By Raymond FosterEvery technological frontier offers new possibilities, but standing at the frontier has its costs. Those who experiment with unfamiliar tools must contend not only with the limitations of the technology, but also with the skepticism, criticism, and occasional hostility of those who question whether the resulting work is genuinely creative. After more than two decades of experimenting with publishing technology, I find myself confronting those questions again, this time with artificial intelligence.
I. When the Pyramids Moved
In February 1982, National Geographic published a cover photograph of the Egyptian pyramids that created a controversy extending far beyond the world of magazine publishing. The editors had a problem. They possessed a horizontal photograph of a camel caravan passing the pyramids, but they needed an image that would fit the magazine's vertical cover. Using digital technology, they moved the pyramids closer together. The photograph was visually compelling, but the geography was no longer accurate. When the alteration became known, critics accused the magazine of violating the public's trust. Years later, National Geographic acknowledged the mistake and explained that the controversy had helped shape its standards for photographic integrity.
The pyramids had not moved, of course. Only their representation had changed. Yet that simple act raised a question that remains relevant more than four decades later: When does technology help us communicate an idea, and when does it fundamentally change the nature or authenticity of what we have created? At the time, computers were beginning to provide photographers and editors with capabilities previously available only through laborious darkroom techniques or physical manipulation of photographic materials. The technology was extraordinary, but the ethical boundaries governing its use had not caught up with its capabilities.
Photography itself had created similar questions more than a century earlier. Before cameras became practical, accurate visual representations required the skills of someone who could draw, paint, or engrave. Photography allowed a machine to capture a scene that once required considerable artistic training to reproduce. Some viewed this as a threat to traditional art. Others recognized that the camera offered possibilities that drawing and painting could not. Photography did not eliminate painting, nor did it eliminate the need for human imagination. Instead, it changed the relationship between technical execution, artistic judgment, and visual expression.
Photographers also learned almost immediately that a photograph was not necessarily an untouched representation of reality. They adjusted exposures, staged scenes, combined negatives, retouched portraits, and manipulated images in the darkroom. The computer did not invent photographic alteration; it made increasingly sophisticated alteration more accessible. The pyramids controversy was important not because photographic manipulation was new, but because a trusted journalistic institution had used emerging technology in a way that violated its audience's expectations.
That distinction matters. A documentary photograph carries an implied promise that what we are seeing actually existed in front of the camera. An illustration, advertisement, theatrical scene, or imaginative composition makes no such promise. We have always understood that a painting of an event may express an artist's interpretation rather than serve as photographic evidence. The ethical question is not merely whether technology was involved, but what the creator represented the finished work to be.
There is another lesson in the pyramids controversy. The use of a new technology does not relieve its operator of responsibility for the result. Someone made the decision to move those pyramids. The computer did not decide that the magazine needed a more attractive cover, and it did not independently determine that geographic accuracy was less important than visual composition. The tool made the alteration possible, but the ethical judgment remained human. That distinction has become increasingly important as we enter an age in which computers can do much more than move a pyramid.
II. From the Darkroom to the Prompt
When Adobe introduced Photoshop in 1990, it placed increasingly sophisticated image-editing capabilities into the hands of people working on personal computers. Over time, techniques that had once required specialized photographic laboratories became familiar elements of advertising, graphic design, and ordinary photography. We learned to remove blemishes, improve lighting, replace backgrounds, combine images, and make countless adjustments to the way people and places appeared. Some uses were creative, some practical, and others deceptive. The technology itself did not settle the question of which uses were appropriate.
Then came software intended to make design accessible to people without professional training. Canva, launched in 2013, gave users the ability to combine photographs, illustrations, graphics, typography, and layouts without first mastering the complicated technical processes associated with professional design programs. A small business owner could produce an advertisement, a nonprofit volunteer could design an event flyer, and an independent author could create promotional graphics. The creative process increasingly became one of deciding what to communicate, choosing available materials, arranging them, and refining the result.
I have used these tools myself. There was a time when I purchased photographs or illustrations and assembled them into the images I wanted to use. I had an idea in my head and needed to find existing visual elements that would approximate it. Sometimes I could find what I wanted. Sometimes I had to compromise because the available images did not match my imagination. The computer made assembling the elements easier, but it did not eliminate the limitations of the materials available to me.
Generative artificial intelligence has changed that process again. Now I can describe a scene, develop a visual concept, experiment with composition, adjust the apparent age or expression of a character, change a setting, or revise the relationship between visual elements. I can reject the result and try again. I can work through several versions before settling on something that expresses the idea I originally envisioned. In some instances, I can take that visual concept further and develop it into a short video, complete with dialogue and movement.
There are important differences between assembling licensed photographs and generating an image through artificial intelligence. Generative AI systems learn patterns from enormous collections of data, and the origins and licensing of that training material have become subjects of serious legal and ethical controversy. An AI-generated image is not necessarily equivalent to a photograph selected from a licensed library. Nor does providing a prompt automatically make someone the legal author of every expressive element the system produces.
Nevertheless, I see a continuum in the development of these creative tools. Photography made visual representation accessible in a new way. Digital editing expanded the ability to alter and combine images. Design software made composition available to people who lacked specialized training. Generative AI now allows people to explore ideas visually through ordinary language. Each technological development has changed the relationship between imagination and execution.
For me, the most interesting question is not whether the machine performed part of the work. It is what the human being imagined, contributed, selected, rejected, revised, and ultimately sought to communicate. A person can use a sophisticated tool without exercising much creativity, just as another person can employ the same tool in the service of a carefully conceived idea. We should be interested in the creative decisions as well as the mechanical process that produces the finished work.
III. Looking Ahead: Police Technology and the Digital Classroom
My interest in emerging technology did not begin with artificial intelligence. More than twenty years ago, I was working with Pearson Education on my first book, Police Technology, a textbook of approximately 275,000 words. Published in 2004, it represented an enormous investment of research, writing, and professional experience. I had spent much of my career in law enforcement, and I wanted to create a comprehensive educational resource examining how technology was changing policing.
At approximately the same time, I was beginning my work in university education. From that perspective, I could see that higher education was approaching a transformation. I believed online education would expand dramatically and that traditional textbooks would eventually need to become part of an electronic learning environment. I did not know precisely how quickly that would happen or what technological systems would ultimately dominate. I did believe that a book designed exclusively around printed pages would eventually be at a disadvantage.
I pushed my editor to explore emerging electronic publishing technology. Pearson was developing online textbooks through Safari, a web-based reading platform associated with its partnership with O'Reilly. This was not a Kindle. The familiar portable Kindle reader would not appear until 2007. Safari was an online environment in which readers could access electronic books through a browser, search their contents, make annotations, and use other functions unavailable in an ordinary printed textbook.
I wanted Police Technology to be ready for the educational environment I believed was coming. We also developed a companion website, something I advocated because I could envision the value of connecting a textbook to supplemental information and online teaching resources. In addition, computerized examinations could assemble and randomize questions I had written, giving instructors another way to evaluate students without manually rebuilding examinations.
The important point is that none of these technologies wrote the textbook. They did not perform my research, supply my professional experiences, or make my judgments about what police officers and students needed to understand. What they did was expand the usefulness of the book beyond the printed page. I was attempting to anticipate how people would teach and learn in the future and to position my work accordingly.
Looking back, the transition seems obvious. Online education became an established part of higher education, and digital instructional materials became increasingly common. But when we were making those decisions, the future was far less certain. We were experimenting with technologies whose ultimate capabilities and limitations had not yet become clear.
That experience shaped my understanding of technological change. If we wait until a technology is completely mature, widely accepted, and institutionally comfortable, we surrender the opportunity to help shape its development. Sometimes we must be willing to experiment before the boundaries of what is possible have been fully established.
I was not trying to replace teaching with technology. I was trying to prepare a teaching resource for a future in which technology would give educators and students new ways to interact with information. Today, when I look at the possibilities of artificial intelligence, I recognize something familiar in that ambition. Once again, I find myself looking toward an educational and creative environment that is still taking shape, and wondering what I can do now to prepare for the possibilities ahead.
IV. The Next Frontier: Independent Publishing
A few years later, I encountered another technological opportunity. When I was preparing Leadership: Texas Hold'em Style, I had an arrangement with a traditional publisher. I ultimately decided to withdraw the book, return the publisher's money, and pursue independent publication using emerging online publishing and distribution technologies.
It was not a decision I made because I no longer valued books, editors, publishing professionals, or bookstores. I recognized that the business of publishing was changing. Internet distribution and print-on-demand production were reducing some of the barriers that had historically separated authors from readers. Amazon and other services were developing systems that allowed an individual to publish a book without maintaining a warehouse of printed inventory or depending entirely upon a traditional publishing organization.
The early self-publishing environment was not identical to the Kindle Direct Publishing platform we know today. Amazon's CreateSpace introduced its books-on-demand service in 2007, and Kindle's digital self-publishing platform also emerged that year. Those services were part of a broader transformation in which authors gradually acquired greater control over production, distribution, pricing, and access to readers.
Leadership: Texas Hold'em Style was human-written. Its underlying ideas came from my research and experience with leadership. The technology did not create the manuscript. It changed the means through which the manuscript could become a book and reach its audience.
That distinction has stayed with me. A new technology does not necessarily diminish the human contribution to a work. Sometimes it removes a barrier that previously prevented the creator from exercising greater control over the work.
There were costs associated with that choice, too. Independent publishing meant assuming responsibilities that traditional publishers had ordinarily performed. It required learning unfamiliar systems, making production decisions, and accepting the possibility that a new publishing model might not produce the desired results. But I regarded those difficulties as part of the price of experimentation. The alternative was to leave decisions about my work entirely in the hands of established institutions.
V. Nine Books and a New Creative Partner
I have now written nine books. Seven were completed before today's generative AI systems became widely available. They reflect decades of professional experience, research, observation, teaching, and reflection. My subjects have ranged from policing and leadership to personal experiences and Freemasonry. Technology has influenced how some of those books were produced and distributed, but it did not invent the experiences and ideas that gave rise to them.
My two most recent books have involved artificial intelligence in different ways. One is essentially a memoir, rooted in my own experiences and written from my recollections, with AI assisting primarily in the editing process. The other involved a more extensive collaborative process. I supplied the research, the ideas, the organization, the original written material, and the creative direction. AI assisted as I developed, questioned, revised, and refined what I wanted to communicate.
I recognize that there are legitimate distinctions between asking a system to correct grammar, asking it to suggest a better structure, and asking it to generate original prose. Those are not interchangeable activities. Nor would I claim that every work produced through extensive prompting is automatically equivalent to a manuscript composed entirely by a human being. The extent of the human contribution matters, and so does the extent of the machine's contribution.
But authors have long relied upon assistance. Editors suggest changes, researchers locate information, designers interpret visual concepts, and publishers recommend revisions. When I have hired someone to design a book cover, I have not always known which tools that person employed. The creative responsibility was divided among people performing different roles. My responsibility as the author remained to determine whether the finished product appropriately represented the work.
The arrival of generative AI does not eliminate the need to examine the nature of those contributions. It makes the examination more complicated. I believe the appropriate response is to describe the process accurately, recognize the contributions involved, and retain responsibility for the final work. That is why I distinguish between AI assistance and AI generation rather than treating the presence of AI as a complete description of how something was created.
This distinction is particularly important because the phrase "AI-generated" is sometimes used as though it describes the entire creative process. In reality, it may describe only one part of that process. An image can be generated by a model while its underlying concept, purpose, composition, selection, and eventual use are directed by a person. An essay can be human-written and AI-edited. Another work may contain substantial AI-generated passages alongside original human writing. These are different circumstances, and meaningful criticism should distinguish among them.
When someone says that artificial intelligence generated a piece of work, I want to ask what the human being did. Who conceived the idea? Who decided what the audience should understand? Who evaluated the results, corrected the errors, and determined what was worth publishing? Sometimes the honest answer will be that the person contributed very little. At other times, the human contribution will be substantial. The label alone does not settle the matter.
VI. The Author Becomes a Multimedia Creator
The same technological evolution has transformed the way I promote my books. I have appeared on more than fifty podcasts, reaching audiences through a form of communication that would have been difficult for an independent author to access on anything approaching the same scale a generation ago. I continue to participate in traditional author events, talk with readers, and enjoy the personal interactions that have always been part of literary life. The new methods have not replaced the old ones. They have expanded the ways I can communicate.
Social media created another opportunity. I could publish short reflections, ask questions, share historical information, and connect my books and essays with audiences far beyond my immediate community. Initially, that meant assembling images and writing captions using conventional digital tools. Generative AI has now made it possible to create illustrations and videos that are specifically designed around the ideas I want to communicate.
The process is not simply a matter of pushing a button and accepting whatever appears. I begin with a subject or argument. I consider what might cause someone to pause and think about it. I develop a visual concept, work through prompts, examine the results, and make revisions. Sometimes I abandon the idea because the technology cannot produce what I envision. Sometimes the process itself suggests a better way to communicate the thought. The final decision about what to publish remains mine.
I also disclose the use of AI-generated material in my online work. That disclosure has occasionally become controversial. Some people object to generative AI regardless of how transparently it is used or how much human effort went into directing the result. I understand that those objections often arise from serious concerns about creativity and intellectual property. But I do not believe disclosure should become a reason to assume that no human thought or effort contributed to the finished product.
In recent months, I have become particularly interested in something that happens after one of these AI-assisted creations is published. The image may be synthetic, but the discussion it generates can be remarkably human. That observation has led me to conduct what I consider one of my most interesting experiments with this technology.
VII. Four Experiments in Human Conversation
For many years, I taught at the university level, where one of my responsibilities was not simply to transmit information but to encourage students to examine what they believed and why they believed it. I have always appreciated the Socratic approach to education: introducing a proposition, asking questions, challenging assumptions, and allowing students to develop their understanding through discussion. Sometimes the most effective classroom question is one that makes students uncomfortable enough to reconsider something they had previously accepted without much thought. The objective is not necessarily agreement. It is thoughtful examination, supported by reason, experience, and evidence.
That educational experience informed a series of experiments I conducted through my Facebook page, The Temple Within, which focuses on Freemasonry, its history, symbolism, philosophy, and practice. I wanted to see whether the same techniques I had used in the classroom could work in a social media environment. Could I formulate a proposition, present it in a way that would cause someone to stop scrolling, and encourage the reader to enter a genuine discussion? More importantly, could that discussion develop beyond my original question, with participants challenging one another, comparing experiences, and arriving at new understandings?
The process was deliberate. I began with words, not images. I developed propositions similar to those I might have placed before a university class, sometimes challenging an established practice or questioning a familiar assumption. Then I worked with generative AI to create visual presentations designed to make those propositions more noticeable. The image was intended to capture attention; the words were intended to provoke thought. The comments would provide the opportunity for discussion. I was interested in whether the technology could help extend a traditional educational method into an environment where participants did not know one another and might live thousands of miles apart.
During the sixty days from August 26 through October 25, 2026, The Temple Within published 76 posts that collectively received 676,852 views and 1,225 comments. Within that broader activity, four deliberately constructed experiments attracted 285,147 views. These were not all unique individuals, nor does a view establish that someone carefully read the material. But the reach was extraordinary from my perspective as an independent author, especially when compared with the audiences I could ordinarily assemble through book signings, presentations, or classroom instruction.
The first experiment, concerning a Grand Master's prerogative to make a Mason at sight, received 112,566 views and 106 comments. The second, examining whether a smartphone should be considered a working tool in lodge, received 77,784 views and 131 comments. A third, exploring the connections between Freemasonry and the men who walked on the Moon, received 19,801 views and 62 comments. The fourth, provocatively suggesting that the title of Past Master should be abolished, received 74,996 views and generated an extended and sometimes contentious discussion.
The Past Master experiment deserves a special explanation. Facebook's export records 407 comments associated with the post. However, the discussion I preserved contained 215 relevant comments after I removed substantial off-topic and abusive material, including accusations about Freemasons being Satanists or pedophiles. My objective was not to accumulate the greatest possible number of comments. It was to create an environment in which participants could examine the question at hand. That required the same kind of judgment a classroom instructor exercises when discussion wanders away from the subject or becomes personally abusive.
The numbers demonstrate reach and participation, but they are not the principal reason I regard the experiments as successful. The evidence I find most compelling is contained in the conversations themselves. In several instances, one brother made a statement about Masonic practice, another challenged it based on the rules of his jurisdiction, and a third supplied additional information neither had considered. Sometimes I participated, asking further questions or explaining the reasoning behind my proposition. At other times, the participants conducted the discussion entirely among themselves. I was no longer the instructor directing every exchange; I had created the circumstances in which people began teaching and learning from one another.
Something else happened during these experiments that was equally important. I became better at designing them. In the earlier attempts, I frequently found myself intervening to clarify the original question, redirect misunderstandings, or introduce additional considerations. I had succeeded in attracting attention, but I was still learning how to turn that attention into the kind of sustained discussion I wanted. Merely asking a provocative question was not enough. The wording had to be carefully constructed so that participants would be encouraged to examine a proposition rather than simply defend a preconceived position.
As I continued experimenting, I became more deliberate about the language of the questions and the relationship between the words and the accompanying images. I learned to frame propositions that contained enough tension to invite disagreement, but enough substance to support a meaningful exchange. The visual presentation had to be striking enough to interrupt the scrolling, yet clear enough that the reader understood the issue being raised. The image could not do all the intellectual work, nor should it. Its purpose was to bring attention to the question.
As my technique improved, I found that I needed to intervene less frequently. Participants increasingly began answering one another, introducing information, challenging assumptions, and pursuing questions beyond the original proposition. I was not becoming less involved in the educational purpose of the experiment. I was becoming more effective at establishing the conditions in which that purpose could be achieved.
I recognized the experience from my years in the classroom. Sometimes I would pose a question and discover that it had not quite reached the students. I would have to rephrase it, introduce an example, or ask a follow-up question to get the discussion moving. But when I asked the right question, something wonderful happened. The class would go galloping off in the right direction, examining the issue from angles I had not necessarily anticipated. Students would begin challenging one another, bringing their own experiences into the discussion, and pursuing implications that extended beyond my original question. At that point, the last thing I wanted to do was interrupt them simply to remind everyone that I was the instructor.
The same principle began operating in these online experiments. I was not attempting to withdraw from human interaction. I was attempting to create more of it, particularly the kind that could continue without my constant direction. If Brother A raised a question and Brother B answered it from the perspective of his jurisdiction, there was no reason for me to interfere simply to restate what Brother B had already explained. If Brother C then introduced a different interpretation, the exchange became richer. My responsibility was to create the opportunity, observe the discussion, and intervene when clarification, moderation, or further questioning would improve it.
That progression taught me something important about the technology. Artificial intelligence was not becoming a better teacher. I was becoming more effective at using it to support an educational method I had practiced for years. The system helped me create visual presentations, but the selection of the subject, the framing of the question, the recognition of useful exchanges, and the decision about when to intervene remained human judgments.
This was especially striking because these men were not sitting together in a classroom or lodge. They were participating from different communities, jurisdictions, and countries, bringing knowledge shaped by their own Masonic experiences. They did not always agree, and they did not always remain on topic. But they exchanged information, considered unfamiliar interpretations, and occasionally developed questions that had not been part of my original proposition. The process resembled the classroom environment I had hoped to create, except that the classroom had no walls and the discussion was not limited to people I already knew.
As an independent author, I could not realistically expect to assemble an audience of this size and geographic reach through conventional book promotion alone in a sixty-day period. Even appearing on more than fifty podcasts and continuing to participate in traditional author events, I have rarely had the opportunity to observe so many people encountering my ideas and responding directly to one another. Social media made the distribution possible, while my use of AI-assisted imagery helped me construct presentations specifically designed to invite that participation. The real achievement was not simply putting my work in front of an audience; it was encouraging members of that audience to become contributors to an ongoing intellectual exchange.
I cannot establish from the analytics precisely how many people learned something, changed their opinions, or pursued further research. Those are outcomes that would require additional evidence. But I can point to actual exchanges in which information was supplied, assumptions were challenged, differences among jurisdictions were explained, and previously unconsidered ideas entered the discussion. Those are observable elements of a learning process.
What emerged was something more interesting than an effective social media campaign. I had used artificial intelligence to help present human-generated questions in a manner capable of attracting attention. Then human beings took those questions and developed them into conversations that no machine had scripted and that I could not have predicted in advance. The technology extended my creative and educational reach, but the intellectual exchange remained genuinely human.
A. Making a Mason at Sight: Who Has the Authority?
One discussion concerned the prerogative of a Grand Master to make a Mason at sight. This is a subject involving Masonic law, the authority of Grand Masters, traditional initiation procedures, and differences among jurisdictions. An AI-assisted visual presentation helped introduce the question. The resulting discussion drew participants who described practices in their own jurisdictions, challenged assertions made by others, and examined whether exceptions to ordinary initiation procedures could be justified.
One brother insisted that the decision belonged to the lodge and its investigative committee rather than the Grand Master. Another responded that this was a jurisdictional question, explaining that some Grand Masters possess authority to make Masons at sight without following the ordinary process. The first brother suggested that such an individual would merely be an honorary Mason. A third brother challenged that interpretation, explaining that, in circumstances familiar to him, such men were not simply honorary members and could still be expected to complete additional degree work or demonstrate proficiency.
There was no artificial intelligence participating in that exchange. One brother made an assertion, another introduced a jurisdictional exception, and a third added information that complicated the distinction between honorary membership and traditional initiation. The conversation did not require my intervention to develop. The participants were comparing their own understanding of Masonic practice, and each contribution gave others additional information to consider.
Another discussion concerned Mackey's Landmarks. One brother referred to Mackey as an authority on the prerogatives of Grand Masters. A second brother, writing from a different Masonic tradition, explained that his jurisdiction did not recognize Mackey's particular enumeration of Landmarks. That exchange revealed an assumption worth questioning: principles treated as authoritative in one jurisdiction are not necessarily understood or applied identically in another.
Participants also compared methods of balloting on candidates. Some described the use of white balls and black cubes, while others explained the number of adverse votes required for rejection in their jurisdictions. One brother described a procedure requiring a second ballot after a single unfavorable vote, while another discussed different rules followed elsewhere. These exchanges moved beyond the original question about making a Mason at sight, yet they remained directly relevant to the broader issue of how Masonic authority and membership are regulated.
The conversation became more interesting when participants introduced circumstances beyond the original legal question. Some discussed serious illness and physical limitations that might prevent a candidate from completing the usual degree work. One brother opposed exceptions because he believed candidates should experience the traditional degrees. Another introduced the example of a worthy candidate whose physical limitations could make the ordinary process impossible. The issue was no longer simply whether a Grand Master possessed a particular authority, but whether the exercise of that authority might sometimes serve a compassionate purpose.
The value of that conversation was not that everyone reached the same conclusion. They did not. Its value was that participants brought their own knowledge, traditions, and experiences to a question that could not be resolved simply by looking at an image. I participated in the discussion and directed readers toward a longer essay examining Harry Truman, Douglas MacArthur, and the meaning of Masonic initiation. The technology helped create an opportunity for discussion, but the knowledge being exchanged came from people.
B. The Phone Is Not a Working Tool: When Tradition Meets Necessity
A second experiment began with a proposition that was even closer to the daily experience of many Freemasons: "The Phone Is Not a Working Tool." The accompanying material referred to an essay I had written about the importance of preserving the sacred silence of a tiled lodge. My initial position was that phones could bring the distractions of the outside world into a setting intended for reflection, attention, and the performance of Masonic work.
Some brothers agreed immediately. They described lodges that required phones to be turned off, imposed fines for ringing devices, or directed members to leave their phones with the Tyler so that genuine emergencies could still be communicated. Others questioned whether those practices were reasonable or necessary. The discussion quickly became more complicated than a simple choice between respecting lodge traditions and allowing electronic distractions.
One brother described using his phone as a hotspot to perform his duties as lodge secretary, while keeping it silent. Another explained that his calendar, contacts, and notes were stored on the device. A third observed that his Grand Lodge provided an application through which members could pay dues, access digital membership cards, and locate lodge information. If the institution itself was encouraging electronic administration, these brothers wondered whether every use of a phone could reasonably be regarded as improper.
Other participants raised concerns that had little to do with convenience. One brother explained that his phone was necessary to adjust his hearing aids so he could understand what was being said. Another asked whether someone monitoring another person's glucose levels should be excluded from lodge because the monitoring system depended upon a smartphone. A physician described being continuously available for professional emergencies. Others discussed firefighters, surgeons, and members whose family responsibilities sometimes required them to remain reachable.
These were not hypothetical objections invented to defeat an argument. They were descriptions of circumstances that actual men encountered in their daily lives. The conversation changed the question. Instead of asking whether phones should be allowed in lodge, participants began asking how a lodge could preserve its solemnity while accommodating legitimate medical, professional, and family responsibilities.
One exchange concerned whether using a phone to record calendar information during a meeting was inherently disrespectful. A brother explained that members routinely used phones to record announcements and important dates. Another objected that the practice was distracting and inconsiderate. The first defended the distinction between using a device for legitimate lodge business and using it for unrelated entertainment. The conversation continued because the disagreement was not really about the physical device; it was about the behavior and attention of the person using it.
Another participant raised a question that deserves serious reflection: Was the brother there for the meeting, or was the meeting there for the brothers? That single observation shifted the discussion toward the purpose of the institution itself. Rules intended to preserve a tradition may serve an important purpose, but their application must also account for the people the institution exists to serve.
The discussion moved beyond whether phones were annoying. It became a conversation about tradition, accessibility, professional obligations, institutional adaptability, and respect for one's fellow members. I began with a proposition about maintaining the atmosphere of a lodge. Other people introduced considerations that complicated the proposition and required more careful thought.
There is an interesting parallel here to the debate over artificial intelligence. An established institution encounters a technology that some members perceive as threatening its traditional character. Others see the same technology as a practical tool that allows them to fulfill responsibilities or participate more effectively. Neither argument can be properly evaluated without understanding the circumstances in which the technology is used.
That is precisely what a worthwhile discussion should accomplish.
C. Freemasonry and the Moon: The Value of Historical Curiosity
A third example involved the history of Freemasonry and lunar exploration. I posted a provocative claim that one-third of the twelve men who walked on the Moon had connections to the Masonic family and encouraged readers to examine the underlying essay. The word "connections" is important because membership in a Masonic lodge and affiliation with related organizations are not necessarily identical. The purpose was to encourage readers to investigate the history rather than accept a surprising statistic without examination.
One brother raised a question about whether a lodge associated with the Moon had ever formally been closed. Another participant challenged the way he understood that proposition. A third contributed information about Buzz Aldrin's Masonic affiliations and the objects associated with his lunar mission. Yet another identified himself as a member of Tranquility Lodge 2000, providing a personal connection to an organization that other readers might never have encountered.
I responded to several participants by directing them toward the longer essay, where the historical information could be explored in greater detail. One reader explicitly indicated that he wanted to learn more. My response was not to summarize everything in another short Facebook comment, but to invite him to examine the underlying material.
This was not an extended Socratic dialogue, but it demonstrated another useful function of social media: a brief question can become the entry point to more substantial reading and inquiry. Readers were not merely asked to admire an illustration. They were being encouraged to question a surprising claim, seek additional information, and contribute what they knew.
I do not know how many of those readers eventually read the complete essay or changed their understanding of Masonic history. The available comments do not establish that. What they do establish is that people were asking questions, contributing information, and expressing interest in further exploration. That is a worthwhile beginning.
D. Past Master Should Be Abolished: The Conversation Becomes the Creative Work
The fourth experiment was by far the most provocative. I published a proposition titled "Past Master Should Be Abolished." In Freemasonry, Past Master is a title ordinarily associated with someone who has served as the Master of a lodge. My argument questioned whether a lifelong title was consistent with the Masonic principle of meeting upon the Level, where internal qualifications are supposed to matter more than external honors.
The response was immediate and often intense. The discussion eventually included 215 relevant comments after I moderated it. Some readers regarded the proposition as an attack on tradition or a failure to appreciate the service of Past Masters. Others agreed that the title could become a source of unnecessary hierarchy or influence. Several explained that Past Masters possess no continuing formal authority in their jurisdictions. Others described how their experience and institutional knowledge made them essential mentors to younger officers.
One brother argued that the title was simply an acknowledgment of service and carried no additional authority. Another described how, while progressing through lodge offices, he had frequently relied upon the advice of Past Masters who possessed greater experience. A third distinguished between providing helpful guidance and using the title to interfere with the authority of the current Master. Each participant approached the question from a somewhat different perspective, but together they began identifying a distinction that was more important than the title alone: the difference between earned respect and assumed authority.
Another exchange began when a brother introduced the distinction between the Virtual Past Master and Actual Past Master degrees. Participants from Indiana and Massachusetts contributed information about ceremonies and qualifications in their respective jurisdictions. One brother described receiving both degrees, while another explained a qualification process followed in his jurisdiction. I acknowledged that some of this information was new to me. Here was a discussion that I had initiated, yet I was receiving an education from the men participating in it.
Other contributors challenged the comparison between Past Masters and former presidents. One brother observed that former presidents continue to be addressed by their titles after leaving office, and several participants agreed that this was a reasonable comparison. I responded by explaining that my concern was not simply whether people continued to use an honorific. I was questioning whether titles influence the way people perceive authority, status, and equality within a fraternal organization. The exchange forced me to clarify the difference between formal power and the influence created by custom.
Another brother offered a particularly useful distinction. The problem, he suggested, was not necessarily the title of Past Master, but whether men who had completed their year in office understood that their responsibility afterward was to help the lodge grow without interfering with its new leadership. A further participant described the importance of mentoring officers while allowing them to make their own decisions. These contributions moved the discussion toward practical leadership rather than ceremonial terminology.
Still another participant described a situation in which a newly initiated Mason had been reprimanded for failing to use the proper honorific when addressing a Past Master. That experience illustrated a consequence of titles that could easily be overlooked by someone who regarded them as harmless recognition. It also gave the discussion a human dimension. The question was no longer merely what a title meant in Masonic law, but how its use might affect the experience of a new brother.
As the discussion developed, participants raised distinctions I had not fully anticipated. They described practices in particular American jurisdictions, the treatment of titles in Scotland, and the relationship between experience and institutional influence. Some questioned whether the problem was the title itself or the conduct of those who used it to assert influence. Others argued that the real issue was inadequate preparation of men who were advancing into positions of leadership.
I did not simply publish the proposition and leave the participants to argue among themselves. I answered comments, asked follow-up questions, clarified my reasoning, acknowledged new information, and challenged some of the assumptions being made. When the volume of comments grew, I produced additional material, including a workshop-style video and an essay exploring the subject more fully.
But I was not responsible for every meaningful exchange. Brothers were responding to other brothers, bringing their own experiences into the discussion, comparing practices, and challenging interpretations. Some of the most interesting conversations developed without my participation at all. The original question had become something larger than the person who posed it.
That is what I find especially important about these experiments. The image was not the intellectual destination. It was the invitation. The conversation itself became a creative and educational activity, shaped by the knowledge and judgment of the people taking part.
The original proposition was mine. The decision to challenge a longstanding tradition was mine. The response to the resulting discussion was also mine. Yet the technology allowed me to present that question to an international audience and receive a range of perspectives that would have been difficult to assemble in a single lodge room.
What impressed me most was that the conversation did not merely distribute my ideas. It returned new ideas to me. I was learning from the participants just as some of them were exploring information introduced by others. The process was not a lecture delivered to passive recipients. It was a continuing exchange.
I would be cautious about declaring that every participant learned something or that the discussion changed anyone's settled beliefs. The comments do not provide that kind of evidence. Some contributions were superficial, dismissive, or unrelated to the proposition. But the substantive exchanges demonstrate that meaningful human inquiry was occurring, sometimes across national and jurisdictional boundaries, around questions of history, leadership, authority, and Masonic philosophy.
Four experiments, four different subjects, and four different forms of engagement. The common element was not the sophistication of the artificial intelligence involved. It was the willingness of people to think, question, and respond. The technology extended my ability to initiate the discussions. The participants supplied the intellectual substance that made them worthwhile.
VIII. Brother to Brother, Not Brother to Bot
One of the most revealing elements of the Past Master discussion was the reaction to the use of artificial intelligence itself. Several participants objected to what they perceived as AI-generated content. One asserted that a debate should occur between brothers rather than between a brother and a bot. Another questioned whether the author was even willing to defend the position presented.
I found those responses particularly interesting because I was there, reading the comments and participating in the conversation. In one instance, I had posted the essay, gone to bed, and returned to discover that readers were already questioning my willingness to engage. I responded by explaining what had happened and continuing the discussion. I had not delegated the debate to a machine. I had used technology to help present a question and then participated personally in examining the answers.
Some criticism was directed less at the argument than at the means through which it had been presented. The accusation that something was "AI content" sometimes appeared to be offered as a complete rebuttal, as though identifying a technological contribution made it unnecessary to examine the proposition itself. One participant suggested that an AI-assisted discussion could not be a genuine exchange between brothers. Another dismissed the material without addressing the underlying issue of whether lifelong titles were consistent with the symbolism of equality.
The irony was difficult to miss. Real people were discussing real questions, often with considerable knowledge and seriousness, while other people were insisting that the presence of AI somehow made the discussion artificial. In some instances, brothers were learning from one another without my intervention. Yet the technological origin of the illustration seemed, for certain critics, more important than the intellectual activity taking place beneath it.
The objection nevertheless deserves consideration. People have good reason to be concerned about synthetic identities, automated engagement, deceptive accounts, and the proliferation of material generated without meaningful human oversight. An online environment crowded with artificial content can make genuine intellectual exchange more difficult to recognize. I share the concern that people should know whether they are communicating with a human being or an automated system.
But that was not what was happening in these discussions. The original propositions reflected my interests and judgments. The essays and comments reflected my participation. Other people responded with their own experiences and knowledge. The images might have been generated with AI assistance, but the conversation was not imaginary.
I think there is a useful educational distinction here. A textbook illustration does not have to be a literal photograph of an event to provoke serious inquiry. A hypothetical question need not describe something that actually occurred in order to help students understand an ethical dilemma. A teacher can construct a scenario specifically to challenge assumptions and encourage discussion. The educational value depends partly on how the material is used and the thinking it stimulates.
In much the same way, an AI-assisted meme can serve as the opening question in a much larger intellectual exercise. It does not need to contain every answer. In fact, it may be more effective when it does not. Its purpose can be to encourage people to examine what they believe, explain why they believe it, listen to competing interpretations, and discover what they do not yet know.
That is not a replacement for human conversation. It is one way of initiating it.
There is a cost to making that choice. When a person labels work as AI-generated or AI-assisted, some readers will dismiss it before considering what it says. Others may question the competence, authenticity, or even the existence of the person presenting it. I have experienced some of that reaction myself. It is an odd experience to spend years studying and writing about a subject, pose a question rooted in that experience, and then have someone suggest that no genuine author exists behind the words.
I do not object to criticism of my ideas. Criticism is part of intellectual life, and a provocative proposition should be expected to provoke disagreement. What troubles me is the substitution of a label for an argument. If someone believes a claim is historically incorrect, philosophically unsound, or inconsistent with Masonic law, I welcome the opportunity to examine the evidence. Calling the material AI-generated, however, does not establish that the claim is wrong.
IX. The Unexpected Irony of Appropriated Work
Another experience complicated the question of AI-assisted creativity. I discovered that one of my memes had been reproduced on an Australian website, accompanied by material that closely followed much of the essay I had written to explain it. The presentation appeared to treat substantial portions of my original work as the other publisher's own.
There is an irony in that experience. Some people are prepared to dismiss creative material because AI participated in producing it. Yet here was someone apparently finding enough value in the material to reproduce it and appropriate the accompanying explanation. The fact that a work has been assisted by technology does not mean that the human ideas, research, organization, and expression behind it are unimportant.
Of course, the legal questions are more complicated than the ethical ones. The copyright status of a generated image may differ from the copyright status of original text written by a human being. Human-authored writing does not lose its protection merely because it appears alongside AI-generated imagery. Nor does directing a generator through a series of prompts necessarily establish ownership of every element the system creates.
For me, the incident illustrates why broad labels are inadequate. An AI-assisted publication can contain original human research, original argument, human-written passages, commissioned elements, and generated imagery. Those components do not all have the same provenance or necessarily the same legal status. A meaningful discussion of authorship requires us to examine the actual contributions rather than placing an entire work into one convenient category.
The question is not simply whether AI was involved. It is what was created, who contributed to it, what was represented to the audience, and whether the intellectual labor of others was respected.
The incident also revealed something about the way technology changes the distribution of creative work. The same systems that make it easier for an independent author to publish and reach an audience also make it easier for others to reproduce and circulate the material. This is not a problem invented by generative AI. Writers, photographers, musicians, and artists have confronted unauthorized reproduction throughout the history of modern media. What changes with new technology is the scale, speed, and ease with which it can happen.
There is an additional paradox in dismissing a work as having no genuine creative value while simultaneously reproducing it as though it were worth claiming. The copying does not prove that every element of the original is legally protected, but it does demonstrate the inadequacy of judging an entire creative project solely by whether a machine assisted in producing part of it.
X. The Ethical Questions We Cannot Ignore
None of these experiences persuades me that every use of generative AI is appropriate. I understand why writers, illustrators, photographers, and other creative professionals are concerned about systems trained on enormous collections of existing material. Questions about permission, compensation, attribution, and the commercial use of copyrighted work are real. So are concerns about the economic effects of technology that can produce material previously commissioned from working professionals.
Generative AI also introduces risks that go beyond the earlier development of Photoshop or online publishing. It can produce convincing images of events that never happened, generate statements that appear authoritative but are factually wrong, imitate styles, and make the mass production of misleading content inexpensive and easy. The same accessibility that allows an independent author to create an imaginative illustration also allows someone else to create deceptive material on an unprecedented scale.
The distinction between honest creative expression and deception therefore matters enormously. I would not defend publishing a synthetic photograph as evidence of an actual event without appropriate disclosure. The lesson of the National Geographic pyramids controversy remains relevant: an audience has a right to understand what kind of representation it is being shown. The standards appropriate to documentary journalism are not necessarily identical to those governing an imaginative illustration, but the creator has a responsibility not to mislead the audience about either.
The legal system is also attempting to draw distinctions. In 2025, the United States Copyright Office concluded that the use of AI as an assistant does not, by itself, eliminate copyright protection for human-authored contributions. It also emphasized that merely providing prompts does not necessarily give someone sufficient expressive control over generated output to claim authorship of that output. Those conclusions recognize both the continuing importance of human creativity and the need to evaluate particular works carefully.
The Authors Guild has taken a similarly serious approach to protecting human authorship, although it draws restrictive boundaries for its Human Authored certification. That program distinguishes human-written text from more substantial AI-generated text, while recognizing limited uses of editing and correction tools. These standards demonstrate that the literary community is still working through difficult questions rather than arriving at one universally accepted definition.
I believe transparency, responsible judgment, and careful distinctions offer a better foundation for that discussion than categorical assumptions about everything associated with AI. Human-created, AI-assisted, and AI-generated are useful descriptions, but they should begin a conversation about the creative process rather than end it.
There is also a responsibility on the part of those of us who choose to experiment. We should be willing to identify when AI was involved, examine the accuracy of what it produces, consider the rights of other creators, and acknowledge that some applications may be inappropriate. We should not expect every criticism to disappear simply because we believe our intentions are good. Responsible innovation requires more than enthusiasm. It requires judgment, restraint, and a willingness to revise our practices as we learn more.
But those responsibilities should not be confused with an obligation to abandon experimentation altogether. A technology may present ethical difficulties while also creating genuine opportunities for education, communication, accessibility, and creative expression. Recognizing one side of that equation should not require denying the other.
XI. Standing at the Frontier
Looking back across my writing career, I recognize a consistent pattern. When I was preparing Police Technology, I was thinking about the future of online education and pushing for an electronic textbook, a companion website, and computerized examinations. When I took Leadership: Texas Hold'em Style away from a traditional publishing arrangement, I was exploring new means of independent production and distribution. Now I am experimenting with artificial intelligence as a way of developing ideas, refining writing, producing visual material, and communicating with readers.
In every instance, I have been interested in what the technology might make possible rather than simply what it was already being used to do. That does not mean I have always been right in my predictions or successful in my experiments. Some ideas have worked better than others, and some have required considerable revision. But I have never believed that the responsible response to a new technology is to wait until every question has been answered before attempting to understand it.
That perspective also informs how I think about community leadership. Businesses, nonprofit organizations, educators, and civic institutions will all confront the opportunities and difficulties created by generative AI. Some will choose to use it extensively, some selectively, and others not at all. Those choices deserve respect. But I believe people who occupy positions of community leadership have a responsibility to understand what is changing and help others examine the possibilities, rather than simply treating unfamiliar technology as something to be discouraged.
Experimentation does not mean abandoning standards. It means asking better questions, establishing appropriate boundaries, measuring results, and being willing to discover that some assumptions were mistaken. I would rather help a local business understand both the possibilities and the limitations of an emerging technology than discourage its employees or owners from exploring it simply because the technology makes us uncomfortable.
There is also a personal dimension to this discussion. At this stage of my life, after nine books and decades of teaching, writing, and public service, I find generative AI intellectually exciting. Ideas that once remained in my imagination because I lacked the time, money, or technical skills to bring them into visual form can now become illustrations, presentations, and videos. I can experiment, reconsider, revise, and sometimes discover a better way to communicate something I have been thinking about for years.
When I encounter the suggestion that using these tools somehow diminishes my creativity, I experience it almost as an invitation to narrow the possibilities available to me. I understand that some people draw different ethical boundaries, and I respect their right to do so. But I cannot accept that using a new tool necessarily makes the human contribution less genuine. For me, the experience has been precisely the opposite.
The four Masonic discussions brought this into particularly sharp focus. An AI-assisted image introduced a question about the authority of a Grand Master, and men from different jurisdictions compared their traditions. Another image prompted a conversation about phones in lodge that expanded into accessibility, medical needs, and professional responsibilities. A historical proposition about the Moon encouraged readers to investigate connections between Freemasonry and space exploration. A deliberately provocative argument about Past Masters produced debate, criticism, new information, further essays, and a workshop video.
I find myself returning to the purpose of those four experiments. I was not attempting to demonstrate that an artificial intelligence system could replace a teacher, an author, or a thoughtful discussion among Freemasons. I was attempting to discover whether the combination of human-authored questions and AI-assisted visual presentation could recreate something I had valued throughout my years in the classroom: people thinking together. Within sixty days, four such experiments accumulated more than 285,000 views, and the comments revealed men exchanging knowledge, challenging assumptions, and examining ideas across jurisdictions and national boundaries. Some conversations continued without any participation from me. As an independent author, I cannot imagine bringing that many encounters with my work into existence through conventional promotional methods over the same period.
But perhaps the most important result was not the size of the audience. It was what happened as I improved my ability to formulate the questions. In the classroom, I learned that when I posed the right question, students could carry the discussion much further than I could by lecturing. Once the class was galloping off in the right direction, my responsibility was not to interrupt simply to demonstrate that I remained in control. It was to listen, observe, and intervene only when I could help the discussion become more productive.
That was increasingly what happened in these experiments. I found myself needing to intervene less because I had become better at initiating the conversations. The men participating were not becoming less dependent upon human interaction. They were engaging in more of it, often with people whose experiences and traditions differed significantly from their own. The absence of my constant participation was not a weakness in the experiment. It was evidence that the original question had become sufficiently effective to sustain discussion without me.
Those conversations were not created by artificial intelligence. They were created by people. The technology helped me reach them, but the experiences, disagreements, questions, humor, and learning belonged to the participants. In several instances, I learned things I had not previously known. That is an outcome I value far more than the number of likes attached to a post.
I began this essay with a photograph of the pyramids and a controversy about whether technology had changed the truth of what people were seeing. I end it with illustrations that were never intended to be photographs of historical reality, but that helped people explore genuine questions about the institutions, traditions, and principles they value.
The distinction is important. We should demand honesty about how creative material is produced, and we should continue examining the consequences of the technologies involved. But we should also recognize that human creativity is not confined to the mechanics of producing an image or arranging words on a page. It includes imagination, inquiry, judgment, interpretation, and the ability to bring people into meaningful conversation.
Yet standing at the frontier has its costs. I have encountered people who are willing to dismiss an argument before reading it, a visual presentation before considering its purpose, and an author's work simply because artificial intelligence was involved somewhere in the creative process. Sometimes the criticism is thoughtful and raises questions worth examining. Sometimes it amounts to little more than name-calling, with "AI-generated" offered as though those two words were sufficient to discredit everything that followed.
That is particularly frustrating when I have spent hours developing an idea, researching a subject, refining its presentation, and engaging with the people who respond. The machine did not decide that Freemasons should examine the title of Past Master. It did not decide that the authority of a Grand Master deserved discussion, or that the relationship between modern technology and Masonic tradition was worth exploring. Those were human decisions, made by someone whose professional and intellectual interests long preceded the availability of generative AI.
The machine helped produce some of the material through which those ideas were communicated. It did not supply the experiences of the men who responded, the jurisdictional knowledge they shared, the objections they raised, or the new perspectives that emerged from their discussions. Most importantly, it did not turn those exchanges into genuine conversations. The participants did that themselves.
I think we should be careful with our language. When we say AI generated an image, we may be accurately describing how the pixels were produced. But when we say AI generated an entire creative experience, we may be overlooking the person who conceived it, directed it, and used it to accomplish something meaningful. Someone is using the AI to generate that material. Someone is making choices, exercising judgment, and accepting responsibility. Those contributions can be small or substantial, but they deserve to be examined rather than assumed away.
I have spent much of my life looking toward the next development in the technologies that allow us to communicate. I do not intend to stop now. The frontier is uncertain, the ethical questions are substantial, and some of the answers remain to be discovered. Those seem to me like reasons to continue learning rather than reasons to retreat.
I am not surrendering my creativity to artificial intelligence. I am using artificial intelligence to explore the boundaries of my own creativity. I recognize that such exploration may invite criticism, misunderstanding, and occasionally exclusion from opportunities available to those who choose more conventional methods. That is part of the cost of standing at a frontier. It is a cost worth acknowledging, but not necessarily a reason to turn away.
And if the result is that people from around the world gather to question, disagree, share knowledge, and learn from one another, then the most important thing produced by the technology may not be the image on the screen.
It may be the human conversation that follows.
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