My Baba loves movies. Name any—particularly the ones starring Tom Cruise—and he’ll have binge-watched them. Characters like Terminator from the titular series and Ultron from the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) introduced me to the concept of automated machines. They wanted to conquer the world half the time; their attempts, while fictional, terrified me. I was a child, a dramatic one at that, so I didn’t know that media portrayals of AI can be exaggerated. But my fear wasn’t unjustified. When we covered robotics in Year 8 ICT, I began to assume that the next decade would look exactly like what science fiction depicted: flying taxis, grey panel apartments, totalitarian regimes that implement AI.
Sci-fi falls under the umbrella of “speculative fiction”. Focusing on advanced technological progress, such books imagine everything from space and aliens to futuristic dystopias.
The concept of artificial life has been a recurring theme in sci-fi for over a century. An early Western example is Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, published in 1818: A scientist named Victor brings his creation to life using a “spark”, which is implied to be electricity. The creation isn’t a machine, but he’s assembled from human body parts, just as LLMs are modelled on our brains and trained on fragments of our knowledge. Another parallel between Victor’s ‘monster’ and modern AI is that they both conjure the fear of creating something we might not be able to control.
In Samuel Butler’s 1872 novel, Erewhon, the three-chapter section, “The Book of Machines”, offered the first philosophical look at the potential for machines to develop their own ‘consciousness’. The narrator argues that, since machines are constantly improving and ‘evolving’, they could surpass human intelligence, “hold[ing] the real supremacy over the world and its inhabitants”; to prevent this, the citizens of Erewhon outlaw machines, even watches! While intended as a satire of Darwinian evolution, it serves as a blueprint for today’s AI alignment debate. Some experts—including the renowned ‘Godfathers of AI’, Geoffery Hinton and Yoshua Bengio—claim that creating artificial general intelligence (AGI) is dangerous. Because AGI hypothetically matches or supersedes human capabilities, it can solve unprecedented problems autonomously, without task-specific reprogramming. As of April 2026, AGI is still a movie plot. It doesn’t exist, but the idea itself poses an existential risk: If it’s misaligned with human values and goals, and doesn’t act according to them, it could lead to our extinction.
But what exact guidelines should AI abide by? Isaac Asimov listed three ethical laws in his 1942 short story, Runaround—later included in his collection I, Robot. These laws are arranged hierarchically, by most to least important:
“a robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm;
a robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law;
a robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.”
He added the Zeroth Law in 1985, in his novel, Robots and Empire, which takes precedence over the previous laws because it prioritizes the protection of humanity rather than one individual.
Asimov’s fictional laws are so influential that they inspired other authors to write their own versions of them—like in The Path of Icarus (a.k.a Icarus’s Way) where Lyuben Dilov writes that robots should be transparent about their identities. These laws laid the foundation for discussions on AI safety, but they’re too vague and simplistic for real-world applications.
Think of the word “harm”. How would you define it in a digital context, where its effects on the user would be emotional, not physical—for example, due to a biased algorithm? Asimov frequently used his laws as plot devices: there are instances of robots being given different interpretations of “harm” and “human”, or being caught in situations where their drive to obey is equal to their drive to self-preserve. His work implies that “robotic behaviour cannot be entirely automated”. So, experts have expanded on Asimov’s laws to address modern concerns.
These new guidelines are policy proposals, not built-in constraints in algorithms like Asimov explored, and they include:
“AI should complement professionals, not replace them,”
so that these models don’t deskill workers or cause unemployment.
“Robotic systems and AI should not counterfeit humanity,”
so that these models don’t deceive us—for example, by acting as customer service staff—and undermine our trust in technology.
“Robotic systems and AI should not intensify zero-sum arms races,”
so that these models are used for our benefit, not to be killing machines.
“Robotic systems and AI should always indicate the identity of their creator(s), controller(s) and owner(s),”
so that the authorities are kept in the loop and are held accountable, ensuring that these models aren’t used for intentional or unintentional damage.
As you can already tell, every sci-fi author portrays AI differently. Their work is influenced by contextual factors—their era, personal background, and technical knowledge—so these four depictions illustrate our evolving relationship with machines:
AI as a threat, like in I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream by Harlan Ellison, published in 1967:
Following the trauma of World War II, and the nuclear tensions between the Soviet Union and the U.S. during the Cold War, their societies feared that military technology would escape human control.
This trope resonated with the public since it transformed AI into doomsday symbols that represented the loss of human agency.
AI as a helpful assistant, like in Mighty Atom (a.k.a Astro Boy) by Osamu Tezuka, published in 1952:
Japanese society sought to re-envision technology as a tool for peace and reconstruction after the 1945 incident at Hiroshima.
This trope became popular as it comforted the public, teaching them that the ‘atom’ (i.e. atomic bomb) which destroyed a city could be used as a safe energy source.
East Asian cultures generally hold a more positive view of AI. This difference is largely rooted in some animistic philosophies and religions, where adherents believe that non-living things, including man-made objects, possess a spiritual essence.
AI as human-like, like in Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro, published in 2021:
In a post-COVID context, with social isolation and the ubiquity of chatbots, some modern sci-fi novels focus on AI’s relational aspect.
This trope is relatable to a public navigating through an identity crisis, where the question is no longer, “Can machines think and feel?” but “What happens to authentic connection if they’re able to?”.
AI as societal infrastructure, like in The Every by Dave Eggers, published in 2021:
The rapid development of LLMs have caused an unprecedented surge in AI research since 2020.
This trope’s dominance is understandable when you consider the normalization of digital surveillance and the erosion of our privacy—like the fact that AI-driven spyware such as Pegasus, which can be installed on anyone’s phone, is being used to monitor human rights activists.
Science fiction, then, is less about prophesying what’s going to happen; it’s a reflection of our anxieties and hopes about our world, a dummy to stress-test possibilities of the future before we live it. We don’t need to fear a cinematic apocalypse—crimson skies raining ash, water leaking out of gutters in neighborhoods where no one lives anymore, robotic voices commanding destruction through speakers—although we should stay cautious. The nuanced stories of the last two centuries provide a roadmap to how we must deal with AI.
They remind us that, while computer science determines what AI can do, our humanity must limit what it should do.
Author Bio
My name is Iffah Shamim. I’m a 19-year-old Pakistani on a gap year after graduating high school. I moved to the UAE when I was 4, lived there for 14 years and am now temporarily based in Sialkot, Pakistan. I write poetry in my spare time. Though I focus on using traditional forms, my free verse has been published in Fahmidan Journal and Blue Marble Review. Having fallen in love with creative writing in 6th grade, I can’t imagine how dull my life would be without the beauty that words hold. But I’m an academic at heart: I love exploring the intersection of literature with other fields, particularly AI and biochemistry.