In early 2019, senior Microsoft leadership began coming through the OpenAI office. First came Kevin Scott, the tech giant’s excitable chief technology officer, who had followed OpenAI and grown particularly fond of the startup; then came Craig Mundie, a senior adviser to Nadella who had served on Microsoft leadership, including as its chief research and strategy officer, for over twenty years. Bill Gates also turned up, reserved and tight-lipped as usual, as he watched a series of demos. Most employees were left in the dark about Microsoft’s engagement. Altman told the small team working on the deal to keep knowledge of a possible investment limited.

Now, AI is the harbinger of the fourth industrial revolution. The keystone of the modern superpower. AGI, if ever reached, will solve climate change, enable affordable health care, provide equitable education. OpenAI is the poster child for this line of thought. It cannot say how the technology will deliver on these promises—only that the staggering price society needs to pay for what it is developing will someday be worth it.

Through the course of my reporting, I would come to conclude something even more startling. Not even in Silicon Valley did other companies and investors move until after ChatGPT to funnel unqualified sums into scaling. That included Google and DeepMind, OpenAI’s original rival. It was specifically OpenAI, with its billionaire origins, unique ideological bent, and Altman’s singular drive, network, and fundraising talent, that created a ripe combination for its particular vision to emerge and take over. “I get the sense that Sam is the most ambitious person on the planet,” a former employee says. In other words, everything OpenAI did was the opposite of inevitable; the explosive global costs of its massive deep learning models, and the perilous race it sparked across the industry to scale such models to planetary limits, could only have ever arisen from the one place it actually did.

Some employees also felt exactly the opposite. While there was a clear qualitative change in what GPT-3 could do over GPT-2, GPT-4 was just bigger, says one of the researchers who worked on the model. “The big result was that there were a bunch of exams that the model does well. But even that is highly questionable.” OpenAI never did a comprehensive review of GPT-4’s training data to check whether those exams—and their answers—were just in the data and being regurgitated, or whether GPT-4 had in fact developed a novel capability to pass them. It was the kind of shaky science that had become pervasive with the industry-wide shift from peer-reviewed to PR-reviewed research.

Within weeks of the white paper, OpenAI and Microsoft formed a strategic alliance with Google and Anthropic to launch the Frontier Model Forum, a group for advancing relevant research and influencing the policy agenda on AI safety risks. It was a rare issue in which the interests of Doomers, Boomers, and profit-motivated corporates aligned: Keeping frontier models front and center in government regulatory discussions was ideologically imperative to Doomers and convenient to Boomers and corporates for shifting attention away from regulating existing AI models and their problems. Everyone also advanced their causes by arguing against opening up the weights of cutting-edge models. In the Forum’s first year, Meta was conspicuously absent. (It would join a year later to gain a seat at the table.)