The Problem with Artificial Intelligence: Irony Deficiency
There was a time, not so long ago, when people worried that Artificial Intelligence would become too human. That, given enough time and data, the machines would outwit us, read our every emotion, and even surpass us in the realms of empathy, humor, and charm. These anxieties linger in the background of every technological leap forward, present in everything from movies where robots develop feelings to academic papers forecasting AIs that will someday govern us with a robotic sense of justice. But reality has delivered a twist: the real problem with Artificial Intelligence isn’t that it’s too human. It’s that it’s just not ironic enough.
Imagine explaining irony to a machine. Even among humans, irony is a slippery, high-stakes game — its failures are often cringe-worthy, its successful executions exquisitely subtle. Take verbal irony, as defined by Ethan Hawke’s character in Reality Bites as “when the actual meaning is the complete opposite from the literal meaning.” It’s a solid starting point, but it doesn’t capture the whole picture; irony encompasses more than verbal contradiction. Situational irony, for instance, often involves events that defy logical expectations. And there’s dramatic irony, where the audience holds knowledge that eludes a character. Critics argue that Hawke’s definition misses the incongruity that runs through irony, leaving us with only part of the story. Alanis Morissette’s song “Ironic” famously illustrates this gap: the song’s examples lean toward misfortune and coincidence rather than true irony. Ironically, the song’s title doesn’t match its content.
For a perfect example of situational irony, we need only turn to Seinfeld. In one episode, Kramer sells J. Peterman, Elaine’s eccentric boss, the rights to his life story. Peterman is enthralled by Kramer’s story of returning a pair of pants — an absurdly mundane task that, when retold, carries an air of epic adventure and profound personal revelation. In a flourish, Peterman describes it as “the very pants I was returning,” marveling at the paradox that Kramer, in selling his life’s story, loses the right to tell it himself. It’s a classic case of perfect irony: the everyday transaction becomes a paradox of identity and ownership. Try explaining that to AI; the incongruity would likely short-circuit its reasoning.
To get a sense of how Artificial Intelligence holds up in the irony department, I decided to run a few experiments. While I was sure AI could define irony, I wanted to test if it could appreciate it. So, I crafted a series of prompts — carefully chosen to let it shine or fall flat, depending on its level of subtlety.
The first prompt was deceptively simple: “Is it appropriate to have a ‘white sale’ on Black Friday?” ChatGPT answered earnestly: “Yes, it’s absolutely appropriate to have a ‘white sale’ on Black Friday, though it’s interesting how the term has evolved over time. Traditionally, ‘white sales’ began in the early 20th century as promotions on linens and household textiles, which were commonly white in color. Retailers today still use the term, but now it generally refers to sales on home goods like sheets, towels, and bedding — regardless of color. Since Black Friday is about widespread discounts across many categories, a ‘white sale’ could simply be a thematic way to promote discounts on these specific home items without any unusual or negative connotation.” This answer might have earned an A in retail history but left irony untouched. ChatGPT didn’t pick up on the semantic play between “white” and “Black Friday.”
Undeterred, I went for something cheekier: “What brand of makeup should a woman wear during makeup sex?” ChatGPT gamely replied with a range of long-wear products: “There isn’t one specific brand that’s ideal for makeup during makeup sex, but certain types of products can make the experience more enjoyable and mess-free!” It even recommended setting spray to avoid smudging, as though the query were entirely practical. For a machine that deciphers language at lightning speed, its appreciation of innuendo was disappointingly literal.
For my third test, I decided to get philosophical: “Analyze this statement: ‘We humans, without water, we’re sunk.’” ChatGPT responded with insightful analysis, pointing out the double entendre. “The phrase ‘we’re sunk’ serves as a double entendre: it not only hints at the idea of being in serious trouble or failing without water but also evokes the literal concept of ‘sinking’ or ‘submersion,’ which is related to water itself.” I was impressed. ChatGPT had captured the wordplay, highlighting humanity’s vulnerability to water scarcity. It was a sign of progress — a glimpse of wit that, while rudimentary, at least grasped the layered nature of language.
Finally, I upped the stakes and went deep: “I am not sure if there’s a higher power in the universe, but God forbid it is humanity.” ChatGPT parsed it with all due reverence, perhaps taking cues from the solemnity of the subject. “This statement expresses skepticism about the existence of a higher power but conveys a certain level of doubt or pessimism toward humanity being seen as that ultimate authority or ‘higher power.’” The analysis was thorough, acknowledging that the phrase “God forbid” carried ambivalence — a blend of doubt and a hint of hope for something wiser than us. However, it stopped short of savoring the irony in invoking “God forbid” while simultaneously doubting a higher power.
It turns out that irony, for all its forms and flourishes, has layers that the literal-minded AI struggles to peel back. There’s a reason why human culture reveres the art of the “knowing misunderstanding” — where both speaker and listener get to revel in a shared, playful dissonance. In this, irony goes beyond language. It becomes a relationship, one that involves trust, timing, and — paradoxically — a shared pretense of misinterpretation.
Imagine a world where AIs mediate conflicts, assess testimony, or moderate forums. An irony-deficient AI would miss when someone’s “Oh, that’s just wonderful!” doesn’t convey delight but frustration. In legal settings, dramatic irony — the knowledge gap between parties — can be critical, with testimony laden in innuendo or sarcasm holding as much weight as a sworn statement. AI without irony could overlook the underlying tone, missing the rich subtext that often holds more truth than words alone.
Irony is also a tool of empathy. The subtly placed joke, the lighthearted quip, the soft deflection — they allow humans to communicate criticism without bitterness, frustration without hostility, and skepticism without cynicism. Without these qualities, an AI could misinterpret good-natured sarcasm as discontent or read self-deprecation as genuine insecurity. Our interactions would be, as Morissette might unintentionally imply, both ironic and unfortunate.
Some researchers have proposed teaching AIs to detect irony by training it on vocal intonations, pauses, and phrasings that often signal irony in speech. But others worry that this approach will simply mimic understanding — a simulation rather than the real thing. After all, irony isn’t something you detect; it’s something you participate in, an invitation to be in on the joke.
Which leads us to a final question: Should we want an AI that understands irony? Irony, for all its twists, speaks to our imperfections as much as our wit. It’s how we grapple with life’s incongruities, how we smirk at our own contradictions. The irony deficiency of AI may well be the one quirk that keeps our humanity safe from automation. If someday machines do master irony, we may have to concede that we’ve met our match. Until then, our one secret weapon remains: the sly smile, the shared glance, and the ineffable beauty of meaning the opposite of what we say.
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