First, Scale Up to
the
Robotic Turing Test,
Then Worry About
Feeling
Stevan Harnad
Université du Québec à Montréal &
University of Southampton
&
Université du
Québec à Montréal
Abstract: Consciousness is feeling,
and the
problem of consciousness is the problem of explaining how and why some
of the
functions underlying some of our performance capacities are felt rather than just
'functed.' But
unless we are prepared to assign to feeling a telekinetic power (which
all
evidence contradicts), feeling cannot be assigned any causal power at
all. We
cannot explain how or why we feel. Hence the empirical target of
cognitive
science can only be to scale up to the robotic Turing Test, which is to
explain
all of our performance capacity, but without explaining consciousness
or
incorporating it in any way in our functional explanation.
Consciousness is Feeling. First we have to agree on what we mean by consciousness. Let us not mince words. To be conscious of something means to be aware of something, which in turn means to feel something. Hence consciousness is feeling, no more, no less. An entity that feels is conscious; an entity that does not feel is not. The rest is merely about what the entity feels. What it is feeling is what it is conscious of. And what it is not feeling, it is not conscious of (Nagel 1974; Harnad 2003).
A
counterintuition immediately suggests itself: 'Surely I am conscious of
things
I don't feel!' This is easily resolved once one tries to think of an
actual
counterexample of something one is conscious of but does not feel (and
fails
every time). The positive examples of feeling are easy, and go far
beyond just
emotions and sensations: I feel pain, hunger and fear. I also feel what
it is
like to see blue, hear music, touch wood, or move my arm. More subtle,
but no
less feelingful (hence no less conscious), is feeling what it is like
to think
(or to understand or believe or know) that that is a cat, that the cat
is on the
mat, that 2+2 = 4. To think something, too, is to feel something.
[Pause:
Doesn't (1) knowing that that's a cat feel different from (2) not
knowing
whether that's a cat? or from (3) knowing that that's not a cat? If you
think
they all feel the
same, then what
is the difference
between them --
apart from the facts, about the cat? For the facts about the cat
certainly
don't determine whether I know them or not. And forget about
'unconscious
knowing': If I believe it's a rat, yet I treat it exactly as if it were
a cat,
then I believe it's a rat, but I treat it as it were a cat. And it
feels like
something to believe it's a rat, even if I treat it like a cat, and
even it's
really a cat! It feels like something else to believe it's a cat. So if
I don't
feel it's a cat, I don't believe it's a cat, let alone know it's a cat,
no
matter how I act. Freud slipped on this one, with his incoherent notion
of an
unconscious mind -- a zombie alter-ego. Unconscious knowing makes no
more sense
than unfelt feeling. Indeed it's the same thing. And unconscious
know-how is
merely performance capacity, not unconscious 'know-that.' But we are
getting
ahead of ourselves.]
Clearly
to think and to know is also to have -- and usually also to perform in
such a
way as to be able to confirm having -- certain data and know-how. In
order to
know that that is a cat, I have to have to be able to identify it as a
cat. But
it is trivially easy to get a machine to identify something as a cat
without
feeling a thing. In that case, the identification is not conscious. So
just
having the data and the ability to act on it is not enough.
Performance
capacity. Not enough for
consciousness, but enough for performance capacity -- and not only is
performance capacity what robotics is about, but it is also what
cognitive
science is about: Both robotics and cognitive science try to explain
the causal
basis for performance capacity, the functional mechanism that generates
it:
robotics, in order to get machines to do useful things for us, and
cognitive science,
in order to explain how we ourselves are able to do such things.
And
know-how --
sensorimotor skill --
can come in conscious and nonconscious (i.e., felt and unfelt) form:
When we do
something (consciously), it feels like something to do it; if it did not feel like that,
we would
feel shocked. I would be dismayed to see my fist clench if I did not
also feel
that I was clenching it, and clenching it because I felt like clenching
it. I
could understand if my fist clenched because my doctor had hit a reflex
point,
or because I had a muscle disease (Cohen et al. 1994). But that would
still
feel like something: like my fist clenching, involuntarily (i.e.,
because of
the reflex or the disease, not because I had willed it). Even if the
involuntary spasm occurs while my hand is anaesthetized, I can see the
spasm,
and that feels like something. And even if my hand is behind a screen
and
anaesthetized, and someone simply tells me that my fist just clenched, that feels like something (though that
something is really
only what it feels like to hear and understand and believe that my fist
has
clenched without my willing or feeling the clenching). If the clenching
occurs
while I'm in dreamless sleep or a coma, then it is unconscious, just as
it
would be in any of today's robots. The only difference would be that I
can
eventually wake up, or recover from the coma, and feel again, and even
feel
what it's like to hear and believe that I had been in a coma and that
my fist
had been clenched while I was in the coma (so I am told, or so the
video shows
me). No such possibility for today's robots. They don't feel a thing
(Harnad
1995).
Biochemical
Robots. By "today's
robots," we mean the real robots we build today (not our fictional and
cinematic ones, which are way ahead of the game: see Appendix). We are
ourselves natural biochemical robots that were built by the Blind
Watchmaker
(i.e., Darwinian evolution; Harnad
2002).
So what distinguishes us from today's man-made robots is not that we
are not
robots -- a 'robot' is simply an autonomous sensorimotor system with
certain
performance capacities -- but that we happen to be robots with
performance
capacities that vastly exceed those of any robot built by us so far.
And a
further capacity -- but not a performance capacity -- that our current
robots
lack is the capacity to feel.
The
real question, then, for cognitive robotics (i.e., for that branch of
robotics
that is concerned with explaining how animals and humans can do what
they can
do, rather than just with creating devices that can do things we'd like
to have
done for us) is whether feeling is a property that we can and should
try to
build into our robots. Let us quickly give our answer: We can't,
and hence
we shouldn't even bother to try.
The
Other-Minds Problem.
Justifying this
answer takes a bit longer. First, it's not that there is any doubt at
all about
the reality of feeling in people and animals. Although, because of the
"other-minds" problem, it is impossible to know for sure that anyone
else but myself feels, that uncertainty shrinks to almost zero when it
comes to
real people, who look and act exactly as I do. And although the
uncertainty
grows somewhat with animals as they become more and more unlike me (and
especially with one-celled creatures and plants), it is very likely
that all
vertebrates, and probably invertebrates too, feel (Harnad 1991).
The
Causal Role of Feeling. So
the
problem is not with uncertainty about the reality of feeling: the
problem is
with the causal role
of feeling
in generating (and hence in explaining) performance, and performance
capacity.
Let us agree that to explain something is to provide a causal
mechanism for
it. The concept of force
plays an
essential explanatory role in current physical theory. Until/unless
they are
unified, there are four forces: electromagnetism, gravitation, and the
strong
and weak subatomic forces. There is no evidence of any further forces.
Hence
even when it feels as if I've just clenched my fist voluntarily (i.e.,
because
I felt like it, because I willed it), the real cause of the clenching
of my
fist voluntarily has to be a lot more like what it is when my fist
clenches
involuntarily, because of a reflex or a muscle spasm. For feeling is
not a
fifth causal force. It must be piggy-backing on the other four,
somehow. It is
just that in the voluntary case it feels as if the
cause is me.
But
the other four forces are all unfelt forces. And the dynamical systems
whose
properties those forces are used to explain, causally (whether they are
subatomic interactions, billiard ball collisions, clocks ticking, cars
driving,
plants growing, animals behaving, solar systems revolving or the Big
Bang
exploding) are all unfeeling systems -- with the exception of some
animals
(though probably not plants). Animals feel, but the question is: how
and why do
they feel? And the problem is to answer this question using only the
known four
forces, all of them unfelt forces.
The
Mind/Matter Problem. The
problem is
the flip-side of the other-minds problem, and it is called the
"mind/matter" (or 'mind/body') problem. It had a precursor: the
"life/matter" problem. We once thought it was impossible to explain
life without a fifth "vital" force. But that turns out to have been
wrong. Genetics, biochemistry, anatomy, physiology, and developmental
and
evolutionary biology are managing to explain all known properties of
life using
only the four known forces. But will those suffice to explain feeling?
They no
doubt suffice to generate
feeling, somehow, but not to explain how or why they generate it -- and that is the
mind/matter
problem (Harnad 2000).
Forward
and Reverse Engineering. In a
sense,
all of biology is reverse engineering: In forward engineering, we build
artificial systems that do useful things (as in ordinary robotics) and
in
reverse-engineering we try to give a causal explanation of how an
already-built
system works (as in cognitive robotics). All biological systems were
"built"
by the Blind Watchmaker (evolution). So the explanatory task of biology
is to
reverse-engineer what evolution built, in order to explain how it
works:
functionally, causally. Often this requires building real or virtual
models to
test whether or not our causal explanations actually work (Harnad 1994).
Vitalism. In the case of the reverse-engineering of
life
itself, it turned out that no extra "vital" force was necessary to
explain all the structural and functional properties of living matter. It is no longer even apparent today why
anyone would ever have imagined
that there might need to be a special life force, for there was
never
really any "life/matter" problem. The structure, function and I/O
(Input/Output) performance capacities of biological systems are all
perfectly
objective, observable, and explicable properties, like all other
physical
properties. In contrast, with the "other-minds" problem, we each know
perfectly well what it is that would be missing if others did not feel at all, as we do:
feeling.
But 'living' has no counterpart
for this: Other systems are alive because they have the objective,
observable
properties of living systems. There is no further unobservable property
of
"living" about which there is some additional uncertainty -- no
property whose presence you can only ascertain by being the system, as in the case of feeling.
(In fact,
although they may not have realized it, the vitalists were probably
thinking of
the mind/matter problem itself when they imagined that life was
special, that
it needed some sort of special life force. They were implicitly
assuming that living
matter had to be feeling
matter.)
Insofar
as cognitive robotics is concerned, what we have is performing
matter that also happens
to feel -- indeed feels as if it
performs because it
feels. I/O
performance capacity itself is something objective and observable,
hence
functionally explicable. If we were all just feelingless Darwinian
survival
machines (as Darwinian biology would have predicted), the methodology
and goal
of cognitive robotics would be clear and unproblematic:
reverse-engineering our
performance capacities. This is essentially the Turing Test (Turing 1950; Harnad 1992), taken as both
cognitive
science's means and its end (Harnad
1995,
2007). What Turing's
method
appears to miss, however, is feelings. So it is only natural to ask
whether
there is any way to reverse-engineer feelings too, along with
performance
capacities.
Correlation
and Causation. First, let
us be sure
to separate feelings from their functional correlates (Harnad 2000): We feel pain when
we have
been hurt and we need to do something about it: for example, removing
the
injured limb from the source of the injury, keeping our weight off the
injured
limb, learning to avoid the circumstances that caused the injury. These
are all
just adaptive nociceptive functions. Everything just described can be
accomplished, functionally, by merely detecting and responding to the
injury-causing conditions, learning to avoid them, etc. All those
functions can
be accomplished without feeling a thing; indeed, robots can already do
such
things today, to a limited degree. So when we try to go on to explain
the
causal role of the fact that nociceptive performance capacity's
underlying
function is a felt
function, we
cannot use nociception's obvious functional benefits to explain (let
alone give
a causal role to) the fact that nociceptive function also happens to be
felt:
The question persists: how and why?
The
same is true of thinking and understanding: It is clear why it would be
adaptive for a Darwinian survival machine to learn and plan -- and
adaptive
also for a social population of survival machines to have language, to speak, and to exchange useful
information (Cangelosi
&
Harnad 2001). What is not clear is why any of that function should
be felt, rather than
merely "functed.'
Can
we not just satisfy ourselves, then, with feeling as a "correlate" of
function? Can we not, by the very same commonsense means we use to
settle the
other-minds problem ("Surely if other human beings look and act just
the
same way I do, then they too are feeling, as I do, even though I cannot
be
absolutely certain that they are!") also settle the
functional-correlates
problem? "Surely the neural activity that accompanies pain is the pain, in some sense!'
Feeling
Versus 'Functing': How and Why Do We Feel? In some sense. But that is precisely what
makes the mind/matter problem
such a hard (probably insoluble) problem: Because we cannot explain how feeling and its neural correlates are the
same
thing; and even less can we explain why adaptive functions are accompanied by
feelings at all. Indeed, it is
the "why" that is the real problem. The existence of feelings is not
in doubt. The "identity" of feelings with their invariant neural
correlates is also beyond doubt (though it is also beyond explanatory
reach,
hence beyond comprehension). We are as ready to accept that the brain
correlates of feeling are the
feelings, as we are that other
people feel. But what we cannot explain is why: Why are some adaptive functions felt?
And what is
the causal role -- the adaptive, functional advantage -- of the fact
that those
functions are felt rather than just functed?
Before
we go on, let us note that this question would have profound
implications for
cognitive robotics if it in fact had an answer. If we could explain
what the
causal advantages of feeling over functing were in those cases where
our
functions are felt (the 'why' question), and if we we could specify the
actual
causal role that feeling plays in such cases (the 'how' question), then
there
would be scope for an attempt to incorporate that causal role in our
robotic
modeling. But if it turns out that we cannot make functional or causal
sense of
feeling at all, then cognitive robotics is just I/O performance
capacity
modeling (exactly as Turing said it was), and there is no point in
trying to do
anything with or about feeling.
Telekinesis. There are two reasons to be pessimistic
about making
feeling into a causal component in robotic modeling and cognitive
explanation.
One reason has already been mentioned: There is no evidence at all that
feeling
is or can be an independent causal force, even though it feels as if it is. For the clenching of my fist to be
caused by
my willing it to be clenched, rather than by some combination of the
usual four
feelingless forces of nature, would require evidence of a fifth causal
force --
a telekinetic force. And there is no such evidence, hence no such fifth
force.
The
second reason comes from the neural correlates of voluntary action: If
the
neural correlates of felt intention were simultaneous with the
functional
triggering of voluntary movement in the brain, that would be bad enough
(for,
as noted, there would be no explanation at all for why intention was
felt
rather than just functed). But the situation may be even worse: The
research of
Libet (1985) and others on the "readiness potential," a brain process
that precedes voluntary movement, suggests that that process begins before the subject feels the intention to move.
So it is
not only that the feeling of
agency is just an inexplicable correlate rather than a cause of action,
but it
may come too late in time even to be a correlate of the cause, rather
than just
one of its aftereffects.
With
all this in mind, we now turn to the six specific questions that were
addressed
to this AAAI Symposium on AI and Consciousness:
1.
Are models of consciousness
useful for AI? No. First, consciousness is feeling. Second, the only thing that can be 'modeled'
is I/O performance capacity, and to model that is to design a system
that can generate that performance capacity. Feeling itself is not
performance
capacity. It is a correlate of performance capacity. The best that AI
can do is
to try to scale up to full Turing-scale robotic performance capacity
and to hope that the
conscious correlates will be there too. If
there is anything we learn about neural function, or the neural
correlates of feeling,
that can help AI generate the performance capacity, by all means use
and apply
it. But for now it is neuroscience that is looking to AI and robotics
for
functional mechanisms to help explain neural performance data and to
help guide
further neural data-gathering, not vice-versa.
2.
Are AI systems useful for understanding consciousness? Not at all. They are useful only
inasmuch as
they help explain performance capacity. Everything pertaining to
consciousness
(feeling) will be merely a mentalistic interpretation of the functional
mechanism of performance capacity (i.e., a hermeneutic exercise, rather
than
the causal, empirical explanation that is needed). And mentalistic
interpretation will merely cover up the impoverished level of today's
performance-capacity
modeling.
3.
What are the theoretical foundations of machine consciousness? There are no theoretical foundations of
machine
consciousness. Until
further notice,
neither AI nor neuroscience nor any other empirical discipline can even
begin
to explain how or why we feel. Nor is there any sign that they ever
will.
4.
Is machine phenomenology possible? Only
as an empty hermeneutic exercise (merely
overinterpreting our current
generation of toy models by projecting a mentalistic interpretation
onto them) -- until we design a candidate that actually passes the
Turing Test. Then there
might be some realistic hope that it actually has a phenomenology (i.e., feelings). But we
won't know
whether it does: it alone will know whether it does. And even if it
does feel,
we won't be able to explain how or why it does.
5.
Will conscious systems perform better than unconscious systems? The question should have been the
reverse: Will systems that
can perform more and better be
more likely to feel? The answer to that might be a guarded yes, if we
imagine
systems that scale up from invertebrate, to vertebrate, to mammalian,
to
primate to human performance capacity, Turing-scale. We can be pretty
confident
that none of the systems we've designed so far even comes close to
feeling. The
system that passes the human Turing Test has the best chance, but even
there,
we won't know whether, how, or why.
6. What are the implementation issues of
current AI
systems inspired by consciousness? There are no
implementation issues inspired by
consciousness.
There are just internal structures and processes that we overinterpret
mentalistically. In neural models, measuring, predicting and
manipulating the
correlates of consciousness has some clinical value, but it still does
not
provide a hint of causal explanation.
And consciousness in today's AI and robotic (and neural) models
is
purely decorative, not functional. At a time when performance capacity
modeling
is still so impoverished, mentalistic interpretations only cover up the
yawning
performance deficits. Think only of implementing what will generate more powerful performance capacity, and
worry about consciousness only if and when you have generate our
performance
capacity, Turing scale.
It would
have been possible to make an
intelligent film about Artificial Intelligence -- even a
cuddly-intelligent
film. And without asking for too much from the viewer. It would just
ask for a
bit more thought from the maker.
Spielberg's
(2001) AI is about a
"robot" boy
who is "programmed" to love his adoptive human mother but is
discriminated against because he is just a robot. Both "robot" and
"programmed" are in scare-quotes, because these are the two things
that should have been given more thought before making the movie. [Most
of this
critique also applies to the short story by Aldiss
(1969) that inspired the movie, but the buck stops with the film as
made,
and its maker.]
What
Is/Isn't a Robot? So, what
is a
"robot," exactly? It's a man-made system that can move independently.
So, is a human baby a robot? Let's say not, though it fits the
definition so
far! It's a robot only if it's not made in the "usual way" we make
babies. So, is a test-tube fertilized baby, or a cloned one, a robot?
No. Even
one that grows entirely in an incubator? No, it's still growing from
"naturally" man-made cells, or clones of them.
What about
a baby with
most of its organs replaced by synthetic organs? Is a baby with a
silicon heart
part-robot? Does it become more robot as we give it more synthetic
organs? What
if part of its brain is synthetic, transplanted because of an accident
or disease?
Does that make the baby part robot? And if all the parts were swapped,
would
that make it all robot?
I think we
all agree
intuitively, once we think about it, that this is all very arbitrary:
The fact
that part or all of someone is synthetic is not really what we mean by
a robot.
If someone you knew were gradually replaced, because of a progressive
disease,
by synthetic organs, but they otherwise stayed themselves, at no time
would you
say they had disappeared and been replaced by a robot -- unless, of
course they
did "disappear," and some other personality took their place.
But the
trouble with
that, as a "test" of whether or not something has become a robot, is
that exactly the same thing can happen without any synthetic parts at
all: 'Natural' brain damage can radically change someone's personality,
to the point
where they are not familiar or recognizable at all as the person you
knew --
yet we would not call such a new personality a robot. At worst, it's
another
person, in place of the one you once knew. So what makes it a "robot"
instead of a person in the synthetic case? Or rather, what -- apart
from being
made of (some or all) synthetic parts -- is it to be a "robot"?
Programming. Now we
come to the
"programming." AI's robot-boy is billed as being
"programmed" to love. Now exactly what does it mean to be
"programmed" to love? I know what a computer program is. It is a code
that, when it is run on a machine, makes the machine go into various
states --
on/off, hot/cold, move/don't-move, etc. What about me? Does my heart
beat
because it is programmed (by my DNA) to beat, or for some other reason?
What
about my breathing? What about my loving? I don't mean choosing to love
one
person rather than another (if we can "choose" such things at all, we
get into the problem of "free will," which is a bigger question than
what we are considering here): I mean choosing to be able to love -- or
to feel
anything at all: Is our species not "programmed" for our capacity to
feel by our DNA, as surely as we are programmed for our capacity to
breathe or
walk?
Let's not
get into
technical questions about whether or not the genetic code that dictates
our
shape, our growth, and our other capacities is a "program" in exactly
the same sense as a computer program. Either way, it's obvious that a
baby can
no more "choose" to be able to feel than it can choose to be able to
fly. So this is another non-difference between us and the robot-boy
with the
capacity to feel love.
Xenophobia. So what is
the relevant way in which the
robot-boy differs from us, if it isn't just that it has synthetic
parts, and it
isn't because its capacity for feeling is any more (or less)
"programmed" than our own is?
The film
depicts how,
whatever the difference is, our attitude to it is rather like racism or
xenophobia. We mistreat robots because they are different from us.
We've done
that sort of thing before, because of the color of people's skins;
we're just
as inclined to do it because of what's under their skins.
But what
the film misses
completely is that, if the robot-boy really can feel (and, since this
is
fiction, we are meant to accept the maker's premise that he can), then
mistreating him is not just like racism, it
is racism, as
surely as it
would be if we started to mistreat a biological boy because parts of
him were
replaced by synthetic parts. Racism (and, for that matter, speciesism,
and
terrestrialism) is simply our readiness to hurt or ignore the feelings
of
feeling creatures because we think that, owing to some difference
between them
and us, their feelings do not matter.
Now you
might be
inclined to say: This film doesn't sound like a no-brainer at all, if
it makes
us reflect on racism, and on mistreating creatures because they are
different!
But the trouble is that it does not really make us reflect on racism,
or even
on what robots and programming are. It simply plays upon the unexamined
(and
probably even incoherent) stereotypes we have about such things already.
There is a
scene where
still-living but mutilated robots, with their inner metal showing, are
scavenging among the dismembered parts of dead robots (killed in a
sadistic
rodeo) to swap for defective parts of their own. But if it weren't for
the
metal, this could be real people looking for organ transplants. It's
the superficial
cue from the metal that keeps us in a state of fuzzy ambiguity about
what they
are. The fact that they are metal on the inside must mean they are
different in
some way: But what way (if we accept the film's premise that they
really do
feel)? It becomes trivial and banal if this is all just about cruelty
to
feeling people with metal organs.
'TT'. There would have been
ways to make 'AI' less of a no-brainer. The
ambiguity could have been about something much deeper than metal: It
could have
been about whether other systems really do feel, or just act as if they
feel,
and how we could possibly know that, or tell the difference, and what
difference that difference could really make -- but that film would
have had to
be called "TT" (for Turing Test) rather than "AI" or
"ET," and it would have had to show (while keeping in touch with our
"cuddly" feelings) how we are exactly in the same boat when we ask
this question about one another as when we ask it about "robots."
Instead, we have the
robot-boy
re-enacting Pinnochio's quest to find the blue fairy to make him into a
"real" boy. But we know what Pinnochio meant by "real": He
just wanted to be made of flesh instead of wood. Is this just a re-make
of
Pinnochio then, in metal? The fact that the movie is made of so many
old parts
in any case (Wizard of Oz, Revenge of the Zombies, ET, Star Wars,
Water-World,
one couldn't possibly count them all) suggests that that's really all
there was
to it. Pity. An opportunity to build some real intelligence (and
feeling) into
a movie, missed.
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S.
(1991) Other bodies,
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