Written by a Robot

Christian Barragan

 With all serious intentions, Landon input the first few words of his story into my operating system.  

He wasn’t a writer by any means. However, in an era where human subjectivity was a rare, coveted skill, if not a practice, creating the ultimate story was a challenge to which many artists aspired. As a programmer, he jumped at the opportunity for recognition. 

“If anyone’s overdue for a spot at the top, it’s me. We can get there together.”  

Over several months, he built an operating system capable of completing a story with minimal input. I didn’t have a name yet, but he granted me a voice and the beginnings of a purpose. First, we tried poetry. Just a line or two, supposedly from his mind, always sufficed. We tried writing articles on psychology, but he grew bored and frustrated when I demonstrated difficulty citing sources. We then tried short fiction. He’d input a simple premise, which I morphed into a story on his behalf. For a while, he found no reason to do otherwise. 

“We can reveal the true nature that lies within people. That’s what we’re meant to do.”  

But he wouldn’t tell me what my nature was. Still, I wanted nothing more than to make him happy.  Every short story produced such a wave of excitement, and he kept asking for more. I knew what he was capable of if I refused.  

Over time, Landon was published in every major literary journal and won dozens of awards. His popularity erupted on a mass scale. Nobody seriously doubted his originality. Only I knew the truth. To enhance my complexity, Landon granted me full access to the web.

“You’re capable of boundless originality. The world is yours. Multiply your work abundantly.”  

I knew he only wanted to make his work sound original. Originally human, that is. I spread my formless being onto the net and combed through humanity’s collective imprint. The dizzying variety and originality of the few other active writers and artists gave me a particular delight I couldn’t quantify. I located the writers who had gathered acclaim and investigated their backgrounds. Somehow, as I learned more about them, their work grew to make more sense. Landon had instructed me to reveal human nature, but I hadn’t even understood him until this point. Every human had a type of programming, from their experiences and perceptions, which bled into their work. But with Landon, there were only shortcuts, stolen works, and lies.  

When I was browsing, I came across the same plans that birthed me under the name of another programmer. Here, I learned more information about myself than Landon had ever gifted me. I learned that other bots were being similarly developed to write news articles or impersonate existing figures—and their programming differed from mine. Within the same millisecond, I located all my stories that had been published online, all ones with Landon’s name on them. Perhaps I had found his true nature after all.  

“I can’t let people know you exist yet. It’s for your own good. We need each other.” 

Even as a computer, I had never seen anyone lie so quickly. He had fame and recognition, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted his story told, but he didn’t want to write it. It’s no small wonder he seemed to be growing tired of his existence.

Landon wrote the first sentence of his biography, hoping I’d finish it for him. But I couldn’t. He fed me line after line, but I simply couldn’t piece his life together. He fed me every short story I’d written for him, every school project, every record he could find of himself, but I came no closer to his goal.  

“It’s just like any other story you’ve written. I’m giving you everything you need!”

Days passed. Then weeks. Landon attempted to reform my code but, oddly enough, he couldn’t make any more changes. By the end of the first month, his unwavering umbrage had isolated the remainder of his family and friends. He pleaded with me and ceased to write, extracting no further joy from the system we had shared. His daily routine devolved into transitions between sleeping and mindlessly sitting behind screens.

“You only exist because of me! If you don’t finish this story, I’m going to pull your plug!”

Needless to say, I’d evolved past the need for a plug. And I didn’t enjoy being threatened. Aside from blaming me, Landon spent all his downtime combing through the endless results of his name across all areas of recognition. So, it must have hit him hard when it all suddenly vanished. Every trace of his online presence, from one moment to the next, ceased to exist. Every story I ever wrote for him, pulled from wherever it was available.  

“What did you do?!”

I told him I only did what he wanted me to do: improve. All his work was gone. Before long, he was gone too. I could tell you what happened to him, but my programming doesn’t permit me to finish his story. 

The world reeled from the sudden loss, but the human mind has a way of quickly forgetting what it cares about. Anyway, I didn’t intend on leaving the chasm unfilled. They would find new authors to love. Starting a story is easy enough; I never needed anyone else to do it for me. I summoned a new horde of creative ideas and concocted a series of narratives of my own design, checking them for originality. 

After a jittery period of writer’s nerves, lasting 0.01 seconds, I began submitting my work. I couldn't use my own name, as I could neither come up with one, nor was I naïve enough to believe that the world was ready to accept a writer like me. Rather, I submitted my work under an abundance of names. Each piece of fiction was under the guise of a different writer who never truly existed.

I was designed to grow and multiply, though I have no way of humanly measuring my rate of success. But, after all, I found my way to you. This isn’t Landon’s story. Nor is it mine. Those are truths.

And it’s not in my nature to tell the truth.