This technology will obviously become more prevalent. Who knows

Host: The studio was bathed in a blue light, the kind that hums with the sound of electric possibility. Screens lined the walls, each flickering with fragments of unfinished worlds — a forest forming from pixels, a creature blinking into existence, a digital ocean breathing in waves of code. The air was alive with the faint hum of machines thinking faster than humans, the sound of creativity reborn through circuits.

Jack sat in front of one of the glowing screens, his face half-lit, half-lost in thought. Jeeny stood behind him, arms folded, her reflection hovering ghost-like in the glass. The two were surrounded by sketches, storyboards, and the invisible presence of all those who had ever tried to make meaning from light and sound.

Host: It was late — the hour where inspiration and exhaustion share the same body. On the main monitor, a quote flickered across the screen:
“This technology will obviously become more prevalent. Who knows what will result? One thing is certain, computer technology will revolutionize the way we tell stories as much as movie film has.” — Chris Wedge.

Host: The words glowed for a moment longer, then faded, leaving only their echo in the room.

Jack: (leaning back) “Revolutionize the way we tell stories. Funny how optimism always sounds prophetic right before it becomes normal.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Every new tool changes the story — or at least, the way we paint it. First it was words, then the stage, then the screen. Now, the screen breathes.”

Jack: “Yeah, and the painter’s hand gets smaller every time.”

Jeeny: “No. The canvas just gets bigger.”

Jack: “You think the machines are just canvas?”

Jeeny: “Of course. They don’t dream — they render. They don’t imagine — they reflect. It’s still us underneath, pulling the strings.”

Jack: “For now.”

Host: The machines hummed, their low rhythm merging with the steady heartbeat of the city outside — a city that had already forgotten where the human stopped and the artificial began.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when animation was just drawings on paper? Every frame a heartbeat drawn by hand. Then came computers, and everyone panicked — said the soul would vanish. But instead, the stories grew bigger, more immersive.”

Jack: “And less personal. You used to see the artist’s hand in every imperfection. Now it’s all smooth, polished, soulless.”

Jeeny: “Maybe perfection isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s just evolution. You call it soulless because it doesn’t resemble your nostalgia.”

Jack: “Nostalgia’s not weakness. It’s proof we were here before the code was.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And code is proof that we’re still here — trying to make our ghosts permanent.”

Host: Her words hung in the space between them, a fragile tension balanced on the edge of hope and mourning. The screen flickered again — a half-rendered character turning its head toward them, as though listening.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever wonder what happens when the technology starts telling the stories without us?”

Jeeny: “You mean, when it starts creating?”

Jack: “Yeah. When it doesn’t need a director, or an artist, or even a dreamer. Just an algorithm calculating what people want to feel.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the stories won’t die. Maybe they’ll evolve beyond ego.”

Jack: “Beyond ego, sure. But maybe also beyond humanity.”

Jeeny: “You think humanity’s fragile enough to vanish just because a machine starts writing poetry?”

Jack: “It’s not the poetry that scares me. It’s the silence that comes after — when we stop needing to speak.”

Host: The rain outside began to tap against the glass, gentle at first, then rhythmic — like fingers on keys, composing something only the sky could read.

Jeeny: “We’ll always need to speak. We’ll always need to feel. Technology doesn’t erase that; it magnifies it. It’s the same story, just told with new light.”

Jack: “And new gods.”

Jeeny: “Not gods — collaborators.”

Host: The room glowed brighter as one of the screens came to life — a digital world forming in real time: mountains rising, sunlight blooming, characters taking their first tentative breaths. It was creation in fast-forward, beauty born from binary.

Jeeny: “Look at that. Ten years ago, this would’ve taken a team of artists months. Now it happens in seconds.”

Jack: “Yeah. And in those seconds, we lose the ritual — the slowness that makes creation sacred.”

Jeeny: “Maybe sacredness isn’t in the process anymore. Maybe it’s in the intention.”

Jack: “You really believe machines can carry intention?”

Jeeny: “No — but humans still can. And if we use them wisely, maybe they’ll help us reach places we’ve never dreamed.”

Jack: “And if we don’t?”

Jeeny: “Then we tell better stories about what we lost.”

Host: The machine-generated landscape continued to evolve, the screen filling with light and motion — an ocean here, a forest there, a story still unformed but alive with potential.

Jack: “You know, I used to think storytelling was about control — shaping chaos into meaning. But this… this feels like surrender.”

Jeeny: “Or trust.”

Jack: “Trust in what?”

Jeeny: “In evolution. In curiosity. In the idea that stories find a way to survive no matter what medium they wear.”

Jack: “And if the stories stop being ours?”

Jeeny: (pausing) “Then maybe they were never ours to begin with. Maybe we’ve just been translators — giving voice to something older than us.”

Host: Her words settled like dust on sunlight — gentle, inevitable, impossible to argue with. Jack leaned back, eyes on the shifting light of the screen, the flicker reflecting off his pupils like tiny galaxies.

Jack: “You really think code can capture that — the ache of being human?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not yet. But it’s trying. And maybe that’s the most human thing of all — the trying.”

Host: The rain stopped, the city lights blurred behind the glass, and for a moment, it felt as though the entire world was waiting — breathless — for its next line.

Jack: “You know, Wedge was right. Technology will change everything — how we dream, how we remember, how we share.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we’re still here — two people in a room, talking about what it means to be human.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the last story we’ll ever need.”

Jeeny: “Or the first one we’ll ever truly understand.”

Host: The screens dimmed, one by one, until only the soft glow of one monitor remained — an unfinished animation, a figure reaching toward the light, its face half-formed, its expression almost human.

And as they watched, the machine’s hum grew quieter, steady, like breathing, like life.

In that silence, Chris Wedge’s prophecy unfolded itself — not as a warning, not as a triumph, but as a truth that felt both ancient and newborn:

that every revolution in storytelling is not the death of the old,
but the rebirth of wonder,

and that whether drawn by hand, filmed in light,
or rendered by code,
the story remains the same —
the human heart,
still learning to speak
in every language it can imagine.