Ex Machina: A shot in the arm for smart sci-fi


Alicia Vikander as Ava in Alex Garland’s Ex Machina

IT’S a rare thing to see a movie about science that takes no prisoners intellectually. Alex Garland’s Ex Machina is just that: a stylish, spare and cerebral psycho-techno-thriller, which gives a much-needed shot in the arm for smart science fiction.

Reclusive billionaire genius Nathan, played by Oscar Isaac, creates Ava, an intelligent and very attractive robot played by Alicia Vikander. He then struggles with the philosophical and ethical dilemmas his creation poses, while all hell breaks loose. Many twists and turns add nuance to the plot, which centres on the evolving relationships between the balletic Ava and Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson), a hotshot programmer invited by Nathan to be the “human component in a Turing test”, and between Caleb and Nathan, as Ava’s extraordinary capabilities become increasingly apparent

Everything about this movie is good. Compelling acting (with only three speaking parts), exquisite photography and set design, immaculate special effects, a subtle score and, above all, a hugely imaginative screenplay combine under Garland’s precise direction to deliver a cinematic experience that grabs you and never lets go.

The best science fiction often tackles the oldest questions. At the heart of Ex Machina is one of our toughest intellectual knots, that of artificial consciousness. Is it possible to build a machine that is not only intelligent but also sentient: that has consciousness, not only of the world but also of its own self? Can we construct a modern-day Golem, that lumpen being of Jewish folklore which is shaped from unformed matter and can both serve humankind and turn against it? And if we could, what would happen to us?

In Jewish folkore, the Golem is animate being shaped from unformed matter.

In Jewish folkore, the Golem is animate being shaped from unformed matter.

Putting aside the tedious business of actually building a conscious AI, we face the challenge of figuring out whether the attempt succeeds. The standard reference for this sort of question is Alan Turing’s eponymous test, in which a human judge interrogates both a candidate machine and another human. A machine passes the test when the judge consistently fails to distinguish between them.

While the Turing test has provided a trope for many AI-inspired movies (such as Spike Jonze’s excellent Her), Ex Machina takes things much further. In a sparkling exchange between Caleb and Nathan, Garland nails the weakness of Turing’s version of the test, a focus on the disembodied exchange of messages, and proposes something far more interesting. “The challenge is to show you that she’s a robot. And see if you still feel she has consciousness,” Nathan says to Caleb.

This shifts the goalposts in a vital way. What matters is not whether Ava is a machine. It is not even whether Ava, even though a machine, can be conscious. What matters is whether Ava makes a conscious person feel that Ava is conscious. The brilliance of Ex Machina is that it reveals the Turing test for what it really is: a test of the human, not of the machine. And Garland is not necessarily on our side.

Nathan (Oscar Isaac) and Caleb (Domnhall Gleeson) discuss deep matters of AI

Nathan (Oscar Isaac) and Caleb (Domnhall Gleeson) discuss deep matters of AI

Is consciousness a matter of social consensus? Is it more relevant whether people believe (or feel) that something (or someone) is conscious than whether it is in fact actually conscious? Or, does something being “actually conscious” rest on other people’s beliefs about it being conscious, or on its own beliefs about its consciousness (beliefs that may themselves depend on how it interprets others’ beliefs about it)? And exactly what is the difference between believing and feeling in situations like this?

It seems to me that my consciousness, here and now, is not a matter of social consensus or of my simply believing or feeling that I am conscious. It seems to me, simply, that I am conscious here and now. When I wake up and smell the coffee, there is a real experience of coffee-smelling going on.

But let me channel Ludwig Wittgenstein, one of the greatest philosophers of the 20th century, for a moment. What would it seem like if it seemed to me that my being conscious were a matter of social consensus or beliefs or feelings about my own conscious status? Is what it “seems like” to me relevant at all when deciding how consciousness comes about or what has consciousness?

Before vanishing completely into a philosophical rabbit hole, it is worth saying that questions like these are driving much influential current research on consciousness. Philosophers and scientists like Daniel Dennett, David Rosenthal and Michael Graziano defend, in various ways, the idea that consciousness is somehow illusory and what we really mean in saying we are conscious is that we have certain beliefs about mental states, that these states have distinctive functional properties, or that they are involved in specific sorts of attention.

Another theoretical approach accepts that conscious experience is real and sees the problem as one of determining its physical or biological mechanism. Some leading neuroscientists such as Giulio Tononi, and recently, Christof Koch, take consciousness to be a fundamental property, much like mass-energy and electrical charge, that is expressed through localised concentrations of “integrated information”. And others, like philosopher John Searle, believe that consciousness is an essentially biological property that emerges in some systems but not in others, for reasons as-yet unknown.

In the film we hear about Searle’s Chinese Room thought experiment. His premise was that researchers had managed to build a computer programmed in English that can respond to written Chinese with written Chinese so convincingly it easily passes the Turing test, persuading a human Chinese speaker that the program understands and speaks Chinese. Does the machine really “understand” Chinese (Searle called this “strong AI”) or is it only simulating the ability (“weak” AI)? There is also a nod to the notional “Mary”, the scientist, who, while knowing everything about the physics and biology of colour vision, has only ever experienced black, white and shades of grey. What happens when she sees a red object for the first time? Will she learn anything new? Does consciousness exceed the realms of knowledge.

All of the above illustrates how academically savvy and intellectually provocative Ex Machina is. Hat-tips here to Murray Shanahan, professor of cognitive robotics at Imperial College London, and writer and geneticist Adam Rutherford, whom Garland did well to enlist as science advisers.

Not every scene invites deep philosophy of mind, with the film encompassing everything from ethics, the technological singularity, Ghostbusters and social media to the erosion of privacy, feminism and sexual politics within its subtle scope. But when it comes to riffing on the possibilities and mysteries of brain, mind and consciousness, Ex Machina doesn’t miss a trick.

As a scientist, it is easy to moan when films don’t stack up against reality, but there is usually little to be gained from nitpicking over inaccuracies and narrative inventions. Such criticisms can seem petty and reinforcing of the stereotype of scientists as humourless gatekeepers of facts and hoarders of equations. But these complaints sometimes express a sense of missed opportunity rather than injustice, a sense that intellectual riches could have been exploited, not sidelined, in making a good movie. AI, neuroscience and consciousness are among the most vibrant and fascinating areas of contemporary science, and what we are discovering far outstrips anything that could be imagined out of thin air.

In his directorial debut, Garland has managed to capture the thrill of this adventure in a film that is effortlessly enthralling, whatever your background. This is why, on emerging from it, I felt lucky to be a neuroscientist. Here is a film that is a better film, because of and not despite its engagement with its intellectual inspiration.

The original version of this piece was published as a Culture Lab article in New Scientist on Jan 21. I am grateful to the New Scientist for permission to reproduce it here, and to Liz Else for help with editing. I will be discussing Ex Machina with Dr. Adam Rutherford at a special screening of the film at the Edinburgh Science Festival (April 16, details and tickets here).

There’s more to geek-chic than meets the eye, but not in The Imitation Game

Benedict Cumberbatch as Alan Turing in The Imitation Game

Benedict Cumberbatch as Alan Turing in The Imitation Game. (Spoiler alert: this post reveals some plot details.)

World War Two was won not just with tanks, guns, and planes, but by a crack team of code-breakers led by the brilliant and ultimately tragic figure of Alan Turing. This is the story as told in The Imitation Game, a beautifully shot and hugely popular film which nonetheless left me nursing a deep sense of missed opportunity. True, Benedict Cumberbatch is brilliant, spicing his superb Holmes with a dash of the Russell Crowe’s John Nash (A Beautiful Mind) to propel geek rapture into yet higher orbits. (See also Eddie Redmayne and Stephen Hawking.)

The rest was not so good. The clunky acting might reflect a screenplay desperate to humanize and popularize what was fundamentally a triumph of the intellect. But what got to me most was the treatment of Turing himself. On one hand there is the perhaps cinematically necessary canonisation of individual genius, sweeping aside so much important context. On the other there is the saccharin treatment of Turing’s open homosexuality (with compensatory boosting of Keira Knightley’s Joan Clarke) and the egregious scenes in which he stands accused of both treason and cowardice by association with Soviet spy John Cairncross, whom he likely never met. The requisite need for a bad guy does disservice also to Turing’s Bletchley Park boss Alastair Denniston, who while a product of old-school classics-inspired cryptography nonetheless recognized and supported Turing and his crew. Historical jiggery-pokery is of course to be expected in any mass-market biopic, but the story as told in The Imitation Game becomes much less interesting as a result.

Alan Turing as himself

Alan Turing as himself

I studied at King’s College, Cambridge, Turing’s academic home and also where I first encountered the basics of modern day computer science and artificial intelligence (AI). By all accounts Turing was a genius, laying the foundations for these disciplines but also for other areas of science, which – like AI – didn’t even exist in his time. His theories of morphogenesis presaged contemporary developmental biology, explaining how leopards get their spots. He was a pioneer of cybernetics, an inspired amalgam of engineering and biology that after many years in the academic hinterland is once again galvanising our understanding of how minds and brains work, and what they are for. One can only wonder what more he would have done, had he lived.

There is a breathless moment in the film where Joan Clarke (or poor spy-hungry and historically-unsupported Detective Nock, I can’t remember) wonders whether Turing, in cracking Enigma, has built his ‘universal machine’. This references Turing’s most influential intellectual breakthrough, his conceptual design for a machine that was not only programmable but re-programmable, that could execute any algorithm, any computational process.

The Universal Turing Machine formed the blueprint for modern-day computers, but the machine that broke Enigma was no such thing. The ‘Bombe’, as it was known, was based on Polish prototypes (the bomba kryptologiczna) and was co-designed with Gordon Welchman whose critical ‘diagonal board’ innovation is in the film attributed to the suave Hugh Alexander (Welchman doesn’t appear at all). Far from being a universal computer the Bombe was designed for a single specific purpose – to rapidly run through as many settings of the Enigma machine as possible.

A working rebuilt Bombe at Bletchley Park, containing 36 Enigma equivalents. The (larger) Bombe in The Imitation Game was a high point – a beautiful piece of historical reconstruction.

A working rebuilt Bombe at Bletchley Park, containing 36 Enigma equivalents. The (larger) Bombe in The Imitation Game was a high point – a beautiful piece of historical reconstruction.

The Bombe is half the story of Enigma. The other half is pure cryptographic catnip. Even with a working Bombe the number of possible machine settings to be searched each day (the Germans changed all the settings at midnight) was just too large. The code-breakers needed a way to limit the combinations to be tested. And here Turing and his team inadvertently pioneered the principles of modern-day ‘Bayesian’ machine learning, by using prior assumptions to constrain possible mappings between a cipher and its translation. For Enigma, the breakthroughs came on realizing that no letter could encode itself, and that German operators often used the same phrases in repeated messages (“Heil Hitler!”). Hugh Alexander, diagonal boards aside, was supremely talented at this process which Turing called ‘banburismus’, on account of having to get printed ‘message cards’ from nearby Banbury.

In this way the Bletchley code-breakers combined extraordinary engineering prowess with freewheeling intellectual athleticism, to find a testable range of Enigma settings, each and every day, which were then run through the Bombe until a match was found.

A Colossus Mk 2 in operation. The Mk 2, with 2400 valves, came into service on June 1st 1944

A Colossus Mk 2 in operation. The Mk 2, with 2400 valves, came into service on June 1st 1944

Though it gave the allies a decisive advantage, the Bombe was not the first computer, not the first ‘digital brain’. This honour belongs to Colossus, also built at Bletchley Park, and based on Turing’s principles, but constructed mainly by Tommy Flowers, Jack Good, and Bill Tutte. Colossus was designed to break the even more encrypted communications the Germans used later in the war: the Tunny cipher. After the war the intense secrecy surrounding Bletchley Park meant that all Colossi (and Bombi) were dismantled or hidden away, depriving Turing, Flowers – and many others – of recognition and setting back the computer age by years. It amazes me that full details about Colussus were only released in 2000.

Turing’s seminal 1950 paper, describing the ‘Imitation Game’ experiment

Turing’s seminal 1950 paper, describing the ‘Imitation Game’ experiment

The Imitation Game of the title is a nod to Turing’s most widely known idea: a pragmatic answer to the philosophically challenging and possibly absurd question, “can machines think”. In one version of what is now known as the Turing Test, a human judge interacts with two players – another human and a machine – and must decide which is which. Interactions are limited to disembodied exchanges of pieces of text, and a candidate machine passes the test when the judge consistently fails to distinguish the one from the other. It is unfortunate but in keeping with the screenplay that Turing’s code-breaking had little to do with his eponymous test.

It is completely understandable that films simplify and rearrange complex historical events in order to generate widespread appeal. But the Imitation Game focuses so much on a distorted narrative of Turing’s personal life that the other story – a thrilling ‘band of brothers’ tale of winning a war by inventing the modern world – is pushed out into the wings. The assumption is that none of this puts bums on seats. But who knows, there might be more to geek-chic than meets the eye.

Should we fear the technological singularity?


Could wanting the latest mobile phone for Christmas lead to human extermination? Existential risks to our species have long been part of our collective psyche – in the form of asteroid impacts, pandemics, global nuclear cataclysm, and more recently, climate change. The idea is not simply that humans and other animals could be wiped out, but that basic human values and structures of society would change so as to become unrecognisable.

Last week, Stephen Hawking claimed that technological progress, while perhaps intended for human betterment, might lead to a new kind of existential threat in the form of self-improving artificial intelligence (AI). This worry is based on the “law of accelerating returns”, which applies when the rate at which technology improves is proportional to how good the technology is, yielding exponential – and unpredictable – advances in its capabilities. The idea is that a point might be reached where this process leads to wholesale and irreversible changes in how we live. This is the technological singularity, a concept made popular by AI maverick and Google engineering director Ray Kurzweil.

We are already familiar with accelerating returns in the rapid development of computer power (“Moore’s law”), and Kurzweil’s vision of the singularity is actually a sort of utopian techno-rapture. But there are scarier scenarios where exponential technological growth might exceed our ability to foresee and prevent unintended consequences. Genetically modified food is an early example of this worry, but now the spotlight is on bio- and nano-technology, and – above all – AI, the engineering of artificial minds.

Moore's law: the exponential growth in computational power since 1900.

Moore’s law: the exponential growth in computational power since 1900.

A focus on AI might seem weird given how disappointing present-day ‘intelligent robots’ are. They can hardly vacuum your living room let alone take over the world, and reports that the famous Turing Test for AI has been passed are greatly exaggerated. Yet AI has developed a surprising behind-the-scenes momentum. New ‘deep learning’ algorithms have been developed which, when coupled with vast amounts of data, show remarkable abilities to tackle everyday problems like speech comprehension and face recognition. As well as world-beating chess players like Deep Blue, we have Apple Siri and Google Now helping us navigate our messy and un-chesslike environments in ways that mimic our natural cognitive abilities. Huge amounts of money have followed, with Google this year paying £400M for AI start-up DeepMind in a deal which Google CEO Eric Schmidt heralded as enabling products that are “infinitely more intelligent”.

"Hello Dave".

“Hello Dave”.

What if the ability to engineer artificial minds leads to these minds engineering themselves, developing their own goals, and bootstrapping themselves beyond human understanding and control? This dystopian prospect has been mined by many sci-fi movies – think Blade Runner, HAL in 2001, Terminator, Matrix – but while sci-fi is primarily for entertainment, the accelerating developments in AI give pause for thought. Enter Hawking, who now warns that “the full development of AI could spell the end of the human race”. He joins real-world-Iron-Man Elon Musk and Oxford philosopher Nick Bostrom in declaring AI the most serious existential threat we face. (Hawking in fact used the term ‘singularity’ long ago to describe situations where the laws of physics break down, like at the centre of a black hole).

However implausible a worldwide AI revolution might seem, Holmes will tell you there is all the difference in the world between the impossible and the merely improbable. Even if highly unlikely, the seismic impact of a technological singularity is such that it deserves to be taken seriously, both in estimating and mitigating its likelihood, and in planning potential responses. Cambridge University’s new Centre for the Study for Existential Risk has been established to do just this, with Hawking and ex-Astronomer Royal Sir Martin Rees among the founders.

Dystopian eventualities aside, the singularity concept is inherently interesting because it pushes us to examine what we mean by being human (as my colleague Murray Shanahan argues in a forthcoming book). While intelligence is part of the story, being human is also about having a body and an internal physiology; we are self-sustaining flesh bags. It is also about consciousness; we are each at the centre of a subjective universe of experience. Current AI has little to say about these issues, and it is far from clear whether truly autonomous and self-driven AI is possible in their absence. The ethical minefield deepens when we realize that AIs becoming conscious would entail ethical responsibilities towards them, regardless of their impact on us.

At the moment, AI like any powerful technology has the potential for good and ill, long before any singularity is reached. On the dark side, AI gives us the tools to wreak our own havoc by distancing ourselves from the consequences of our actions. Remote controlled military drones already reduce life-and-death decisions to the click of a button: with enhanced AI there would be no need for the button. On the side of the angels, AI can make our lives healthier and happier, and our world more balanced and sustainable, by complementing our natural mental prowess with the unprecedented power of computation. The pendulum may swing from the singularity-mongerers to the techno-mavens; and we should listen to both, but proceed serenely with the angels.

This post is an amended version of a commisioned comment for The Guardian: Why we must not stall technological progress, despite its threat to humanity, published on December 03, 2014.  It was part of a flurry of comments occasioned by a BBC interview with Stephen Hawking, which you can listen to here. I’m actually quite excited to see Eddie Redmayne’s rendition of the great physicist.

The importance of being Eugene: What (not) passing the Turing test really means

Eugene Goostman, chatbot.

Could you tell difference between a non-native-English-speaking 13-year old Ukranian boy, and a computer program? On Saturday, at the Royal Society, one out of three human judges were fooled. So, it has been widely reported, the iconic Turing Test has been passed and a brave new era of Artificial Intelligence (AI) begins.

Not so fast. While this event marks a modest improvement in the abilities of so-called ‘chatbots’ to engage fluently with humans, real AI requires much more.

Here’s what happened. At a competition held in central London, thirty judges (including politician Lord Sharkey, computer scientist Kevin Warwick, and Red Dwarf actor Robert Llewellyn) interacted with ‘Eugene Goostman’ in a series of five-minute text-only exchanges. As a result, 33% of the judges (reports do not yet say which, though tweets implicate Llewellyn) were persuaded that ‘Goostman’ was real. The other 67%  were not. It turns out that ‘Eugene Goostman’ is not a teenager from Odessa, but a computer program, a ‘chatbot’ created by computer engineers Vladimir Veselov and Eugene Demchenko. According to his creators, ‘Goostman’ was ‘born’ in 2001, owns a pet guinea pig, and has a gynaecologist father.

The Turing Test, devised by computer science pioneer and codebreaker Alan Turing, was proposed as a practical alternative to the philosophically challenging and possibly absurd question, “can machines think”. In one popular interpretation, a human judge interacts with two players – a human and a machine – and must decide which is which. A candidate machine passes the test when the judge consistently fails to distinguish the one from the other. Interactions are limited to exchanges of strings of text, to make the competition fair (more on this later; its also worth noting that Turing’s original idea was more complex than this, but lets press on). While there have been many previous attempts and prior claims about passing the test, the Goostman-bot arguably outperformed its predecessors, leading Warwick to noisily proclaim “We are therefore proud to declare that Alan Turing’s Test was passed for the first time on Saturday”.

Alan Turing’s seminal 1950 paper

This is a major overstatement which does grave disservice to the field of AI. While Goostman may represent progress of a sort – for instance this year’s competition did not place any particular restrictions on conversation topics – some context is badly needed.

An immediate concern is that Goostman is gaming the system. By imitating a non-native speaker, the chatbot can make its clumsy English expected rather than unusual. Hence its reaction to winning the prize: “I feel about beating the Turing test in quite convenient way”. And its assumed age of thirteen lowers expectations about satisfactory responses to questions. As Veselov put it “Thirteen years old is not too old to know everything and not too young to know nothing.” While Veselov’s strategy is cunning, it also shows that the Turing test is as much a test of the judges’ abilities to make suitable inferences, and to ask probing questions, as it is of the capabilities of intelligent machinery.

More importantly, fooling 33% of judges over 5 minute sessions was never the standard intended by Alan Turing for passing his test – it was merely his prediction about how computers might fare within about 50 years of his proposal. (In this, as in much else, he was not far wrong: the original Turing test was described in 1950.) A more natural criterion, as emphasized by the cognitive scientist Stevan Harnad, is for a machine to be consistently indistinguishable from human counterparts over extended periods of time, in other words to have the generic performance capacity of a real human being. This more stringent benchmark is still a long way off.

Perhaps the most significant limitation exposed by Goostman is the assumption that ‘intelligence’ can be instantiated in the disembodied exchange of short passages of text. On one hand this restriction is needed to enable interesting comparisons between humans and machines in the first place. On the other, it simply underlines that intelligent behaviour is intimately grounded in the tight couplings and blurry boundaries separating and joining brains, bodies, and environments. If Saturday’s judges had seen Goostman, or even an advanced robotic avatar voicing its responses, there would no question of any confusion. Indeed, robots that are today physically most similar to humans tend to elicit sensations like anxiety and revulsion, not camaraderie. This is the ‘uncanny valley’ – a term coined by robotics professor Masahiro Mori in 1970 (with a nod to Freud) and exemplified by the ‘geminoids’ built by Hiroshi Ishiguro.

Hiroshi Ishiguro and his geminoid.  Another imitation game.

A growing appreciation of the importance of embodied, embedded intelligence explains why nobody is claiming that human-like robots are among us, or are in any sense imminent. Critics of AI consistently point to the notable absence of intelligent robots capable of fluent interactions with people, or even with mugs of tea. In a recent blog post I argued that new developments in AI are increasingly motivated by the near forgotten discipline of cybernetics, which held that prediction and control were at the heart of intelligent behaviour – not barefaced imitation as in Turing’s test (and, from a different angle, in Ishiguro’s geminoids). While these emerging cybernetic-inspired approaches hold great promise (and are attracting the interest of tech giants like Google) there is still plenty to be done.

These ideas have two main implications for AI. The first is that true AI necessarily involves robotics. Intelligent systems are systems that flexibly and adaptively interact with complex, dynamic, and often social environments. Reducing intelligence to short context-free text-based conversations misses the target by a country mile. The second is that true AI should focus not only on the outcome (i.e., whether a machine or robot behaves indistinguishably from a human or other animal) but also on the process by which the outcome is attained. This is why considerable attention within AI has always been paid to understanding, and simulating, how real brains work, and how real bodies behave.

How the leopard got its spots: Turing’s chemical basis of morphogenesis.

Turing of course did much more than propose an interesting but ultimately unsatisfactory (and often misinterpreted) intelligence test. He laid the foundations for modern computer science, he saved untold lives through his prowess in code breaking, and he refused to be cowed by the deep prejudices against homosexuality prevalent in his time, losing his own life in the bargain. He was also a pioneer in theoretical biology: his work in morphogenesis showed how simple interactions could give rise to complex patterns during animal development. And he was a central figure in the emerging field of cybernetics, where he recognized the deep importance of embodied and embedded cognition. The Turing of 1950 might not recognize much of today’s technology, but he would not have been fooled by Goostman.

[postscript: while Warwick &co have been very reluctant to release the transcript of Goostman’s 2014 performance, this recent Guardian piece has some choice dialogue from 2012, where Goostman polled at 28%, not far off Saturday’s 33%. This piece was updated on June 12 following a helpful dialog with Aaron Sloman].

All watched over by search engines of loving grace


Google’s shopping spree has continued with the purchase of the British artificial intelligence (AI) start-up DeepMind, acquired for an eye-watering £400M ($650M).  This is Google’s 8th biggest acquisition in its history, and the latest in a string of purchases in AI and robotics. Boston Dynamics, an American company famous for building agile robots capable of scaling walls and running over rough terrain (see BigDog here), was mopped up in 2013. And there is no sign that Google is finished yet. Should we be excited or should we be afraid?

Probably both. AI and robotics have long promised brave new worlds of helpful robots (think Wall-E) and omniscient artificial intelligences (think HAL), which remain conspicuously absent. Undoubtedly, the combined resources of Google’s in-house skills and its new acquisitions will drive progress in both these areas. Experts have accordingly fretted about military robotics and speculated how DeepMind might help us make better lasagne. But perhaps something bigger is going on, something with roots extending back to the middle of the last century and the now forgotten discipline of cybernetics.

The founders of cybernetics included some of the leading lights of the age, including John Von Neumann (designer of the digital computer), Alan Turing, the British roboticist Grey Walter and even people like the psychiatrist R.D. Laing and the anthropologist Margaret Mead.  They were led by the brilliant and eccentric figures of Norbert Wiener and Warren McCulloch in the USA, and Ross Ashby in the UK. The fundamental idea of cybernetics was consider biological systems as machines. The aim was not to build artificial intelligence per se, but rather to understand how machines could appear to have goals and act with purpose, and how complex systems could be controlled by feedback. Although the brain was the primary focus, cybernetic ideas were applied much more broadly – to economics, ecology, even management science.  Yet cybernetics faded from view as the digital computer took centre stage, and has remained hidden in the shadows ever since.  Well, almost hidden.

One of the most important innovations of 1940s cybernetics was the neural network, the idea that logical operations could be implemented in networks of brain-cell-like elements wired up in particular ways. Neural networks lay dormant, like the rest of cybernetics, until being rediscovered in the 1980s as the basis of powerful new ‘machine learning’ algorithms capable of extracting meaningful patterns from large quantities of data. DeepMind’s technologies are based on just these principles, and indeed some of their algorithms originate in the pioneering neural network research of Geoffrey Hinton (another Brit), who’s company DNN Research was also recently bought by Google and who is now a Google Distinguished Researcher.

What sets Hinton and DeepMind apart is that their algorithms reflect an increasingly prominent theory about brain function. (DeepMind’s founder, the ex-chess-prodigy and computer games maestro Demis Hassabis, set up his company shortly after taking a Ph.D. in cognitive neuroscience.) This theory, which came from cybernetics, says that the brains’ neural networks achieve perception, learning, and behaviour through repeated application of a single principle: predictive control.  Put simply, the brain learns about the statistics of its sensory inputs, and about how these statistics change in response to its own actions. In this way, the brain can build a model of its world (which includes its own body) and figure out how to control its environment in order to achieve specific goals. What’s more, exactly the same principle can be used to develop robust and agile robotics, as seen in BigDog and its friends

Put all this together and so resurface the cybernetic ideals of exploiting deep similarities between biological entities and machines.  These similarities go far beyond superficial (and faulty) assertions that brains are computers, but rather recognize that prediction and control lie at the very heart of both effective technologies and successful biological systems.  This means that Google’s activity in AI and robotics should not be considered separately, but instead as part of larger view of how technology and nature interact: Google’s deep mind has deep roots.

What might this mean for you and me? Many of the original cyberneticians held out a utopian prospect of a new harmony between people and computers, well captured by Richard Brautigan’s 1967 poem – All Watched Over By Machines of Loving Grace – and recently re-examined in Adam Curtis’ powerful though breathless documentary of the same name.  As Curtis argued, these original cybernetic dreams were dashed against the complex realities of the real world. Will things be different now that Google is in charge?  One thing that is certain is that simple idea of a ‘search engine’ will seem increasingly antiquated.  As the data deluge of our modern world accelerates, the concept of ‘search’ will become inseparable from ideas of prediction and control.  This really is both scary and exciting.