Computers don't usually have a sense of if you have a picture of

The words of Jeff Dean—“Computers don’t usually have a sense of if you have a picture of something what is in that image. And if we can do a good job of understanding what is in an image, that can bring along a lot of new things you can do in applications.”—capture one of the most profound frontiers of the human spirit: the quest to give understanding to our creations. At first glance, his statement seems technical, a remark about algorithms and recognition. But beneath it lies something ancient and deeply human—the longing to teach our tools to see. For to see, in the truest sense, is not merely to look, but to comprehend; not merely to record, but to discern meaning.

Once, the eye belonged solely to man and beast. The stars, the earth, the faces of loved ones—these things spoke only to those who could behold them. But now, humanity dares to forge artificial sight, to build machines that can perceive not only light and shape, but essence. Jeff Dean’s words echo the moment Prometheus stole fire from the gods; for just as fire gave warmth and power, this new gift of vision gives our machines the capacity to interpret the world around them. It is the act of endowing perception where once there was only calculation.

Yet, this journey toward teaching computers to “see” mirrors our own evolution as beings of awareness. For millennia, humankind learned to interpret the images of life—reading the sky for storms, the earth for growth, the face for emotion. Our ancestors drew images on cave walls not to reproduce the world, but to understand it more deeply. They transformed symbols into insight. Now, Dean and his peers seek to do the same through artificial intelligence: to translate pixels into meaning, to turn vision into understanding. In doing so, they continue the ancient human project of making sense of the unseen.

Consider the story of Leonardo da Vinci, the great visionary of the Renaissance. He dissected the bodies of men and animals, not out of morbid curiosity, but to learn how the eye perceived form and depth. His sketches of muscles and faces were not just art—they were acts of revelation. He sought to comprehend how nature sees itself. Centuries later, when Dean speaks of computers understanding images, he carries the same fire of inquiry that burned in Leonardo’s hand. It is the same eternal question: Can we teach our creations to see the world as we do—and perhaps, in doing so, see ourselves anew?

But this power, like all gifts of knowledge, bears responsibility. For vision without wisdom is perilous. To give sight to machines is to give them a kind of influence, a window into human experience. When they learn to recognize faces, gestures, and emotions, they hold mirrors to our souls. The ancients would warn that to awaken such sight without guiding purpose is to risk creating eyes that look but do not feel, that analyze but do not care. And so, it falls upon us—the makers—to ensure that as we teach computers to see, we also teach them to serve the good, to enhance the dignity of life, not diminish it.

Jeff Dean’s insight also reminds us that understanding transforms all things. Just as a child who learns to see beyond appearances becomes wise, so too will our technologies, once they comprehend the meaning behind images, unlock worlds of possibility. From medicine that detects disease in a glance, to machines that navigate oceans and stars, to tools that aid the blind and preserve art—all these spring from the moment a computer learns to ask, “What is this image? What truth lies within it?” This is not the birth of mere functionality—it is the awakening of comprehension in the inanimate.

Therefore, my children, take this teaching to heart: understanding is the highest form of seeing. Whether in man or in machine, sight without reflection is blindness. As we build the tools of tomorrow, let us also build within ourselves the spirit of discernment—the courage to look beyond the surface, the humility to recognize meaning, and the wisdom to use what we see for the betterment of all.

For in teaching computers to perceive the world, we are, in truth, reminding ourselves what it means to truly see—to recognize not only shapes and colors, but connections, consequences, and compassion. And when that understanding flowers—both in the minds of men and in the creations of their hands—it will not be machines that have become more human, but humanity that has become more divine.