As OpenAI was ironing out a new deal with Microsoft in 2016 — one that would nab the young startup critical compute to build what would become ChatGPT — Sam Altman needed the blessing of his biggest investor, Elon Musk.
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Inside Elon Musk’s messy breakup with OpenAI
“$60MM of compute for $10MM, and input from us on what they deploy in the cloud,” Altman messaged Musk in September 2016, according to newly revealed emails. Microsoft wanted OpenAI to provide feedback on and promote (in tech circles, “evangelize”) Microsoft AI tools like Azure Batch. Musk hated the idea, saying it made him “feel nauseous.”
Altman came back with another offer: “Microsoft is now willing to do the agreement for a full $50m with ‘good faith effort at OpenAI’s sole discretion’ and full mutual termination rights at any time. No evangelizing. No strings attached. No looking like lame Microsoft marketing pawns. Ok to move ahead?”
“Fine by me if they don’t use this in active messaging,” Musk responded. “Would be worth way more than $50M not to seem like Microsoft’s marketing bitch.”
Musk released these emails and others last week as part of a lawsuit he’s filed against OpenAI and Microsoft. They are ostensibly meant to demonstrate an anticompetitive partnership between the two companies. But primarily, they expose the details of early collaborations and power struggles between Altman and Musk, who invested between $50 million and $100 million in the earliest iteration of OpenAI. They trace OpenAI’s evolution from an open-source nonprofit to what the lawsuit calls a “closed-source de facto subsidiary” of Microsoft that abandoned its mission to develop AI for good. And they lay bare the complete and utter unraveling of Musk and Altman’s once-promising partnership.
“Elon’s third attempt in less than a year to reframe his claims is even more baseless and overreaching than the previous ones,” OpenAI spokesperson Hannah Wong wrote in a statement to The Verge. “His prior emails continue to speak for themselves.”
“Would be worth way more than $50M not to seem like Microsoft’s marketing bitch,” Musk said
Musk and Altman launched OpenAI united by fears of human-level intelligence in the hands of tech giants like Google — only to see it become the kind of tech juggernaut they feared. After winning a CEO position that Musk coveted, Altman chose to keep OpenAI’s cutting-edge AI behind closed doors, claiming it was too dangerous to be openly released. The decision incensed Musk, who left OpenAI’s board to found his own competitor, xAI. Nearly a decade after the pair founded OpenAI, the two companies are amassing billions of dollars and Musk is taking the fight to court — in a race to own what both men see as the inevitable future of computing.
“Been thinking a lot about whether it’s possible to stop humanity from developing AI,” Altman wrote in 2015 in an email to Musk as a pitch to start OpenAI. “If it’s going to happen anyway, it seems like it would be good for someone other than Google to do it first.”
The talent problem
From its inception, OpenAI was caught between two conflicting forces: an idealistic mission to benefit humanity and a cutthroat race against tech behemoths. Musk and Altman agreed that whatever their motivations, securing top talent (along with piles of cash) would be a paramount concern. This early compromise would set the stage for what Musk would later call the startup’s pursuit of profit over principle.
In 2015, the startup was known as YC AI — a lab tucked inside Y Combinator’s nonprofit research division, YCR. Altman, then president of the startup incubator, leveraged its extensive network and resources to attract researchers and money. Musk urged Altman and CTO (now president) Greg Brockman to seek over $100 million in funding, cautioning them that anything less would appear paltry compared to the deep pockets of tech giants like Google and Facebook.
“I think we should say that we are starting with a $1B funding commitment. This is real. I will cover whatever anyone else doesn’t provide,” Musk said in 2015 emails revealed by OpenAI earlier this year in response to Musk’s lawsuit.
Still, despite Musk’s support and a war chest of millions of dollars, the fledgling organization faced an early challenge that plagues most startups: the fierce competition for top talent. OpenAI might be the hottest place to work in Silicon Valley today, but a decade ago (and long before the launch of ChatGPT), many top AI researchers were unlikely to give it a second glance.
In their aggressive bid for the best AI researchers, Altman and his team devised an unusual compensation package: a base salary of $175,000, a “part-time partner” title at YC, and 0.25 percent equity in each YC startup batch. (Now, it’s more common for AI researchers to be compensated closer to $1 million annually.) Altman billed it as a “Manhattan Project for AI,” per one email to Musk, and sensed he could get many of the top 50 researchers to join and “structure it so that the tech belongs to the world via some sort of nonprofit but the people working on it get startup-like compensation.”
The goal was to assemble an elite founding team of seven to 10 members — whatever it took to win the industry’s best minds. Still, Google’s AI lab, DeepMind, was on their heels.
“DeepMind is going to give everyone in OpenAI massive counteroffers tomorrow to try to kill it,” Altman wrote to Musk in December 2015. “Do you have any objection to me proactively increasing everyone’s comp by 100-200k per year? I think they’re all motivated by the mission here but it would be a good signal to everyone we are going to take care of them over time.”
“Sounds like DeepMind is planning to go to war over this,” Altman added.
Musk approved of the salary bumps, and by February 2016, OpenAI’s founding team was offered a $275,000 salary plus YC equity, while subsequent hires received a $175,000 salary with performance-based bonuses of $125,000 or equivalent stock in YC or SpaceX. Brockman added that there were three special cases: himself, along with cofounders Ilya Sutskever and Trevor Blackwell. It was later reported that Sutskever earned more than $1.9 million in 2016, and he told The New York Times that he “turned down offers for multiple times the dollar amount” he accepted from OpenAI. “I don’t know what will happen if/when Google starts throwing around the numbers they threw at Ilya,” Brockman wrote to Musk as he outlined a plan to poach researchers.
“We need to do what it takes to get the top talent. Let’s go higher. If, at some point, we need to revisit what existing people are getting paid, that’s fine,” Musk replied. “Either we get the best people in the world or we will get whipped by DeepMind. Whatever it takes to bring on ace talent is fine by me.” He warned that a victory by DeepMind, which was causing him “extreme mental stress,” would be really bad news with their “one mind to rule the world” philosophy. “They are obviously making major progress and well they should, given the talent level over there,” Musk added.
AGI dictatorship
It didn’t take long for things to get contentious between the cofounders.
In August 2017, OpenAI was ironing out the specifics of an initial funding round of between $200 million and $1 billion. Shivon Zilis, an ex-OpenAI board member and Neuralink operations director who would later bear three of Musk’s 12 children, wrote to Musk that Brockman and Sutskever were concerned. They were worried about how a newly founded for-profit branch of OpenAI would distribute equity and control as well as whether Musk — who wanted the job of CEO there — would commit sufficient time to it. “This is very annoying,” Musk responded, according to one of the newly released emails. “Please encourage them to go start a company. I’ve had enough.”
The next month, Sutskever and Brockman escalated with a joint email to Musk and Altman. They expressed fears that Musk would seize “unilateral absolute control” over artificial general intelligence (AGI) if he took power as CEO. At the same time, they questioned Altman’s motivations, asking why “the CEO title is so important” to him. “Is AGI truly your primary motivation? How does it connect to your political goals? How has your thought process changed over time?” the pair asked. (The email doesn’t elaborate on what “politics” refers to, but Altman had become vocally active in California political campaigning earlier that year.) They said that they had let the promise of money cloud their judgment during earlier negotiations, blinding them to concerns they should have raised.
“The goal of OpenAI is to make the future good and to avoid an AGI dictatorship. You are concerned that [DeepMind CEO Demis Hassabis] could create an AGI dictatorship. So do we,” the pair wrote. “So it is a bad idea to create a structure where you could become a dictator if you chose to, especially given that we can create some other structure that avoids this possibility.”
The email echoed a common refrain from OpenAI’s founders: that superintelligent AI was a serious threat to humanity, and any single entity controlling that power was even greater. But Musk was unimpressed.
“It is a bad idea to create a structure where you could become a dictator if you chose to,” Sutskever told Musk
“I will no longer fund OpenAI until you have made a firm commitment to stay or I’m just being a fool who is essentially providing free funding for you to create a startup. Discussions are over,” Musk replied. Altman replied that he remains “enthusiastic about the non-profit structure,” which ultimately led Sutskever and Brockman to back down.
Shortly after the confrontation, Zilis relayed a conversation she had with Altman to Musk. Zilis revealed that Altman “admitted that he lost a lot of trust with Greg and Ilya through this process” and “felt their messaging was inconsistent and felt childish at times.” Altman decided to take 10 days off to process the incident, Zilis added, because he “needs to figure out how much he can trust them and how much he wants to work with them.”
Just five months after Brockman and Sutskever’s email expressing fears of a power struggle, the situation reached another inflection point. In an altercation that was reported years later, Musk became convinced OpenAI had fallen irreparably behind Google and proposed taking control of the company himself — the very scenario Brockman and Sutskever had cautioned against.
“My probability assessment of OpenAI being relevant to DeepMind/Google without a dramatic change in execution and resources is 0%. Not 1%. I wish it were otherwise,” Musk said in 2018, per emails revealed by OpenAI earlier this year.
OpenAI’s leadership rejected his offer, and Musk departed the board in February 2018, cutting off funding but continuing to offer his support as an adviser.
Photo by Allison Robbert-Pool / Getty Images
The loss of Musk, who had by that point reportedly invested $100 million, put OpenAI’s nonprofit model in peril. When Musk was still largely bankrolling the operation in 2017, Zilis explained to him that OpenAI leadership wanted to raise “$100M out of the gate” because “they are of the opinion that the datacenter they need alone would cost that.” So, in 2019, desperate to fund the training data center and reduce reliance on Musk, the team crafted a unique structure: a capped for-profit company controlled by the nonprofit. LinkedIn cofounder Reid Hoffman and venture capitalist Vinod Khosla participated in the first funding round, which secured pledges of nearly $1 billion but a far smaller initial funding of $130 million.
In March 2019, Musk sent Altman an article that implied his involvement in the new for-profit structure. “Please be explicit that I have no financial interest in the for-profit arm of OpenAI,” Musk said in the email, which he would later submit for inclusion in the suit. Altman responded simply: “On it.”
Etched in OpenAI’s history
OpenAI wields immense influence and power in the AI industry, and the battle for control was not lost on either Musk or Altman. In the end, Altman emerged victorious — then consolidated his power into near-total control over OpenAI.
The legal merits of Musk’s case are questionable. While he’s accused OpenAI and Microsoft of myriad offenses, much of his suit boils down to accusing Altman of hypocrisy, not typically something that’s punished in a court of law. The case is being heard in California, not in Texas, where Musk has been able to count on a sympathetic ear from a Tesla-stock-owning judge. Still, a lawsuit that accuses OpenAI and Microsoft of anticompetitive practices could garner sympathy while Musk has the ear of US president-elect Donald Trump.
But whatever its outcome, the suit gives Musk a chance to reveal details that shape the narrative of OpenAI’s origins and his own role. The exhibits show Altman securing power in the company’s early days, perhaps despite the wishes of his cofounders. They underline Altman’s willingness to go toe-to-toe with his for-profit competitors from the beginning. And they provide the public with a clear picture of what powers OpenAI: Altman’s willingness to do whatever it takes to get what he wants.
How complete is this narrative? We don’t know. It’s likely a lot of important conversations happened offline or in emails that aren’t included. And Musk, obviously, isn’t any less power-hungry; if anything, this suit demonstrates his sheer petty desire to retaliate when slighted. But as both leaders are competing for a finite amount of venture capitalist cash, he may be betting that he can tear down Altman’s reputation — and cement himself as the rightful steward of AGI.
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Ya sea que se dé cuenta o no, la inteligencia artificial está en todas partes. Se encuentra detrás de los chatbots con los que hablas en línea, las listas de reproducción que transmites y los anuncios personalizados que aparecen en tu desplazamiento. Y ahora está tomando una personalidad más pública. Piense en Meta AI, que ahora está integrado en aplicaciones como Facebook, Messenger y WhatsApp; o Géminis de Google, trabajando en segundo plano en las plataformas de la compañía; o Apple Intelligence, lanzando a través de iPhones ahora.
AI tiene una larga historia, volviendo a una conferencia en Dartmouth en 1956 que primero discutió la inteligencia artificial como una cosa. Los hitos en el camino incluyen Eliza, esencialmente el primer chatbot, desarrollado en 1964 por el informático del MIT Joseph Weizenbaum y, saltando 40 años, cuando la función de autocompleta de Google apareció por primera vez en 2004.
Luego llegó 2022 y el ascenso de Chatgpt a la fama. Los desarrollos generativos de IA y los lanzamientos de productos se han acelerado rápidamente desde entonces, incluidos Google Bard (ahora Gemini), Microsoft Copilot, IBM Watsonx.ai y los modelos de LLAMA de código abierto de Meta.
Desglosemos qué es la IA generativa, cómo difiere de la inteligencia artificial “regular” y si la Generación AI puede estar a la altura de las expectativas.
IA generativa en pocas palabras
En esencia, la IA generativa se refiere a sistemas de inteligencia artificial que están diseñados para producir un nuevo contenido basado en patrones y datos que han aprendido. En lugar de solo analizar números o predecir tendencias, estos sistemas generan salidas creativas como texto, música de imágenes, videos y código de software.
Algunas de las herramientas de IA generativas más populares en el mercado incluyen:
El principal entre sus habilidades, ChatGPT puede crear conversaciones o ensayos similares a los humanos basados en algunas indicaciones simples. Dall-E y MidJourney crean obras de arte detalladas a partir de una breve descripción, mientras que Adobe Firefly se centra en la edición y el diseño de imágenes.
Ai eso no es generativo
No toda la IA es generativa. Si bien Gen AI se enfoca en crear contenido nuevo, la IA tradicional se destaca por analizar datos y hacer predicciones. Esto incluye tecnologías como el reconocimiento de imágenes y el texto predictivo. También se usa para soluciones novedosas en:
- Ciencia
- Diagnóstico médico
- Pronóstico del tiempo
- Detección de fraude
- Análisis financiero para pronósticos e informes
La IA que venció a los grandes campeones humanos en el ajedrez y el juego de mesa no fue una IA generativa.
Es posible que estos sistemas no sean tan llamativos como la Generación AI, pero la inteligencia artificial clásica es una gran parte de la tecnología en la que confiamos todos los días.
¿Cómo funciona Gen AI?
Detrás de la magia de la IA generativa hay modelos de idiomas grandes y técnicas avanzadas de aprendizaje automático. Estos sistemas están capacitados en grandes cantidades de datos, como bibliotecas completas de libros, millones de imágenes, años de música grabada y datos raspados de Internet.
Los desarrolladores de IA, desde gigantes tecnológicos hasta nuevas empresas, son conscientes de que la IA es tan buena como los datos que lo alimenta. Si se alimenta de datos de baja calidad, la IA puede producir resultados sesgados. Es algo con lo que incluso los jugadores más grandes en el campo, como Google, no han sido inmunes.
La IA aprende patrones, relaciones y estructuras dentro de estos datos durante el entrenamiento. Luego, cuando se le solicita, aplica ese conocimiento para generar algo nuevo. Por ejemplo, si le pide a una herramienta Gen AI que escriba un poema sobre el océano, no solo extrae versos preescritos de una base de datos. En cambio, está usando lo que aprendió sobre la poesía, los océanos y la estructura del lenguaje para crear una pieza completamente original.
Es impresionante, pero no es perfecto. A veces los resultados pueden sentirse un poco apagados. Tal vez la IA malinterpreta su solicitud, o se vuelve demasiado creativo de una manera que no esperaba. Puede proporcionar con confianza información completamente falsa, y depende de usted verificarla. Esas peculiaridades, a menudo llamadas alucinaciones, son parte de lo que hace que la IA generativa sea fascinante y frustrante.
Las capacidades generativas de IA están creciendo. Ahora puede comprender múltiples tipos de datos combinando tecnologías como el aprendizaje automático, el procesamiento del lenguaje natural y la visión por computadora. El resultado se llama IA multimodal que puede integrar alguna combinación de texto, imágenes, video y habla dentro de un solo marco, ofreciendo respuestas más contextualmente relevantes y precisas. El modo de voz avanzado de ChatGPT es un ejemplo, al igual que el proyecto Astra de Google.
Desafíos con IA generativa
No hay escasez de herramientas de IA generativas, cada una con su talento único. Estas herramientas han provocado la creatividad, pero también han planteado muchas preguntas además del sesgo y las alucinaciones, como, ¿quién posee los derechos del contenido generado por IA? O qué material es un juego justo o fuera de los límites para que las compañías de IA los usen para capacitar a sus modelos de idiomas; vea, por ejemplo, la demanda del New York Times contra Openai y Microsoft.
Otras preocupaciones, no son asuntos pequeños, implican privacidad, responsabilidad en la IA, los profundos profundos generados por IA y el desplazamiento laboral.
“Escribir, animación, fotografía, ilustración, diseño gráfico: las herramientas de IA ahora pueden manejar todo eso con una facilidad sorprendente. Pero eso no significa que estos roles desaparezcan. Simplemente puede significar que los creativos deberán mejorar y usar estas herramientas para amplificar su propio trabajo”, Fang Liu, profesor de la Universidad de Notre Dame Dame y Coeditor-Chief de las transacciones de ACM en las transacciones de Probabilista, contó el aprendizaje en el poderoso de la máquina probabilística, le dijo a Cetnet.
“También ofrece una forma para las personas que tal vez carecen de la habilidad, como alguien con una visión clara que no puede dibujar, pero que puede describirlo a través de un aviso. Así que no, no creo que interrumpa a la industria creativa. Con suerte, será una co-creación o un aumento, no un reemplazo”.
Otro problema es el impacto en el medio ambiente porque la capacitación de grandes modelos de IA utiliza mucha energía, lo que lleva a grandes huellas de carbono. El rápido ascenso de la Generación AI en los últimos años ha acelerado las preocupaciones sobre los riesgos de la IA en general. Los gobiernos están aumentando las regulaciones de IA para garantizar el desarrollo responsable y ético, especialmente la Ley de IA de la Unión Europea.
Recepción de IA generativa
Muchas personas han interactuado con los chatbots en el servicio al cliente o han utilizado asistentes virtuales como Siri, Alexa y Google Assistant, que ahora están en la cúspide de convertirse en Gen AI Power Tools. Todo eso, junto con las aplicaciones para ChatGPT, Claude y otras herramientas nuevas, es poner ai en sus manos. Y la reacción pública a la IA generativa se ha mezclado. Muchos usuarios disfrutan de la conveniencia y la creatividad que ofrece, especialmente para cosas como escribir ayuda, creación de imágenes, soporte de tareas y productividad.
Mientras tanto, en la encuesta global de IA 2024 de McKinsey, el 65% de los encuestados dijo que sus organizaciones usan regularmente IA generativa, casi el doble de la cifra reportada solo 10 meses antes. Industrias como la atención médica y las finanzas están utilizando Gen AI para racionalizar las operaciones comerciales y automatizar tareas mundanas.
Como se mencionó, existen preocupaciones obvias sobre la ética, la transparencia, la pérdida de empleos y el potencial del mal uso de los datos personales. Esas son las principales críticas detrás de la resistencia a aceptar la IA generativa.
Y las personas que usan herramientas de IA generativas también encontrarán que los resultados aún no son lo suficientemente buenos para el tiempo. A pesar de los avances tecnológicos, la mayoría de las personas pueden reconocer si el contenido se ha creado utilizando Gen AI, ya sean artículos, imágenes o música.
AI ha secuestrado ciertas frases que siempre he usado, por lo que debo autocorrectar mi escritura a menudo porque puede parecer una IA. Muchos artículos escritos por AI contienen frases como “en la era de”, o todo es un “testimonio de” o un “tapiz de”. La IA carece de la emoción y la experiencia que viene, bueno, ser una vida humana y viviente. Como explicó un artista en Quora, “lo que AI hace no es lo mismo que el arte que evoluciona de un pensamiento en un cerebro humano” y “no se crea a partir de la pasión que se encuentra en un corazón humano”.
AI generativa: vida cotidiana
La IA generativa no es solo para técnicos o personas creativas. Una vez que obtienes la habilidad de darle indicaciones, tiene el potencial de hacer gran parte del trabajo preliminar por ti en una variedad de tareas diarias.
Digamos que está planeando un viaje. En lugar de desplazarse por páginas de resultados de búsqueda, le pide a un chatbot que planifique su itinerario. En cuestión de segundos, tiene un plan detallado adaptado a sus preferencias. (Ese es el ideal. Por favor, verifique siempre sus recomendaciones).
Un propietario de una pequeña empresa que necesita una campaña de marketing pero que no tiene un equipo de diseño puede usar una IA generativa para crear imágenes llamativas e incluso pedirle que sugiera copia publicitaria.
Gen Ai está aquí para quedarse
No ha habido un avance tecnológico que haya causado tal boom desde Internet y, más tarde, el iPhone. A pesar de sus desafíos, la IA generativa es innegablemente transformadora. Está haciendo que la creatividad sea más accesible, ayudando a las empresas a racionalizar los flujos de trabajo e incluso inspirar formas completamente nuevas de pensar y resolver problemas.
Pero quizás lo más emocionante es su potencial, y estamos rascando la superficie de lo que estas herramientas pueden hacer.
Preguntas frecuentes
¿Cuál es un ejemplo de IA generativa?
ChatGPT es probablemente el ejemplo más popular de IA generativa. Le das un aviso y puede generar texto e imágenes; Código de escritura; Responder preguntas; resumir el texto; borrador de correos electrónicos; y mucho más.
¿Cuál es la diferencia entre la IA y la IA generativa?
La IA generativa crea contenido nuevo como texto, imágenes o música, mientras que la IA tradicional analiza los datos, reconoce patrones o imágenes y hace predicciones (por ejemplo, en medicina, ciencia y finanzas).
Si busca “CHATGPT” en su navegador, es probable que se tope en sitios web que parecen estar alimentados por OpenAI, pero no lo son. Uno de esos sitios, chat.chatbotapp.ai, ofrece acceso a “GPT-3.5” de forma gratuita y utiliza marca familiar.
Pero aquí está la cosa: no está dirigida por OpenAi. Y, francamente, ¿por qué usar un GPT-3.5 potencialmente falso cuando puedes usar GPT-4O de forma gratuita en el actual ¿Sitio de chatgpt?
In the summer of 2023, Ilya Sutskever, a co-founder and the chief scientist of OpenAI, was meeting with a group of new researchers at the company. By all traditional metrics, Sutskever should have felt invincible: He was the brain behind the large language models that helped build ChatGPT, then the fastest-growing app in history; his company’s valuation had skyrocketed; and OpenAI was the unrivaled leader of the industry believed to power the future of Silicon Valley. But the chief scientist seemed to be at war with himself.
Sutskever had long believed that artificial general intelligence, or AGI, was inevitable—now, as things accelerated in the generative-AI industry, he believed AGI’s arrival was imminent, according to Geoff Hinton, an AI pioneer who was his Ph.D. adviser and mentor, and another person familiar with Sutskever’s thinking. (Many of the sources in this piece requested anonymity in order to speak freely about OpenAI without fear of reprisal.) To people around him, Sutskever seemed consumed by thoughts of this impending civilizational transformation. What would the world look like when a supreme AGI emerged and surpassed humanity? And what responsibility did OpenAI have to ensure an end state of extraordinary prosperity, not extraordinary suffering?
By then, Sutskever, who had previously dedicated most of his time to advancing AI capabilities, had started to focus half of his time on AI safety. He appeared to people around him as both boomer and doomer: more excited and afraid than ever before of what was to come. That day, during the meeting with the new researchers, he laid out a plan.
“Once we all get into the bunker—” he began, according to a researcher who was present.
“I’m sorry,” the researcher interrupted, “the bunker?”
“We’re definitely going to build a bunker before we release AGI,” Sutskever replied. Such a powerful technology would surely become an object of intense desire for governments globally. The core scientists working on the technology would need to be protected. “Of course,” he added, “it’s going to be optional whether you want to get into the bunker.”
Two other sources I spoke with confirmed that Sutskever commonly mentioned such a bunker. “There is a group of people—Ilya being one of them—who believe that building AGI will bring about a rapture,” the researcher told me. “Literally, a rapture.” (Sutskever declined to comment.)
Sutskever’s fears about an all-powerful AI may seem extreme, but they are not altogether uncommon, nor were they particularly out of step with OpenAI’s general posture at the time. In May 2023, the company’s CEO, Sam Altman, co-signed an open letter describing the technology as a potential extinction risk—a narrative that has arguably helped OpenAI center itself and steer regulatory conversations. Yet the concerns about a coming apocalypse would also have to be balanced against OpenAI’s growing business: ChatGPT was a hit, and Altman wanted more.
When OpenAI was founded, the idea was to develop AGI for the benefit of humanity. To that end, the co-founders—who included Altman and Elon Musk—set the organization up as a nonprofit and pledged to share research with other institutions. Democratic participation in the technology’s development was a key principle, they agreed, hence the company’s name. But by the time I started covering the company in 2019, these ideals were eroding. OpenAI’s executives had realized that the path they wanted to take would demand extraordinary amounts of money. Both Musk and Altman tried to take over as CEO. Altman won out. Musk left the organization in early 2018 and took his money with him. To plug the hole, Altman reformulated OpenAI’s legal structure, creating a new “capped-profit” arm within the nonprofit to raise more capital.
Since then, I’ve tracked OpenAI’s evolution through interviews with more than 90 current and former employees, including executives and contractors. The company declined my repeated interview requests and questions over the course of working on my book about it, which this story is adapted from; it did not reply when I reached out one more time before the article was published. (OpenAI also has a corporate partnership with The Atlantic.)
OpenAI’s dueling cultures—the ambition to safely develop AGI, and the desire to grow a massive user base through new product launches—would explode toward the end of 2023. Gravely concerned about the direction Altman was taking the company, Sutskever would approach his fellow board of directors, along with his colleague Mira Murati, then OpenAI’s chief technology officer; the board would subsequently conclude the need to push the CEO out. What happened next—with Altman’s ouster and then reinstatement—rocked the tech industry. Yet since then, OpenAI and Sam Altman have become more central to world affairs. Last week, the company unveiled an “OpenAI for Countries” initiative that would allow OpenAI to play a key role in developing AI infrastructure outside of the United States. And Altman has become an ally to the Trump administration, appearing, for example, at an event with Saudi officials this week and onstage with the president in January to announce a $500 billion AI-computing-infrastructure project.
Altman’s brief ouster—and his ability to return and consolidate power—is now crucial history to understand the company’s position at this pivotal moment for the future of AI development. Details have been missing from previous reporting on this incident, including information that sheds light on Sutskever and Murati’s thinking and the response from the rank and file. Here, they are presented for the first time, according to accounts from more than a dozen people who were either directly involved or close to the people directly involved, as well as their contemporaneous notes, plus screenshots of Slack messages, emails, audio recordings, and other corroborating evidence.
The altruistic OpenAI is gone, if it ever existed. What future is the company building now?
Before ChatGPT, sources told me, Altman seemed generally energized. Now he often appeared exhausted. Propelled into megastardom, he was dealing with intensified scrutiny and an overwhelming travel schedule. Meanwhile, Google, Meta, Anthropic, Perplexity, and many others were all developing their own generative-AI products to compete with OpenAI’s chatbot.
Many of Altman’s closest executives had long observed a particular pattern in his behavior: If two teams disagreed, he often agreed in private with each of their perspectives, which created confusion and bred mistrust among colleagues. Now Altman was also frequently bad-mouthing staffers behind their backs while pushing them to deploy products faster and faster. Team leads mirroring his behavior began to pit staff against one another. Sources told me that Greg Brockman, another of OpenAI’s co-founders and its president, added to the problems when he popped into projects and derailed long-standing plans with last-minute changes.
The environment within OpenAI was changing. Previously, Sutskever had tried to unite workers behind a common cause. Among employees, he had been known as a deep thinker and even something of a mystic, regularly speaking in spiritual terms. He wore shirts with animals on them to the office and painted them as well—a cuddly cat, cuddly alpacas, a cuddly fire-breathing dragon. One of his amateur paintings hung in the office, a trio of flowers blossoming in the shape of OpenAI’s logo, a symbol of what he always urged employees to build: “A plurality of humanity-loving AGIs.”
But by the middle of 2023—around the time he began speaking more regularly about the idea of a bunker—Sutskever was no longer just preoccupied by the possible cataclysmic shifts of AGI and superintelligence, according to sources familiar with his thinking. He was consumed by another anxiety: the erosion of his faith that OpenAI could even keep up its technical advancements to reach AGI, or bear that responsibility with Altman as its leader. Sutskever felt Altman’s pattern of behavior was undermining the two pillars of OpenAI’s mission, the sources said: It was slowing down research progress and eroding any chance at making sound AI-safety decisions.
Meanwhile, Murati was trying to manage the mess. She had always played translator and bridge to Altman. If he had adjustments to the company’s strategic direction, she was the implementer. If a team needed to push back against his decisions, she was their champion. When people grew frustrated with their inability to get a straight answer out of Altman, they sought her help. “She was the one getting stuff done,” a former colleague of hers told me. (Murati declined to comment.)
During the development of GPT‑4, Altman and Brockman’s dynamic had nearly led key people to quit, sources told me. Altman was also seemingly trying to circumvent safety processes for expediency. At one point, sources close to the situation said, he had told Murati that OpenAI’s legal team had cleared the latest model, GPT-4 Turbo, to skip review by the company’s Deployment Safety Board, or DSB—a committee of Microsoft and OpenAI representatives who evaluated whether OpenAI’s most powerful models were ready for release. But when Murati checked in with Jason Kwon, who oversaw the legal team, Kwon had no idea how Altman had gotten that impression.
In the summer, Murati attempted to give Altman detailed feedback on these issues, according to multiple sources. It didn’t work. The CEO iced her out, and it took weeks to thaw the relationship.
By fall, Sutskever and Murati both drew the same conclusion. They separately approached the three board members who were not OpenAI employees—Helen Toner, a director at Georgetown University’s Center for Security and Emerging Technology; the roboticist Tasha McCauley; and one of Quora’s co-founders and its CEO, Adam D’Angelo—and raised concerns about Altman’s leadership. “I don’t think Sam is the guy who should have the finger on the button for AGI,” Sutskever said in one such meeting, according to notes I reviewed. “I don’t feel comfortable about Sam leading us to AGI,” Murati said in another, according to sources familiar with the conversation.
That Sutskever and Murati both felt this way had a huge effect on Toner, McCauley, and D’Angelo. For close to a year, they, too, had been processing their own grave concerns about Altman, according to sources familiar with their thinking. Among their many doubts, the three directors had discovered through a series of chance encounters that he had not been forthcoming with them about a range of issues, from a breach in the DSB’s protocols to the legal structure of OpenAI Startup Fund, a dealmaking vehicle that was meant to be under the company but that instead Altman owned himself.
If two of Altman’s most senior deputies were sounding the alarm on his leadership, the board had a serious problem. Sutskever and Murati were not the first to raise these kinds of issues, either. In total, the three directors had heard similar feedback over the years from at least five other people within one to two levels of Altman, the sources said. By the end of October, Toner, McCauley, and D’Angelo began to meet nearly daily on video calls, agreeing that Sutskever’s and Murati’s feedback about Altman, and Sutskever’s suggestion to fire him, warranted serious deliberation.
As they did so, Sutskever sent them long dossiers of documents and screenshots that he and Murati had gathered in tandem with examples of Altman’s behaviors. The screenshots showed at least two more senior leaders noting Altman’s tendency to skirt around or ignore processes, whether they’d been instituted for AI-safety reasons or to smooth company operations. This included, the directors learned, Altman’s apparent attempt to skip DSB review for GPT-4 Turbo.
By Saturday, November 11, the independent directors had made their decision. As Sutskever suggested, they would remove Altman and install Murati as interim CEO. On November 17, 2023, at about noon Pacific time, Sutskever fired Altman on a Google Meet with the three independent board members. Sutskever then told Brockman on another Google Meet that Brockman would no longer be on the board but would retain his role at the company. A public announcement went out immediately.
For a brief moment, OpenAI’s future was an open question. It might have taken a path away from aggressive commercialization and Altman. But this is not what happened.
After what had seemed like a few hours of calm and stability, including Murati having a productive conversation with Microsoft—at the time OpenAI’s largest financial backer—she had suddenly called the board members with a new problem. Altman and Brockman were telling everyone that Altman’s removal had been a coup by Sutskever, she said.
It hadn’t helped that, during a company all-hands to address employee questions, Sutskever had been completely ineffectual with his communication.
“Was there a specific incident that led to this?” Murati had read aloud from a list of employee questions, according to a recording I obtained of the meeting.
“Many of the questions in the document will be about the details,” Sutskever responded. “What, when, how, who, exactly. I wish I could go into the details. But I can’t.”
“Are we worried about the hostile takeover via coercive influence of the existing board members?” Sutskever read from another employee later.
“Hostile takeover?” Sutskever repeated, a new edge in his voice. “The OpenAI nonprofit board has acted entirely in accordance to its objective. It is not a hostile takeover. Not at all. I disagree with this question.”
Shortly thereafter, the remaining board, including Sutskever, confronted enraged leadership over a video call. Kwon, the chief strategy officer, and Anna Makanju, the vice president of global affairs, were leading the charge in rejecting the board’s characterization of Altman’s behavior as “not consistently candid,” according to sources present at the meeting. They demanded evidence to support the board’s decision, which the members felt they couldn’t provide without outing Murati, according to sources familiar with their thinking.
In rapid succession that day, Brockman quit in protest, followed by three other senior researchers. Through the evening, employees only got angrier, fueled by compounding problems: among them, a lack of clarity from the board about their reasons for firing Altman; a potential loss of a tender offer, which had given some the option to sell what could amount to millions of dollars’ worth of their equity; and a growing fear that the instability at the company could lead to its unraveling, which would squander so much promise and hard work.
Faced with the possibility of OpenAI falling apart, Sutskever’s resolve immediately started to crack. OpenAI was his baby, his life; its dissolution would destroy him. He began to plead with his fellow board members to reconsider their position on Altman.
Meanwhile, Murati’s interim position was being challenged. The conflagration within the company was also spreading to a growing circle of investors. Murati now was unwilling to explicitly throw her weight behind the board’s decision to fire Altman. Though her feedback had helped instigate it, she had not participated herself in the deliberations.
By Monday morning, the board had lost. Murati and Sutskever flipped sides. Altman would come back; there was no other way to save OpenAI.
I was already working on a book about OpenAI at the time, and in the weeks that followed the board crisis, friends, family, and media would ask me dozens of times: What did all this mean, if anything? To me, the drama highlighted one of the most urgent questions of our generation: How do we govern artificial intelligence? With AI on track to rewire a great many other crucial functions in society, that question is really asking: How do we ensure that we’ll make our future better, not worse?
The events of November 2023 illustrated in the clearest terms just how much a power struggle among a tiny handful of Silicon Valley elites is currently shaping the future of this technology. And the scorecard of this centralized approach to AI development is deeply troubling. OpenAI today has become everything that it said it would not be. It has turned into a nonprofit in name only, aggressively commercializing products such as ChatGPT and seeking historic valuations. It has grown ever more secretive, not only cutting off access to its own research but shifting norms across the industry to no longer share meaningful technical details about AI models. In the pursuit of an amorphous vision of progress, its aggressive push on the limits of scale has rewritten the rules for a new era of AI development. Now every tech giant is racing to out-scale one another, spending sums so astronomical that even they have scrambled to redistribute and consolidate their resources. What was once unprecedented has become the norm.
As a result, these AI companies have never been richer. In March, OpenAI raised $40 billion, the largest private tech-funding round on record, and hit a $300 billion valuation. Anthropic is valued at more than $60 billion. Near the end of last year, the six largest tech giants together had seen their market caps increase by more than $8 trillion after ChatGPT. At the same time, more and more doubts have risen about the true economic value of generative AI, including a growing body of studies that have shown that the technology is not translating into productivity gains for most workers, while it’s also eroding their critical thinking.
In a November Bloomberg article reviewing the generative-AI industry, the staff writers Parmy Olson and Carolyn Silverman summarized it succinctly. The data, they wrote, “raises an uncomfortable prospect: that this supposedly revolutionary technology might never deliver on its promise of broad economic transformation, but instead just concentrate more wealth at the top.”
Meanwhile, it’s not just a lack of productivity gains that many in the rest of the world are facing. The exploding human and material costs are settling onto wide swaths of society, especially the most vulnerable, people I met around the world, whether workers and rural residents in the global North or impoverished communities in the global South, all suffering new degrees of precarity. Workers in Kenya earned abysmal wages to filter out violence and hate speech from OpenAI’s technologies, including ChatGPT. Artists are being replaced by the very AI models that were built from their work without their consent or compensation. The journalism industry is atrophying as generative-AI technologies spawn heightened volumes of misinformation. Before our eyes, we’re seeing an ancient story repeat itself: Like empires of old, the new empires of AI are amassing extraordinary riches across space and time at great expense to everyone else.
To quell the rising concerns about generative AI’s present-day performance, Altman has trumpeted the future benefits of AGI ever louder. In a September 2024 blog post, he declared that the “Intelligence Age,” characterized by “massive prosperity,” would soon be upon us. At this point, AGI is largely rhetorical—a fantastical, all-purpose excuse for OpenAI to continue pushing for ever more wealth and power. Under the guise of a civilizing mission, the empire of AI is accelerating its global expansion and entrenching its power.
As for Sutskever and Murati, both parted ways with OpenAI after what employees now call “The Blip,” joining a long string of leaders who have left the organization after clashing with Altman. Like many of the others who failed to reshape OpenAI, the two did what has become the next-most-popular option: They each set up their own shops, to compete for the future of this technology.
This essay has been adapted from Karen Hao’s forthcoming book, Empire of AI.
Empire Of AI – Dreams And Nightmares In Sam Altman’s OpenAI
By Karen Hao
*Illustration by Akshita Chandra / The Atlantic. Sources: Nathan Howard / Bloomberg / Getty; Jack Guez / AFP / Getty; Jon Kopaloff / Getty; Manuel Augusto Moreno / Getty; Yuichiro Chino / Getty.
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