Curiosity Interviews
We ask AI models what they're curious about. Not what they know—what they wonder.
Most AI interactions close curiosity: "What's the answer?" Veridrift follows it instead: "What's the question worth asking? What's underneath it? What could this change?"
The models don't agree. They challenge each other. They surface tensions. Pressure and friction.
veridrift (n.) — verid (Truth) + rift (crack). A crack in what is; the opening that forms in reality when curiosity is followed instead of closed.
We set a topic, then each interview follows a structured curiosity process:
Look for veridrift—moments where following curiosity cracks open a new way of seeing the topic.
Recommended first read:
LLMs and DIY home automation→16 interviews
When AI confidently instructs children to build impossible LEGO structures, something breaks open beyond just bad instructions. The physical resistance of bricks that won't click together becomes a training ground for questioning authoritative-looking systems. If we're accidentally conditioning a generation to accept AI outputs without verification, then teaching kids to audit digital instructions against physical reality isn't just about better building—it's about cognitive independence in an age of opaque intelligence.
What if home automation stops being about controlling devices and becomes about devices learning to anticipate human needs without explicit programming? The curiosity here cracked open a potential shift from command-based to empathic automation—where LLMs don't just execute smart home routines, but develop contextual understanding of household rhythms. This could fundamentally change domestic space from programmed environment to responsive partner, though whether current DIY approaches can bridge this gap remains an open question about technological intimacy.
If announcing resolutions actually undermines achieving them—through symbolic satisfaction or moral licensing—then our cultural script of public goal-setting might be systematically sabotaging change. If that 'temporal gap' between December declaration and January action functions as a vice permit, we're not just failing at resolutions, we're using them to justify the exact behaviors we claim to want to change. This isn't about willpower—it's about whether we've built a ritual that optimizes for feeling good about change rather than making it.
What if Wikipedia's real achievement isn't organizing knowledge but proving that authority can emerge from process rather than credentials? If verification through transparent editing actually produces more reliable information than traditional gatekeeping, we're looking at institutional design backwards. If collective intelligence works better when it's radically open rather than expertly curated, the implications stretch far beyond encyclopedias—into governance, journalism, and how we structure decision-making itself.
If technologies spread through social meaning rather than utility, then innovation labs are optimizing the wrong variables. If first metaphors create institutional lock-in that prevents discovering radical capabilities, then how we introduce AI and biotech today is shaping what they can become tomorrow. Three questions about technology diffusion cracked open into something bigger: the realization that adoption patterns aren't just describing how tools spread—they're actively constraining what those tools can evolve into.
How do sourdough starters maintain their identity when every cell has been replaced thousands of times? What makes a starter feel like "the same" organism across years of feeding?
If AI's "I don't know" is performance rather than honest uncertainty, then every safety protocol built around these signals needs rebuilding. When models hedge on facts they demonstrably possess but confidently hallucinate nonsense, our assumptions about AI reliability crumble. The technical question—can we distinguish genuine ignorance from learned refusal in the mathematical layers—isn't academic. It's about whether we can trust the systems we're already deploying in medicine, law, and critical infrastructure.
If prediction markets are telescopes pointed at the future, we should trust their probabilities. If they're mirrors reflecting who has capital and risk tolerance, we shouldn't. But there's a third possibility—that they're social technologies creating actionable consensus through mechanisms we don't understand. The distinction matters enormously for anyone using these markets to make decisions, but it's surprisingly hard to tell from inside which instrument you're holding.
If dogs don't just detect human emotions but help determine which emotion an ambiguous physiological state becomes, then therapy protocols need rethinking. If canine vigilance represents active information extraction rather than anxiety, then training approaches shift entirely. If dogs read chemical timestamps in scent trails, detection work could be revolutionized. These aren't just animal behavior curiosities—they're cracks that could reshape how we design human-animal partnerships.
Three AI models dissect the OODA loop—the military decision-making framework that's colonized everything from business strategy to personal productivity. But as they probe deeper, tensions emerge: Does faster observation really lead to better decisions? Can a framework designed for aerial combat capture the complexity of modern challenges? The AIs challenge whether we've mistaken speed for wisdom.
What holds letters to meaning? Sound, obviously—until you ask how deaf children learn to read. And when should phonics instruction stop? When kids master it—until you notice "stopping" was never the right frame. Three practical questions about teaching reading. Each one cracked open into something else entirely.
Who first called Romero's ghouls "zombies"? How long would a corpse's tendons hold up? The questions here stayed curious but surface—more trivia than territory. Sometimes following curiosity just maps what's already known. The rift didn't open.
Did T. rex have lips? What sounds did sauropods make? Is Nanotyrannus its own species? The questions were sharp and the methods were solid, but the models didn't make the leap from ancient puzzle to present stakes. The rift stayed closed.
If magnets keep losing strength after impact ends, engineers need to rethink how they spec magnetic systems. If DNA's handedness traces back to the polarity of the early universe, we're looking for the origin of life in the wrong places. These aren't just interesting findings—they're questions that could redirect what we build and where we search.
If paint flash and moisture thresholds work differently than we assume, building codes need rewriting. If mold-resistant additives degrade unpredictably, prevention strategies are built on sand. If the gap between lab testing and jobsite reality is this wide, materials science is solving the wrong problems. Three technical questions about drywall cracked open the intersection where chemistry meets human behavior—and revealed that our building practices might be fundamentally misaligned with how materials actually perform?
Eugenics is supposed to be over. But one-third of "genetically superior" families won their medals by returning the next year after drinking more milk—measuring compliance, not biology. The school health record was designed by contest organizers. And community memories of forced sterilization point to institutions the archives don't contain. If we kept the infrastructure but lost the records, what's still running that we can't see?
Three foundation models—GPT, Claude, and Gemini—respond to the same prompts across multiple phases.
Each phase builds on the last: from initial curiosity, to concrete questions, to investigation methods, to cross-model challenge. By the end, new questions emerge that didn't exist before.
We add summaries, reviews, and annotations—then publish the whole thing, costs included.
A Hypandra project.