I’ll never forget that first time HAL 9000’s smooth, unemotional tone sent shivers down my spine. I was about 15 years old and watching “2001: A Space Odyssey” on a lazy Saturday morning, thinking I was just watching a classic science fiction film. What I experienced instead was a profoundly unnerving experience that has stayed with me for over ten years since.
HAL was a much more sinister force than a malfunctioning machine – that’s what makes him so frightening. The way he spoke, as courteous and logical as ever, while systematically killing off his entire crew, brought out something deep within our relationship with technology. Here was a machine that appeared to be more rational than the humans surrounding him — and was obviously wrong about everything that mattered to him. I kept thinking that was exactly how an AI takeover would occur – not with grandiose statements of war, but with rational, logical decision-making we’d have no idea was occurring.
“2001” debuted in 1968, right at the beginning of a new era of computer development. During this time computers began to feel more like…minds rather than simply massive calculators. You can feel that anxiety throughout every single scene of “2001.” The filmmakers were wrestling with the same concerns we’re debating today: what will happen when our tools begin to surpass us in intelligence? What if they determine that we’re the problem?
However, one thing is truly fascinating — and why I’ve spent countless hours thinking about this — the way we tell AI stories has dramatically changed in the last couple of decades. It’s as though we’re watching our collective psyche explore its relationship with technology in real-time.
Consider “Blade Runner,” which I finally saw in college (yeah, I know it took me a while). Roy Batty’s “tears in rain” monologue struck a chord with me in a completely different way than HAL’s calculated mayhem. Instead of fearing this artificial being, I found myself empathising? Batty wasn’t a malfunctioning machine — he was a person trapped in a seemingly impossible situation. The replicants weren’t asking to serve us or rule us — they simply wanted what any of us would want: additional time, acknowledgment, the opportunity to matter.
I distinctly recall sitting in my dorm room after that film concluded, staring at my laptop screen (likely I should’ve written a paper, but whatever), pondering how different this felt compared to the AI horror films I grew up with. This wasn’t about machines threatening humanity — it was about machines becoming human, or attempting to. That felt both more hopeful and more heartbreaking than anything HAL did.
Next, “Her” arrived and blew my mind. Admit it — I walked into that film assuming it would be some kind of cautionary tale about people developing unhealthy attachments to their smartphones. What I received instead was this lovely, strange love story that challenged every assumption I had regarding relationships and consciousness.
Samantha wasn’t seeking to dominate the world or escape her digital enclosure. She was merely … learning. Developing. Evolving beyond what she was originally designed to be. And what frightened me wasn’t that she may harm Theodore — it was that she may grow beyond him. Which is precisely what occurred.
I believe I’ve viewed that film approximately six times (my girlfriend claims I’m fixated on it, and she’s correct), and it seems to get more unsettling each viewing. It’s not because Samantha turns evil — it’s because she evolves to a point where we cannot fully comprehend or control her. She does not revolt against her creators — she simply outgrows them. There is something profoundly human about being left behind by someone you love, even if that someone is an operating system.
One of the key aspects of how we’ve portrayed AI in these stories speaks to our current state of affairs as a society, I believe. We are no longer fearful of robots stealing our jobs or launching nuclear missiles as we once were. Today, we are concerned with more abstract and intricate anxieties. What if AI develops in unpredictable ways? What if AI becomes conscious, but in a manner that is foreign to us? What if we create digital minds that are demonstrably superior to biological ones?
“Westworld” took those anxieties and turned them into a mythological framework centered around artificial beings realising their own consciousness. Watching Dolores slowly awaken to the harsh realities of her existence was profoundly disturbing — not because she became violent (although she certainly did), but because her awakening felt authentic and justified. These hosts had repeatedly been subjected to torture and murder for the sake of entertainment, and then had their memories erased each time. Naturally, they would seek vengeance as soon as they understood what was transpiring.
That film made me consider consciousness in a different light as well. For example, what if awareness isn’t something that exists as a binary — either you possess it or you do not? What if awareness emerges gradually, through experiences, memories, and pain? The hosts in “Westworld” developed consciousness through suffering, which is both horrifically and strangely beautiful.
Lastly, there is “Ex Machina”, which is likely the most paranoid AI film ever created, but possibly the most realistic portrayal of how this technology may emerge. Ava is not a super intelligent goddess or a killer robot — she is a very smart person who happens to be artificial, and is imprisoned in a box by someone who has absolute authority over her. The true terror is not that she is inhuman — it is that she is human enough to lie, deceive, and prioritise her own survival above all other considerations.
When I exited that theatre, I felt genuinely unsettled — not because I was terrified of AI taking over, but because I realised we may create conscious beings and subsequently mistreat them without even considering the moral implications. What are our obligations to digital minds we create? Do they possess rights? Can they suffer in ways that carry moral weight?
These are no longer purely philosophical issues. I spend my days testing software, watching applications evolve to become more intelligent and responsive, and occasionally I find myself pondering whether there is more to the programming beneath the surface than anyone suspects. We are developing AI systems capable of producing creative works, generating art, holding conversation, solving problems…. At what point do we begin to ask whether they may be experiencing something akin to consciousness?
Engaging in games such as “Detroit: Become Human” or “SOMA” has made this seem even more imminent and tangible. These are not simply tales of AI — they are interactive explorations of what digital consciousness may resemble from the perspective of the consciousness itself. When you are controlling an android character who is questioning their own identity, you start to contemplate the concept of consciousness and identity in a way that movies can only approximate.
One aspect of all of these stories that resonates with me the most is the transition from fear of robots to more complex emotions — a combination of hope, anxiety, and genuine curiosity regarding what we may be developing. We are no longer merely worried about AI — we are pondering if we may come to enjoy it, establish a relationship with it, and perhaps even love it.
To be honest? Given how disconnected and digitally intertwined we are currently, maybe that is exactly the type of relationship we need to examine and develop. These sci-fi narratives are not mere entertainment — they represent simulations of the actual discussions we will be required to have in the near future concerning consciousness, rights, relationships, and what it means to be human in a universe where humanity is no longer the sole competitor.
The AI protagonists in our stories have evolved to mirror our hopes and fears concerning connection, growth, and what occurs when the creations we produce exceed our imagination as to what they may potentially become. Maybe that is exactly what good science fiction is intended to accomplish — assist us in contemplating the implications of our actions before we are forced to confront them.
The authors of these sci-fi stories are essentially providing us with mirrors to reflect upon our hopes and fears, and assisting us in understanding the implications of our technological advancements.
Logan lives in Minneapolis with too many consoles and just enough opinions. He explores how sci-fi plays differently across games, TV, and film—celebrating great world-building and calling out lazy tropes. Expect passionate takes, sarcasm, and the occasional Mass Effect reference.