A few years ago, a bunch of very online people decided to plant an artificial intelligence garden. It wasn’t exactly pretty. The plants that sprouted had strange artifacts like extra appendages, the signs scattered around were completely illegible, and there was this weird, constant hum in the air. But it was fascinating enough that the new gardeners kept adding to it. Before long, the garden started growing faster than anyone expected, spreading far beyond its original plot.

At first, there was a fence—built from words, no less. It kept the garden in check, making sure only those who really understood how to care for it could step inside. But when the gardeners upgraded their tools, the fence wasn’t much use anymore. What used to take knowledge and effort became as easy as typing into a text box. Suddenly, people were flooding into the garden, stomping over whatever gates had been left standing, and the plants started growing wild. The gardeners tried to reassure everyone that what was growing inside would be useful, that it could enhance what they were already doing. But the cracks in the fence were beyond repair.

Then the garden crept onto the manicured lawn where artists had carefully tended their work. The gardeners promised this new growth would only enhance the lawn, not ruin it. But the garden didn’t stop. The signs it had grown—awkward proportions, strange details—started disappearing. What remained wasn’t natural, wasn’t crafted by the artists’ hands, but it was hard to tell the difference. The lawn was swallowed up.

Finally, the garden reached the shed where it all started. The very tools that had planted the first seeds were now being consumed by the garden itself. The gardeners who had once marveled at their creation found themselves surrounded. Some called for the garden to be burned down, others begged for it to be contained. But the same promises came again: the things the garden produced weren’t a threat. They could still be useful. They could turn everyone into a gardener.

But what happens when the garden doesn’t need gardeners? When it grows, prunes, and consumes on its own? When the only ones who benefit are the few standing outside, harvesting the fruit while the rest of us watch from the thicket?

There’s no certainty in the future shape of this AI garden. No guarantees that what we build today won’t outgrow our best intentions tomorrow. But here’s the thing—I can’t help but believe in the potential. The garden might be wild and unpredictable, but it’s also bursting with possibility. If we can guide its growth, there’s a chance it could offer more abundance than we’ve ever imagined. The walls are gone, the boundaries don’t exist, and the garden is just getting started.