Steven Rosenbaum has decided that the real villain behind the bogus quotes in his book is a chatbot. Earlier this week, The New York Times reported that The Future of Truth, Rosenbaum’s much-discussed book about how AI shapes reality, contains more than half a dozen fake or misattributed quotes. Rosenbaum pinned some of them on his use of AI. He claimed responsibility for the errors and said he was investigating what went wrong. By the time I spoke with him on Thursday, though, he was pointing his finger elsewhere. ChatGPT “fucked up the book,” Rosenbaum said.

Rosenbaum, a media entrepreneur and the executive director of the Sustainable Media Center, said he came to rely on AI tools as both a resource and a conversation partner while he worked on the book (which he also notes in the book’s acknowledgments). During our conversation, Rosenbaum struggled to reconcile AI’s sometimes staggering capacities with its penchant for head-scratching hallucinations—such as an imaginary quote from the tech journalist Kara Swisher that he included in the book without verifying it. In recent days, he has come to feel “seduced and betrayed” by AI, suggesting at one point that it might have undermined him on purpose. “Depending on your paranoia level, it’s either quirky or evil or sneaky,” he said.

It’s been a rough week for human authorship all around. On Monday, a viral post showed a Nobel-winning novelist seemingly admitting to using AI to sharpen her story ideas, before later claiming she had been misunderstood. On Tuesday, allegations mounted that the Trinidadian author Jamir Nazir had used AI to write “The Serpent in the Grove,” which won the Commonwealth Short Story Prize. By Wednesday, two of the other five prize winners had come under similar scrutiny. (The Commonwealth Foundation, which administers the prize, initially said in a statement that it had confirmed that none of the winning writers had used AI. Yesterday, the foundation issued another statement saying it “takes seriously the allegations” and was reviewing the evidence.)

[Read: This literary AI scandal changes everything]

Since ChatGPT arrived, automated writing has become ubiquitous: A recent working paper estimated that more than half of all new books released on Amazon now contain AI-generated text. Chatbots’ prose has generally been good enough to fool schoolteachers and inflate Amazon product ratings—not earn glowing blurbs from prominent authors and win literary prizes. Recently, something has changed. As AI tools have improved and gone mainstream, the technology has penetrated intellectual spaces once thought to be fortified against its advances. This spate of scandals is forcing a fresh reckoning over what to do about the crisis.

One response has been to call for a redoubling of efforts to root out AI writing and reinforce the stigma against it. If shame won’t stop people from using AI to do the hard work of writing, maybe ridicule will. In Defector, Patrick Redford derided the “pathetic behavior” of writers who use AI. “You idiots!” he wrote. “Those models are the enemy!”

Treating any use of AI in serious writing as taboo is understandable. Up until now, it’s been relatively easy to use the hallmarks of AI-generated prose as a proxy for shoddy writing and thinking. Maybe we can keep that up a while longer. As I read The Future of Truth, I ran across an unusual amount of clunky repetition, formulaic transitions, and perplexing passages. One particularly tinny paragraph begins, “As we delve deeper into the mechanisms of misinformation, it’s essential to understand how it not only proliferates but also profits.” I ran the 146-word passage through Pangram, an AI-detection tool that is imperfect but reputed to be less flawed, at least, than some others. It registered the writing as 100 percent AI-generated. When I asked Rosenbaum whether he had let AI write any parts of his book, he said, “Absolutely not.” When I mentioned the Pangram result, he said, “I’m not going to get into that game.”

The bigger challenge may be that “AI writing” is not just one thing. There’s a wide spectrum between text that is untouched by machine intelligence and writing that is concocted entirely by a chatbot. At the maximalist end, most of us can agree that a writer wouldn’t deserve a prize for typing, “Write a haunting, 3,000-word literary short story set in Trinidad” into Claude and then slapping his name on whatever it spits out. On the minimalist side, it’s presumably fine for a writer to do some Googling in the process of researching a piece that is otherwise entirely her own. Then again, what they find may still be imbued with AI: Google search is answering more questions directly via chatbot, and the results are turning up more AI-written web pages. Good information comes from primary sources, not synthetic text.

Generic chatbots have been joined by purpose-built AI research and writing tools that can carry out complex tasks. A growing number of professional writers, following the lead of software developers, openly profess to incorporating AI tools into their workflows. The tech reporter Alex Heath, for instance, trained a version of Claude Cowork to write in his style and crank out first drafts of his stories, as Wired reported in March. My own use of AI is comparatively primitive but worth disclosing here: In line with The Atlantic’s internal guidelines, I sometimes use chatbots like a slightly smarter thesaurus to suggest the most apt word to plug into a given sentence, and I occasionally ask them to suggest expert sources on a specific topic. I also use an AI-powered tool to transcribe interviews, backstopped by my own notes.

[Read: The human skill that eludes AI]

Exactly where to draw the line on acceptable uses of AI is not as obvious as it might seem. In Rosenbaum’s case, the scandal can’t just be that he used AI while working on his book, because he acknowledged that up front. He got in trouble because he had used AI badly, failing to check its work on a task at which it is famously unreliable. Or consider that The New York Times, which has endured a spate of AI writing scandals, maintains two different standards. Its freelancers can use AI tools for “high-level brainstorming” and almost nothing else. Newsroom employees are encouraged to experiment with what the paper’s guidelines tout as “a powerful tool that, like many technological advances before it, may be used in service of our mission.” The leading trade group for book authors, the Authors Guild, eschews edicts but warns of the ethical risks of various AI uses.

Condoning AI for research but forbidding any use of its prose might be the most intuitive stance. It is certainly the most convenient: We have no reliable way to tell when AI was used to brainstorm ideas, research facts, or help a writer shape the framing of a story. But as the neuroscientist Tim Requarth pointed out in Slate, it is those hidden uses of AI in the writing process that give rise to our most valid concerns. The real threat the technology poses is not the overuse of the word delve in academic papers or the profusion of strained metaphors in literary fiction. It’s that we lose something essential when we outsource to machines the hard work of discovering the truth and interpreting the world around us (or, in the case of fiction, the worlds within us). It’s that the biases embedded in language models trained on dubious sources and controlled by tech companies will seep into the narratives that shape our understanding of reality. Are we sure that using AI to turn a phrase is worse than using it to decide what to write about in the first place?

If nothing else, the pileup of scandals should force us to think more precisely about what it is we fear from AI writing. If the problem were simply that it was bad, then its steady improvement would be cause for relief rather than alarm. On the contrary, the problem seems to be that AI tools are getting too good, at least superficially, and that people are placing too much faith in them. Even though Rosenbaum cursed ChatGPT, he told me he couldn’t imagine giving it up. That feeling might pose a greater threat to writing than anything he lays out in his book.

Updated at 5:06 p.m. E.T. on May 19, 2026

One afternoon earlier this year, my 11-year-old son was sitting at his laptop and working quietly on his math homework. At least, that’s what he was supposed to be doing. When I glanced at his screen, equations were nowhere to be seen. He was controlling a monster in the midst of battle, casting magic spells to outduel an opposing player.

“That’s not your math homework!” I told him. But it was. His fifth-grade-math teacher had told her students to spend time on Prodigy, a site that looks and feels like a video game. As my son indignantly showed me, Prodigy surfaces multiple-choice questions in between cartoon-monster attacks. Correctly identify an isosceles triangle or the square root of 49, and your “Aquadile” or “Bonasaur”—barely veiled rip-offs of Pokémon characters—gets a health boost that will help it fend off your opponent’s next salvo.

Prodigy is among a bevy of gamified tools that have gained a foothold in classrooms across the country by promising to make learning fun. (As Prodigy’s website puts it: “Kids no longer have to choose between homework and playtime.”) These platforms—which also include Blooket, Gimkit, and Kahoot—can seem like a win-win. Students’ eyes light up at math-and-vocabulary-review sessions that once induced groans. Teachers, meanwhile, can use the games to track which questions kids get right and wrong, helping them triage trouble spots.

But as I watched my son play Prodigy, it became clear there wasn’t much learning happening. In about 10 minutes of gameplay, he spent less than 30 seconds answering math questions. When he got one wrong, the game didn’t pause to diagnose where he went wrong or guide him to the correct answer. The only time he slowed down, grudgingly, was when Prodigy forced him to watch videos advertising its paid-membership plans.

Other popular ed-tech games also lean into gaming more than learning. Gimkit lobs occasional multiple-choice questions in the middle of live, multiplayer games that closely resemble popular commercial titles such as Among Us and Only Up. Blooket offers a single-player game similar to Plants vs. Zombies that can be used as a homework assignment and others, such as Gold Quest, that are designed to be played live by a whole classroom. While parents and teachers fret over students’ watching MrBeast videos during social-studies class, schools have embraced education software that has become hard to distinguish from Candy Crush.

Educational games have been around for decades; Millennials may remember playing Math Blaster and Oregon Trail in computer lab. Only recently have web-based, free-to-play platforms become a staple of daily lesson plans and homework assignments. Their rise has been abetted by the prevalence of school-issued Chromebooks and an incursion of technology into almost every aspect of education since the pandemic. For kids the age of my son, who attended kindergarten on Zoom, a school experience mediated by ed tech is all they’ve ever known.

Some of these platforms are now so compelling that students want to play them in their spare time. Blooket, for example, has a gambling-like feature that has proved popular throughout the gaming industry: Players earn an in-game currency they can spend on packs that offer a slim chance at rare prizes—in this case, special avatars, or “Blooks.” The site has spawned a cottage industry of YouTube streamers who share hacks for obtaining more currency and post screen recordings of their luckiest “pulls” from reward packs. “Oh my God, we pulled it,” one popular YouTuber raves in a video that has nearly half a million views. “One of, if not the, rarest Blooks in the game. And if this video gets 10,000 likes, I’ll give it away to one of you guys.”

Ben Stewart, who co-founded Blooket as a high-school student in 2018, told me that the company now has about 20 employees, millions of active users (he wouldn’t say exactly how many), and 23 game modes. He understands that some teachers and parents might have qualms with education software that mimics the addictive mechanics of mobile games. Blooket is designed not to supplant lectures or project-based learning, he argued, but rather to replace flash cards and worksheets as a way of reviewing facts that students have already absorbed. “In our mind, if you’re using Blooket for an hour in a class, something has gone wrong,” he said. Blooket aims to surface questions at least once every 20 seconds, he added, and limits the amount of rewards players can earn in a day (though they can spend money to unlock more). Prodigy is also not meant to be used as a substitute for instruction, Rohan Mahimker, the company’s co-CEO, said in an email. “Balancing gameplay with genuine learning is central to how we build Prodigy and why we’ve invested so much into curriculum and pedagogy,” he said.

Several teachers I spoke with agreed that Blooket and its ilk are best deployed in small doses and for defined purposes. Mashfiq Ahmed, a high-school-chemistry teacher in New York City, told me that he uses Blooket and Kahoot for review sessions at the end of a unit, and as filler for a substitute teacher when he’s out sick. Ed-tech games also allow kids who finish their in-class assignments early to work ahead on their laptop, keeping them quiet and out of trouble until the bell rings. And if nothing else, they can provide “a quick blast of competitive entertainment,” Jason Saiter, a high-school teacher in Dublin, Ohio, told me. “Sometimes teachers need things like this to get through the day. Sometimes certain types of students do too.”

But things can sometimes get out of hand. On Blooket and several other platforms, students can create their own quizzes from existing templates. Some have cleverly learned to design them so that any answer is designated as correct—they simply mash the first answer to each question as soon as it appears to maximize their in-game rewards. The internet is full of hacks for Blooket, Gimkit, Prodigy, and others—such as browser extensions that automatically answer every question correctly. When I ran this by Stewart, he flashed something between a smile and a grimace. “Kids are creative,” he said. “They try to cheat our games as many ways as they possibly can.” If there’s one thing that all of these years of tech-centered education has taught schoolkids, it’s how to game the system.

Over the past few years, districts across the country have enacted phone bans or restrictions in a bid to limit distractions. Schools have also blocked students from using their laptop to access sites such as YouTube and Roblox. But those measures don’t solve the deeper problem: Software has eaten the American school, and unwinding that will require more than a content filter or a Yondr Pouch.

Some parents now want to go further. Jodi Carreon, a mother based in San Marcos, California, told me that her younger child was in second grade when he began coming home begging her to pay for Prodigy’s premium service so he could get more rewards. Then she started getting notes from teachers that her son was getting distracted playing Prodigy in class. “I’m like, ‘You literally handed them this,’” she said. Carreon is now the national-expansion director for Schools Beyond Screens, a parent group that recently successfully pushed Los Angeles to become the first major U.S. school district to adopt sweeping restrictions on laptop and tablet use in classrooms.

Other experts argue that the problem isn’t games or technology per se—it’s the thoughtless way that schools are using them. A well-designed game “can be extremely effective in not just getting kids interested in the subject matter, but to help them understand why they’re doing it in the first place,” Jan Plass, a professor of digital media and learning sciences at NYU, told me. He cited a 2008 game called Immune Attack, developed in part by scientists, in which players must navigate a nanobot through a patient’s bloodstream to spur their immune system to fight off infections. He contrasted that with gamified tools such as Prodigy, which simply bolt multiple-choice questions onto unrelated game templates. It’s a lazy approach, but it’s cheap and accessible, and it dovetails with an education system geared toward standardized tests.

In other words, the status quo of ed tech is bleak. Screen time has become a default rather than an intentional choice for harried teachers and distracted students. That day I first encountered my son playing Prodigy, I noticed something odd after several minutes of watching him. He was learning how to divide fractions in math class, but the screen kept flashing addition problems. “Oops,” he said when I pointed that out. “I must have clicked the wrong lesson.”