cartoon turtles and foxes were listed on her page in July and August. The books, all of which contained summaries flagged as 100 percent AI-written by Pangram, were delinked from her profile earlier this month, shortly after I notified Amazon of the listings. They still remain online with Sinclair listed as the author, however, in addition to at least two seemingly duplicate copies with yet another author name.

The process of removing these works appears to be primarily complaint-driven: When Amazon does act, it does so reactively, instead of preemptively, according to Ross, the Alliance of Independent Authors’ founder. “Verified authorship at upload would end most of this overnight,” she said. Amazon did not provide a response when asked why it doesn’t verify profile identities across the board. Meanwhile, authors feel largely powerless. For self-published writers in particular, selling books on Amazon is a key aspect of their livelihood. “It’s such a catch-22,” Anna Blakely, a writer who has also run into seemingly AI-generated books on her profile. (Blakely is a pen name; I agreed to withhold the author's real name to protect her privacy.) She predicts that roughly 90 percent of her income comes from sales on the platform. “There’s really no other viable option.”

Other platforms claim to be taking a proactive approach to tackling their own versions of parasite authors. Last year, Spotify announced plans to crack down on songs—AI-generated or otherwise—erroneously appearing on artists’ profiles. The company said it would invest more in its response process for content mismatches, in addition to introducing a new impersonation policy and more recently unveiling a feature for artists to review new music on their profiles. But even these efforts appear to be ineffective: A recent 404 Media report demonstrated how AI-generated songs can still be easily uploaded to real artists’ profiles on streaming services including Spotify and Amazon Music.

Keeping an eye on this flood takes up valuable time and effort that authors could have otherwise put toward writing real books. It also adds insult to injury for writers whose books helped refine the AI tools being used to rip off their work. “It’s a devaluing of words, a devaluing of ideas, a devaluing of the accomplishment and the excitement of literature,” said Ben H. Winters, another author who has found what appears to be AI-generated work released under his name on Amazon. Like the rest of the writers I spoke with, his work surfaced in The Atlantic’s searchable database of copyrighted content that trained AI models. “They’ve assimilated all of this stuff, and now they’re spitting it back at us.”

In a time when an iPhone can be preordered, customized, and on its way to your doorstep all through a touch-screen tap, it’s almost quaint to remember that people used to camp out for smartphone releases. That was once the regular routine of Andrew Erickson, a longtime tech YouTuber, who recalled to me with a mixture of nostalgia and awe the time he braved the rain at 4:30 a.m. to join a line for the newest iPhone. The line snaked through the mall, nearly reaching the parking lot.

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Next month, when Apple is expected to launch the iPhone 18 Pro, Erickson has no plans to even buy the phone, let alone fight crowds for it. Instead, along with a growing number of Americans, Erickson is buying used. He’s fed up with incremental improvements in gadgets, he told me, and is more interested in getting an old version of the iPhone 17 Pro when it hits the secondhand market at a discount. Already, almost half of his current devices were acquired secondhand, and as electronics prices soar amid an AI-fueled chip shortage, he expects that portion to grow. “The argument’s just getting weaker and weaker to buy brand-new,” he said.

Based on the numbers, old tech products are indeed being looked at in a new light. Globally, the size of the industry could reach $153.4 billion this year, up from $104.1 billion four years ago. The used-smartphone market alone is expected to grow by more than 12 percent in 2026, according to the International Data Corporation, which forecasts that the market for new smartphones will experience a record drop this year. Growth in secondhand electronics and refurbished gadgets that have been restored to full working condition now outpaces that of new products on eBay, the e-commerce giant reports.

Among a number of shoppers I spoke with, there was a sense that new models are indistinguishable from the old ones, and the hype of securing the latest and greatest has given way to an upgrade cycle driven by practicality. More than ever before, people are eager to buy used.

“We’ve never been here,” Lauren Benton, the U.S. general manager of the refurbished-electronics marketplace Back Market, told me. She said demand ticked up immediately after Apple unveiled price hikes this summer. Back Market’s order values for refurbished MacBooks in the U.S. increased by 37 percent throughout the week following the price increase, while order values for iPads rose 25 percent. Demand for the company’s non-Apple laptops, too, has soared by 74 percent compared with last year. Outside of students and parents, a large portion of the marketplace’s buyers are “people that understand that the newer tech isn’t giving us all that much more,” Benton said.

Regular upgrade cycles were a hallmark of tech gadgets in the 2010s, a trend led by Apple, which has introduced at least one new iPhone model every year since its initial launch. Americans bought into the frenzy: In 2014, the first year Consumer Intelligence Research Partners tracked such figures, about 44 percent of iPhone holders said they replaced their device every one to two years. In those days, lines at Apple stores stretched so long that they were used by analysts to gauge annual demand.

In 2026, the lines that former Apple fanatics once waited in have all but disappeared. Online preorders are partly to blame, but so is dissipating excitement for releases that promise incremental upgrades. People now hold on to their smartphone for three years or longer, fatigued from “buying, effectively, the same device over and over and over again,” Wamsi Mohan, a Bank of America analyst who covers Apple, told me. Those buying new are doing so largely because their phone was broken or stolen, rather than to get their hands on new features. A recent report found that 76 percent of buyers refuse to upgrade until new capabilities feel “worth the cost.”

And those costs are climbing, driven by data centers eating up the world’s inventory of RAM. Samsung’s Galaxy Tab S11, Sony’s PlayStation 5, and Microsoft’s XBox Series S console were all marked up $100 this year. Apple conceded to “unavoidable” hikes in June, increasing the cost of its MacBooks and iPads by roughly 15 to 25 percent. Even the most ardent tech loyalists have changed their buying habits: A recent poll of thousands of readers of 9to5Mac, a website popular among Apple fans, revealed that 38 percent of them intended to upgrade less frequently because of higher prices.

In tandem, people are warming up to refurbished devices. Google queries for secondhand laptop have jumped by upwards of 5,000 percent over the past year. In an April CNET survey, nearly half of U.S. adults said they’d considered buying refurbished tech within the past year and cited cost-effectiveness and expensive new models as driving factors. Angie Cardona-Nelson, who recycles used electronics on eBay, told me that when she started her business in 2008, selling refurbished devices was tough going—she’d sit on products for months, attempting to drum up business with sales or discounts. “There was no confidence to buy a used item,” she said. Since January 2025, her laptop sales have more than doubled, and new listings are being bought up in a week or two.

The way people are buying secondhand devices has also shifted: Instead of opting for products that are roughly three generations behind, buyers are purchasing last year’s models—an indication that the refurbished industry is now attracting those who were “truly considering new,” according to Back Market’s Benton.

Erik Helgesen, the president of PayMore, a retail chain focused on used electronics, told me that the company had already seen a major uptick in sales preceding Apple’s price hike. But after, it was “just a hockey stick,” he said. Now PayMore can hardly keep some products in stock. Helgesen expects the company to open more stores in the coming year to meet demand.

This new readiness to opt out of the endless treadmill of releases seems to be a sign that people are starting to look for something more practical from their devices: deals. Whether this more utilitarian—and arguably healthier—approach to gadget consumption means that we’ll actually free ourselves from expensive tech, though, remains to be seen. A three-year-old MacBook may be a steal today, but as Nabila Popal, a senior director at the International Data Corporation, reminded me, prices reflect demand: If people keep buying up the used gadgets, those prices are bound to shoot up, too.

Physical credit cards should be a thing of the past. Over the past few years, touchless services such as Apple Pay have driven a boom in the digital-payment industry: Digital wallets now account for about half of global online purchases and one-third of point-of-sale payments. You would think that credit-card companies might abandon investing in cards that weigh down your wallet—but you’d be wrong.

Take, for example, the Platinum Card from Robinhood, introduced in March. Coated in 99.9 percent pure platinum, it weighs 27 grams, or more than half the weight of an average golf ball. “If you throw it on a dinner table, it's gonna make a ‘clang,’” Deepak Rao, a senior vice president at Robinhood, told me. The Platinum Card is just the latest addition to an ever-growing heap of lavish cards that speak to America’s appetite for flashy, metallic, and loud ways to pay.

American Express last year released a mirrored card so reflective that one card holder I spoke with told me that she uses it whenever she needs to touch up her lip liner in a fix. A similarly mirrored credit card made by the fintech company Bilt comes with its very own polishing cloth. Apple, meanwhile, provides a cleaning guide for its titanium card that recommends avoiding “abrasive objects.” Revolut, an online bank, offers a steel credit card that comes in a range of colors, including lavender, space gray, and rose gold. And JPMorgan Chase’s cards come in boxes that are themselves so intricate and high-quality that Brian Dean, a finance influencer, told me he keeps one on display on his shelf.

In 2022, the journalist Amanda Mull wrote in The Atlantic that metal payment cards were on the path to becoming luxury accessories. Today, that transformation seems complete. Opulent cards, marketed for years as status symbols, have been embraced by an entire commercial ecosystem of banks and fintechs trying to one-up each other, eager consumers, and influencers extolling cards’ virtues and ranking their weights with microscales.

Institutions are now designing cards with virality in mind: Some cards omit names and numbers so they can be filmed more easily, and others are proudly marketed by grammage. A card’s weight informs its so-called plunk factor, akin to the leather grade of a handbag or the sparkle of a diamond. Lewis Rubovitz, the chief strategy and marketing officer at CompoSecure, the leading manufacturer of metal cards in the United States, told me that most providers want their credit cards to be “heavy, heavy, and heavy.”

Such weight doesn’t come cheap: Industry experts told me that plastic cards cost issuers about $1.50 each to buy from manufacturers, whereas metal cards run companies about $15 on average. That price can surge into the hundreds or even thousands of dollars if those cards are made of metals like palladium, platinum, or gold. As cards get fancier, they typically become heavier. Whereas a plastic card weighs approximately five grams, cards made with stainless steel—the most popular material for metal cards—can weigh more than two or three times as much. A solid-gold card can weigh up to 36 grams, the equivalent of three AAA batteries.

Barclays makes a card plated in 24-karat gold, an inactive version of which is listed on eBay for $199. Robinhood-card holders can upgrade the company’s steel Gold Card to a version made entirely of 10-karat gold. Those cards can cost thousands of dollars to produce, depending on gold prices, according to Rao. American Express, meanwhile, has twice released limited-edition runs of cards made from melted-down Boeing aircraft, and Revolut coated a recent release in titanium of the grade used in an Audi F1 race car.

It’s all starting to get more than a little absurd. Leanne Fremar, JPMorgan Chase’s global chief brand officer, told me that the company has experimented both with different ways to incorporate metal into its cards, such as manufacturing versions with a metal core or veneer, and with finish techniques that make cards textured, ombré, or polished. Some efforts are years in the making. Robert Myrsater, the head of design at Bilt, told me he had dreamed of making a credit card with a reflective, chromelike finish since 2021, but he ran into a serious issue ahead of the January release of Bilt’s mirrored Palladium Card: It retained finger smudges. He tested out numerous layering treatments before finally just including the microfiber cloth that owners can use to keep the card looking fresh.

If your credit-card company doesn’t offer metal versions, third-party vendors have stepped in to do the job for them. Metal-CreditCard.com will “upgrade” plastic credit cards by extracting their chips and placing them into steel cards. Engraven Card, another company that turns plastic cards into metal, finds particular success in custom designs that make explicit references to wealth. “I’ve upgraded welfare EBT cards to say Millionaires Club,” Travis Jean, Engraven Card’s founder, told me.

The metal-card industry’s sales pitch is that a credit card’s weight carries genuine social currency. Online videos rank the various sounds metal cards make, ranging from “mid” to “like a flex,” when they’re plunked down on a table. “That matters to people: how it feels when it goes down at that restaurant bill,” Jessica Ling, the executive vice president of global advertising at American Express, told me. Metal-CreditCard.com’s founder, Vincent Torres, told me something similar: “The plunk factor of dropping a full metal card on the table, it changes people’s perspective of just who you are.” (Torres recently wrote a book titled How a Metal Credit Card Transformed My Life.)

The message appears to be working. Spencer Johnson, a YouTuber whose unboxings of cards have amassed hundreds of thousands of views, told me that videos on metal credit cards are “high-dopamine content.” Viewers “want a little taste of that just by watching somebody else open theirs, even if it’s not attainable for them,” he said. Rachel Tyers, another credit-card influencer, first made it big on Instagram when she posted a video explaining how to apply for the mirrored card from American Express. The video has 3.6 million views, and she’s since made videos of herself using scales to compare the weight of credit cards and testing which are scratch-resistant or show fingerprints.

Whether you really should be investing any of your sense of meaning and self worth into a three-inch slab of metal is, of course, a question all its own. But card sellers are tapping into a surge of interest in luxury goods. Demand for metal credit cards is on the rise alongside that for high-end jewelry, expensive homes, and premium airplane seats. Several people I spoke with speculated that the ubiquity of digital payment has only helped credit cards stake out new territory in the realm of the physically ostentatious. “It is a much more dramatic gesture to be at a table with a bunch of friends, and you’re plunking down a metal card over beeping your phone into the payment system,” Clint Henderson, a managing editor at The Points Guy, told me. Digital-payment services might be more convenient, but they can’t be held, flashed, or thrown down on a restaurant table. They certainly won’t score well on a drop test.

And so, the designs keep coming. Cards that light up, are made entirely of glass, and even contain jewels have already been manufactured for clients by CompoSecure. Revolut is hoping to soon bring its Ultra Card, which arrives encased in a transparent picture frame, to the United States. As for Robinhood, Rao has an idea for how to outdo his past products: a card in Vantablack, one of the world’s blackest coatings. “It’s going to be epic, but I haven’t figured out how to do it yet,” he told me.