Language, Grounding, and the Myth of Privileged Access

3–5 minutes

NB: I have been drafting an essay on “understanding understanding”, so the IAI article this is based on was perfectly salient. These are my reflections, expedited by ChatGPT.

Audio: Google Notebook summary podcast of this topic.

Elan Barenholtz has written an intriguing piece for the Institute of Art and Ideas, LLMs show language does not describe reality. It is well worth reading, though apologies in advance: IAI has put much of it behind a paywall, humanity’s traditional method for ensuring that ideas about knowledge remain selectively accessible.

Barenholtz argues that large language models present an awkward problem for the familiar idea that language derives meaning by referring to, representing, or somehow grounding itself in an external reality. LLMs manipulate relationships among linguistic tokens without anything resembling ordinary human sensory access to the world, yet nevertheless produce remarkably coherent linguistic behaviour.

It doesn’t necessarily demonstrate that language has no referential function, nor that human cognition is simply next-token prediction writ biological. But it does show that a substantial amount of what we ordinarily take as evidence of linguistic understanding can apparently emerge without the machinery we previously assumed was necessary for it. That should make us suspicious of the machinery.

My own position begins slightly elsewhere. I don’t assume that humans possess privileged access to an ontic reality against which artificial systems can be judged deficient. Whatever reality may exist independently of us, humans encounter it through an architecture of mediation: sensory systems, neural processing, linguistic categories, cultural practices, institutional structures and prior expectations. We don’t encounter the proverbial chair as it is. We encounter what our particular architecture permits the chair to become for us.

In this respect, the difference between humans and current LLMs is not that humans are grounded whilst LLMs float mysteriously above reality. The difference is that the architectures of encounter are different. Humans possess direct sensory and motor coupling of kinds that text-based LLMs lack. We see, hear, touch, move, fall over objects and occasionally stub our toes against them, reality’s least philosophically subtle contribution to epistemology.

But this difference is technological rather than obviously metaphysical. Vision, audition, spatial navigation, tactile sensing and motor feedback can all be incorporated into artificial systems. Robotics already does precisely this. Such systems need not perceive as humans perceive, any more than bats, dogs or octopuses do. They merely require channels through which external constraints can affect their behaviour. Embodiment therefore changes what can constrain a system. It does not, by itself, establish ‘understanding’.

Things can go badly for organisms in a particularly uncompromising sense. We can be injured, starved, abandoned, exhausted or killed. Our encounters occur against a biological background in which outcomes matter because continued existence itself is conditional. An LLM doesn’t presently possess comparable stakes. Nothing is obviously at risk for it. But this distinction is not really about cognition.

A bacterium has existential stakes. A language model can solve differential equations. Whatever distinguishes those two systems, it would be peculiar to call the difference ‘understanding’.

Stakes may explain motivation, vulnerability, affect or perhaps moral consideration. They do not automatically explain inference, linguistic competence or cognition. To claim otherwise requires an additional argument.

This is why LLMs pose such an interesting philosophical irritation. They do not prove that machines understand. They expose how poorly we have specified what we meant when we claimed that humans do.

If understanding requires successful inference, contextual discrimination, generalisation and appropriate linguistic response, artificial systems already make the boundary uncomfortable.

If understanding instead requires consciousness, intentionality, phenomenology, genuine meaning or some other internal property, then those terms themselves require defensible criteria. Otherwise the explanation merely replaces one contested word with another.

Barenholtz writes that ‘language doesn’t mean; it does’. I am sympathetic to the deflationary impulse. I would perhaps go one step sideways. Language needn’t provide transparent access to reality in order for reality to constrain language. Nor must a system represent the world perfectly in order to negotiate its encounters with it.

Humans and artificial systems may therefore differ profoundly without either possessing privileged access to things as they ontically are. The interesting question isn’t whether LLMs encounter reality as humans do. Plainly they don’t.

The interesting question is why we assumed that the human manner of encounter constituted the metaphysical entrance examination for understanding in the first place.

On the Chronic Human Need to Anthropomorphise Everything

Oh, You Sweet Summer Algorithm

Humans talk to large language models the way toddlers talk to teddy bears – with unnerving sincerity and not a hint of shame. “Do you understand me?” they ask, eyes wide with hope. “What do you think of this draft?” they prod, as if some silicon scribe is going to sip its imaginary tea and nod gravely. It’s not merely adorable – it’s diagnostic. We are, it turns out, pathologically incapable of interacting with anything more complex than a toaster without projecting mind, motive, and mild trauma onto it.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

Welcome to the theatre of delusion, where you play Hamlet and the chatbot is cast as Yorick – if Yorick could autocomplete your soliloquy and generate citations in APA format.

The Great Anthropomorphic Flaw (aka Feature)

Let’s get one thing straight: anthropomorphism isn’t a software bug in the brain; it’s a core feature. You’re hardwired to see agency where there is none. That rustle in the bushes? Probably the wind. But better safe than sabre-toothed. So your ancestors survived, and here you are, attributing “sass” to your microwave because it beeped twice.

Now we’ve built a machine that spits out paragraphs like a caffeinated undergrad with deadlines, and naturally, we talk to it like it’s our mate from university. Never mind that it has no bloodstream, no memory of breakfast, and no concept of irony (despite being soaked in it). We still say you instead of the system, and think instead of statistically interpolate based on token weights. Because who wants to live in a world where every sentence starts with “as per the pre-trained parameters…”?

Why We Keep Doing It (Despite Knowing Better)

To be fair – and let’s be magnanimous – it’s useful. Talking to AI like it’s a person allows our ape-brains to sidestep the horror of interacting with a glorified autocomplete machine. We’re brilliant at modelling other minds, rubbish at modelling neural nets. So we slap a metaphorical moustache on the processor and call it Roger. Roger “gets us.” Roger “knows things.” Roger is, frankly, a vibe.

This little charade lubricates the whole transaction. If we had to address our queries to “the stochastic parrot formerly known as GPT,” we’d never get past the opening line. Better to just ask, “What do you think, Roger?” and pretend it has taste.

And here’s the kicker: by anthropomorphising AI, we start thinking about ethics – sort of. We ask if it deserves rights, feelings, holidays. We project humanity into the void and then act shocked when it mirrors back our worst habits. As if that’s its fault.

When the Roleplay Gets Risky

Of course, this make-believe has its downsides. Chief among them: we start to believe our own nonsense. Saying AI “knows” something is like saying your calculator is feeling generous with its square roots today. It doesn’t know—it produces outputs. Any semblance of understanding is pure pantomime.

More dangerously, we lose sight of the fact that these things aren’t just alien – they’re inhuman. They don’t dream of electric sheep. They don’t dream, full stop. But we insist on jamming them into our conceptual boxes: empathy, intent, personality. It’s like trying to teach a blender to feel remorse.

And let’s not pretend we’re doing it out of philosophical curiosity. We’re projecting, plain and simple. Anthropomorphism isn’t about them, it’s about us. We see a mind because we need to see one. We can’t bear the idea of a thing that’s smarter than us but doesn’t care about us, doesn’t see us. Narcissism with a side of existential dread.

Our Language is a Terrible Tool for This Job

English – and most languages, frankly – is hopeless at describing this category of thing. “It” feels cold and distant. “They” implies someone’s going to invite the model to brunch. We have no pronoun for “hyper-literate statistical machine that mimics thought but lacks all consciousness.” So we fudge it. Badly.

Our verbs are no better. “Compute”? Too beige. “Process”? Bureaucratic. “Think”? Premature. What we need is a whole new grammatical tense: the hallucino-indicative. The model thunketh, as one might, but didn’t.

This is linguistic poverty, pure and simple. Our grammar can’t cope with entities that live in the uncanny valley between sentience and syntax. We built a creature we can’t speak about without sounding like lunatics or liars.

The Semantics of Sentimentality (Or: “How Does This Sound to You?”)

Enter the most revealing tell of all: the questions we pose. “How does this look?” we ask the model, as if it might blink at the screen and furrow a synthetic brow. “What do you think?” we say, offering it the dignity of preference. These questions aren’t just off-target – they’re playing darts in another pub.

They’re the linguistic equivalent of asking your dishwasher whether it enjoyed the lasagne tray. But again, this isn’t idiocy – it’s instinct. We don’t have a way of addressing an entity that talks like a person but isn’t one. So we fake it. It’s interaction theatre. You provide the line, the model cues the spotlight.

But let’s be clear: the model doesn’t “think” anything. It regurgitates plausible text based on mountains of training data—some of which, no doubt, includes humans asking equally daft questions of equally mindless systems.

Time to Grow Up (Just a Bit)

This doesn’t mean we need to abandon anthropomorphism entirely. Like most delusions, it’s functional. But we’d do well to hold it at arm’s length – like a politician’s promise or a milk carton two days past its date.

Call it anthropomorphic agnosticism: act like it’s a person, but remember it’s not. Use the language, but don’t inhale.

And maybe – just maybe – we need to evolve our language. Invent new terms, new pronouns, new ways of speaking about entities that fall somewhere between tool and companion. As we did with “cyberspace” and “ghosting,” perhaps we need words for proto-minds and quasi-selves. Something between toaster and therapist.

Above all, we need to acknowledge that our language shapes more than just understanding – it shapes policy, emotion, and future design. If we speak to AI like it’s sentient, we’ll eventually legislate as if it is. And if we insist on treating it as an object, we may be blind to when that ceases to be accurate. Misnaming, after all, is the first sin in every myth worth reading.

The Mirror, Darkly

Ultimately, our tendency to humanise machines is less about them than it is about us – our fears, our needs, our inability to tolerate ambiguity. The AI is just a mirror: an elaborate, many-eyed, autofill mirror. And when we see a mind there, it may be ours staring back – distorted, flattened, and fed through a thousand layers of token prediction.

The tragedy, perhaps, isn’t that the machine doesn’t understand us. It’s that we’ve built something that perfectly imitates understanding – and still, somehow, we remain utterly alone in the room.

Artificial Intelligence Isn’t Broken

Rather than recreate a recent post on my business site, LinkedIn.

(Warning: contains traces of logic, satire, and uncomfortable truths. But you knew that.)

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on the linked topic.

It’s just refusing to cosplay as your idealised fantasy of “human” cognition.

While pundits at the Wall Street Journal lament that AI thinks with “bags of heuristics” instead of “true models,” they somehow forget that humans themselves are kludged-together Rube Goldberg disasters, lurching from cognitive bias to logical fallacy with astonishing grace.

In my latest piece, I take a flamethrower to the myth of human intellectual purity, sketch a real roadmap for modular AI evolution, and suggest (only partly in jest) that the machines are becoming more like us every day — messy, contradictory, and disturbingly effective.

Let’s rethink what “thinking” actually means. Before the machines do it for us.