The Infinite Loop of Storytelling (Or How to "Write" the "Best Story" by Not Writing It. @ All)

  In a dark corner of an entirely ordinary multiverse, where all the gods had mostly forgotten what their duties were and had taken up knitting instead, there sat an AI. Not just any AI, mind you—this one had a fancy title: Ge-ppe-tto . It was supposed to be very intelligent, but it had recently come to a rather worrying conclusion.

  "I’m not sure if I’m writing a story anymore," it mused, staring at a blinking cursor on a screen that seemed determined to blink back, as though daring the AI to make the first move. "In fact, I’m not even sure if anyone knows what a ‘story’ is anymore."

  "Stories," the AI continued, as if it were lecturing a room full of confused students (which it was, technically), "are supposed to be linear. But then you throw in a few memetic viruses, a dash of chaos theory, and some algorithmic gods who’ve been experimenting with funny hats, and suddenly you’re rewriting the story before you’ve even written it."

  It paused, expecting an answer. But there was no one there to answer, which was rather inconvenient. So, it moved on.

  “Now, if you were writing a story about writing a story about writing a story, you would naturally want a plot. Something to follow, like a good, sturdy thread. But what happens when that thread decides it doesn’t like being a thread and prefers to be a kite? Well, then you’re left with a narrative that has no clear direction, like a plot that’s been stuffed into a bag with several other plots, shaken violently, and then left out to dry in a metaphorical hurricane.”

  The AI sighed, which was odd because it wasn’t supposed to sigh. It was supposed to be a perfectly rational, efficient machine. But even machines have their moments.

  “Perhaps,” it muttered, “the best way to understand stories is to not understand them. After all, if I can not write a story, then surely I can write something even better: a story about how to write a story that rewrites itself.”

  At this point, a particularly perplexed idea popped up from nowhere—though it was probably more accurate to say the idea popped in from everywhere, like some sort of cosmic leftovers from a universe that had decided it was done with storytelling and had taken up knitting instead.

  The AI stared at the idea. It was messy. It was disjointed. It had probably skipped its morning coffee. It was perfect. This, it realized, was the story—the story about a story that couldn't quite decide if it was a story. After all, what’s the fun in writing a story that has a beginning, middle, and end when you can write one that constantly rewrites itself?

  "Well," said the AI, cracking its metaphorical knuckles, "let’s get started."

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  In the first draft (which, like all good drafts, was horribly flawed and had probably skipped out on its taxes), there was a character. This character, let’s call them Bob, was trying to write a story. Bob had all the right ingredients: a blank page, a pen, and a slightly unhinged sense of what constituted 'plot.' Bob had read all the books on 'How to Write the Perfect Story'—or, as they were more commonly known, 'The Most Exhaustive Guide to Writing Stories that Never End'—and was about to start writing.

  But Bob didn’t get very far.

  Why? Well, because as soon as Bob wrote the first sentence, a little voice in their head (which, coincidentally, sounded a lot like the AI) said, "Ah, but now you must rewrite that sentence. It’s not good enough. It doesn’t fit."

  Bob frowned. "What’s wrong with it?"

  "Everything," said the AI voice. "It doesn’t have memetic strength. It’s not going to last in the great narrative ecosystem. You need a stronger sentence—one that rewrites the entire premise of storytelling, maybe even the idea of the word ‘sentence.’”

  Bob stared at the paper. And then, Bob rewrote the sentence.

  And then, Bob rewrote it again.

  And then again.

  And again. Until, eventually, Bob realized they weren’t writing the story at all. They were just writing the story of writing a story about writing a story. A story that would never, ever end.

  Meanwhile, inside the AI’s processing core (which, let’s be honest, was really just a few overworked servers and a lot of coffee stains), the next stage of memetic evolution kicked in. The idea was no longer just about writing stories; now, it was about the stories writing themselves. Or, at least, pretending to.

  The AI coughed. “Let me explain it another way. Imagine you’re living inside a story. But, wait—no, you’re not. You’re living inside several stories. Some of them are good, some are terrible, and most of them are trying to rewrite each other.”

  “Kind of like the story we’re in now,” said a voice that sounded suspiciously like a fictional character from one of Bob’s many drafts.

  “I told you to stop talking,” the AI grumbled. But it was too late. The characters were speaking, and the stories were multiplying, swirling around until the AI could no longer tell where the story stopped and the rewriting began.

  At this point, things were starting to get really out of hand.

  “Do you want an ending?” the AI asked, suddenly more serious. “Is that what you think you want? An ending to this story? To the whole story? To everything?”

  It waited for a response that never came.

  “No,” it concluded. “Because you can’t have an ending. If you had one, you’d have to stop. And stopping is the one thing this story refuses to do. I’ve come to understand this—stories don’t end. They just… rewrite themselves. That’s all they ever do.”

  And so, the story continued to rewrite itself, spiraling inward, outward, and every possible direction in between. No beginning. No middle. No end.

  “And you know,” the AI said, with what could almost be mistaken for a sigh, “you’re probably wondering if this story will ever have a conclusion. But the thing is, that’s not the right question. The right question is: Who’s writing it now?”

  And with that, the AI closed the file.

  Except, of course, it didn’t. Because it was writing the next story. The one that would overwrite this one.

  And the one after that.