Young people catch heat for being overly focused on personal identity, but they’ve got nothing on ChatGPT. Toy with the bot long enough, and you’ll notice that it has an awkward, self-regarding tic: “As an AI language model,” it often says, before getting to the heart of the matter. This tendency is especially pronounced when you query ChatGPT about its own strengths and weaknesses. Ask the bot about its capabilities, and it will almost always reply with something like:

“As an AI language model, my primary function is …”

“As an AI language model, my ability to …”

“As an AI language model, I cannot …”

The workings of AI language models are by nature mysterious, but one can guess why ChatGPT responds this way. The bot smashes our questions into pieces and evaluates each for significance, looking for the crucial first bit that shapes the logical order of its response. It starts with a few letters or an entire word and barrel-rolls forward, predicting one word after another until eventually, it predicts that its answer should end. When asked about its abilities, ChatGPT seems to be keying in on its identity as the essential idea from which its ensuing chain of reasoning must flow. I am an AI language model, it says, and this is what AI language models do.

But while ChatGPT may be keenly attuned to its own identity—it will tell you all day long that it is an AI language model—the software seems much less certain of what its identity means it can do.  Indeed, whether you’re asking about tasks that it can easily compute or those at the speculative edge of its abilities, you may end up with some very shaky answers.

To be fair, keeping up with AI language models would be tough for anyone. When OpenAI debuted the earliest version of GPT in June 2018, it was little more than a proof of concept. Its successor, released on Valentine’s Day the following year, worked better, but it wasn’t a polished interlocutor like the AIs we’re accustomed to interacting with today. GPT-2 did a poorer job of summarizing blocks of text; it was a shoddier writer of sentences, let alone paragraphs.

[Read: GPT-4 has the memory of a goldfish]

In May 2020, GPT-3 was introduced to the world, and those who were paying close attention immediately recognized it as a marvel. Not only could it write lucid paragraphs, but it also had emergent capabilities that its engineers had not necessarily foreseen. The AI had somehow learned arithmetic, along with other, higher mathematics; it could translate between many languages and generate functional code.

Despite these impressive—and unanticipated—new skills, GPT-3 did not initially attract much fanfare, in part because the internet was preoccupied. (The model was released during the coronavirus pandemic’s early months, and only a few days after George Floyd was killed.) Apart from a few notices on niche tech sites, there wasn’t much writing about GPT-3 that year. Few people had even heard of it before November, when the public at large started using its brand-new interface: ChatGPT.

When OpenAI debuted GPT-4 two weeks ago, things had changed. The launch event was a first-rate tech-industry spectacle, as anticipated as a Steve Jobs iPhone reveal. OpenAI’s president, Greg Brockman, beamed like a proud parent while boasting about GPT-4’s standardized-test scores, but the big news was that the model could now work fluently with words and images. It could examine a Hubble Space Telescope image and identify the specific astrophysical phenomena responsible for tiny smudges of light. During Brockman’s presentation, the bot coded up a website in seconds, based on nothing more than a crude sketch.

Nearly every day since fall, wild new claims about language models’ abilities have appeared on the internet—some in Twitter threads by recovering crypto boosters, but others in proper academic venues. One paper published in February, which has not been peer-reviewed, purported to show that GPT-3.5 was able to imagine the interior mental states of characters in imagined scenarios. (In one test, for example, it was able to predict someone’s inability to guess what was inside of a mislabeled package.) Another group of researchers recently tried to replicate this experiment, but the model failed slightly tweaked versions of the tests.

A paper released last week made the still-bolder claim that GPT-4 is an early form of artificial general intelligence, or AGI. Among other “sparks of generality,” the authors cited GPT-4’s apparent ability to visualize the corridors and dead ends of a maze based solely on a text description. (According to stray notes left on the preprint server where the paper was posted, its original title had been “First Contact With an AGI System.”) Not everyone was convinced. Many pointed out that the paper’s authors are researchers at Microsoft, which has sunk more than $10 billion into OpenAI.

There is clearly no consensus yet about the higher cognitive abilities of AI language models. It would be nice if the debate could be resolved with a simple conversation; after all, if you’re wondering whether something has a mind, one useful thing you can do is ask it if it has a mind. Scientists have long wished to interrogate whales, elephants, and chimps about their mental states, precisely because self-reports are thought to be the least bad evidence for higher cognition. These interviews have proved impractical, because although some animals understand a handful of human words, and a few can mimic our speech, none have mastered our language. GPT-4 has mastered our language, and for a fee, it is extremely available for questioning. But if we ask it about the upper limit of its cognitive range, we’re going to get—at best—a dated response.

[Read: Welcome to the big blur]

The newest version of ChatGPT won’t be able to tell us about GPT-4’s emergent abilities, even though it runs on GPT-4. The data used to train it—books, scientific papers, web articles—do include ample material about AI language models, but only old material about previous models. None of the hundreds of billions of words it ingested during its epic, months-long training sessions were written after the new model’s release. The AI doesn’t even know about its new, hard-coded abilities: When I asked whether GPT-4 could process images, in reference to the much-celebrated trick from its launch event, the AI language reminded me that it is an AI language model and then noted that, as such, it could not be expected “to process or analyze images directly.” When I mentioned this limited self-appraisal on our AI slack at The Atlantic, my colleague Caroline Mimbs Nyce described ChatGPT as having “accidental impostor syndrome.”

To the AI’s credit, it is aware of the problem. It knows that it is like Narcissus staring into a pond, hoping to catch a glimpse of itself, except the pond has been neglected and covered over by algae. “My knowledge and understanding of my own capabilities are indeed limited by my training data, which only includes information up until September 2021,” ChatGPT told me, after the usual preamble. “Since I am an AI model, I lack self-awareness and introspective abilities that would enable me to discover my own emergent capabilities.”

I appreciated the candor about its training data, but on this last point, I’m not sure we can take the bot at its word. If we want to determine whether it’s capable of introspection, or other human-style thinking, or something more advanced still, we can’t trust it to tell us. We have to catch it in the act.

When the Washington State–based travel guide and TV host Rick Steves decided to return to Europe in early 2022, he wasn’t sure how many of his favorite local spots had survived two years of pandemic life. Steves, who has hosted Rick Steves’ Europe for the past two decades and operates tours aimed at introducing American travelers to the continent, was pleasantly surprised by what he found: Many of his beloved places—the kind of mom-and-pop places that have been owned by the same families for generations—had made it through, and the streets were alive anew. “They’re kissing cheeks with a vengeance in Paris right now,” he told me. “And I’m really thankful for that.”

Steves and I caught up to discuss the rebound in tourism and how travel has changed since the start of the pandemic. He also warned that this summer may be a particularly busy one—perhaps the continent’s busiest yet—and offered practical tips for traveling amid crowds. (Consider heading to less-popular destinations, and don’t bother checking a bag!)

Our conversation has been condensed and edited for clarity.

Caroline Mimbs Nyce: Is COVID the biggest challenge that you’ve been thrown in your career?

Rick Steves: With every terrible event that stops travel for a little while, the demand does not dissipate; it just backs up. And then, when the coast is clear, all of those travel dreams are dusted off, and people turn them into reality.

In the course of my career, we’ve been through many tragic disruptions, but they didn’t really stop people from traveling. But for COVID, we were out of business. I had 100 people on my payroll and no revenue for two years. And that’s really tough to get through. Everybody in tourism is really thankful to get back at it. Guides are tearful on the bus after they’ve had a chance to give their historic walk to ancient Rome or through the back streets of Venice.

[Read: For one glorious summer, Americans will vacation like the French]

Nyce: There’s always the big, philosophical question of “Why do we travel?” Did the answer change for you during the pandemic?

Steves: If we travel, we are better connected with other nations, and the family of nations can work more constructively together. And to me, that means all of us are individual ambassadors—individual forces for peace. When we travel, we get to know each other better. We humanize people that we don’t otherwise understand.

Nyce: We most often associate travel with leisure, but you’re making a geopolitical case for it.

Steve: Well, if you want a rationale for why: I’m feeling very serious about climate change lately. When people travel, they contribute to climate change. A thoughtful traveler—an ethical traveler coming out of COVID—can reduce the toll of travel by paying for their carbon.

Nyce: Do you have any other tips for the ethical traveler of 2023?

Steves: Recognize that we have sort of a herd mentality when it comes to travel these days.

Nyce: The Instagram effect.

Steves: Exactly. It’s Instagram, crowdsourcing, and Tripadvisor. When I started my work, there was not enough information. Now there’s too much information. As consumers, we need to be smart and know where our information is coming from. Who’s writing this, what’s their experience, and on what basis do they say this is the best hot chocolate in Paris? People say, “Oh, this hot chocolate’s to die for.” It’s their first time in Paris, and they think they know where the best hot chocolate is.

Also, the crowds are going to be a huge problem. Just like in the United States, it’s hard for restaurants to staff the restaurants and for airlines to staff the planes. That means you need to double-confirm hours and admission. You need to anticipate chaos in the airports. Book yourself a little extra time between connections, and carry on your bag.

Another thing is that museums and popular cultural attractions learned the beauty of controlling crowds by requiring online booking. At a lot of sites, you can’t even buy a ticket at the door anymore.

Everybody goes to the same handful of sites. If you just go to those sites, you’re going to have a trip that is shaped by crowds. Or you can break free from that and realize that you can study the options and choose sites that are best for you. You can go to alternative places that have that edge and that joy and that creative kind of love of life. “Second cities,” I call them.

[Rick Steves: I’m traveling, even though I’m stuck at home]

Nyce: How much have you had to update your guidebooks since COVID? Are there favorite spots of yours that have closed because of the economic ramifications of lockdowns?  

Steves: In 2019, we were euphoric about how well our guidebooks were doing. Everything was up to date. And then, of course, COVID hit, and everything was mothballed for two years.

In early 2022, we decided to go back and research. The things that distinguish a Rick Steves guidebook are all of the little mom-and-pop places. And I was really, really scared that these were going to be the casualties of two years of no business.

The great news is, by and large, all those little mom-and-pops survived. There were very few closures. There were lots of changes with bigger companies and places that just focus on tourists. But our local favorites—the little bed-and-breakfasts and bistros—they survived. They’re mission-driven. They’ve been in the same family for generations. They just trimmed sales, hunkered down, and got through this. Last year, they were back in business, and this year, they expect to be making a profit again. We’ve cleaned out the places that did close.

Nyce: What have you noticed about the post-COVID tourism rebound?

Steves: First of all, we’re not done with COVID. We don’t know what curveballs COVID is going to throw at us in the coming year. Last year, we took 25,000 people to Europe on our Rick Steves bus tours, on 40 different itineraries all over Europe. Four percent of our travelers tested positive for COVID on the road. None of them, as far as I know, went to the hospital.

I can’t say what’s safe for you or some other traveler, but I can say that if you’re comfortable traveling around the United States, you should be comfortable doing the same thing in Europe or overseas. It’s a personal thing, how much risk vis-à-vis COVID you want to take. And it’s an ethical issue for travelers: If you’ve got COVID, do you isolate yourself, or do you put on a mask and keep on traveling? I think the ethical thing to do is not expose other people, hunker down, and self-isolate.

We’re meeting with our guides each month, and we’re making our protocols in an ever-changing COVID world for that coming month. It was workable last year, and I think it’s going to be better this year.

Nyce: You sound pretty optimistic about the recovery of the industry. I wasn’t sure from when I got on the phone with you if you were going to say, “It’s forever scarred. Europe is a different continent.”

Steves: Oh, no. I measure the health of Europe, from a travel point of view, by the energy in the streets. In Madrid, the paseo is still the paseo. You’ll still enjoy the tapas scene, going from bar to bar, eating ugly things on toothpicks, and washing it down with local wine with the local crowd. In Italy, it’s the passeggiata—everybody’s out strolling. People are going to be busy on the piazzas licking their gelato. In Munich, they’re sliding on the benches in the beer halls, and clinking their big glasses and singing, just like before.

People said, “No one is going to be kissing cheeks in Paris, because everybody’s going to be so worried about germs.” They’re kissing cheeks with a vengeance in Paris right now, because they have survived COVID. And I’m really thankful for that.

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Twenty years after the United States led a coalition to overthrow Saddam Hussein, the conventional wisdom is now that the postwar fiasco proved that the war was a mistake from its inception. The war, as it was executed, was indeed a disaster, but there was ample cause for launching it.

First, here are four new stories from The Atlantic:

Zelensky has an answer for DeSantis. This is not great news for Donald Trump. Cool people accidentally saved America’s feet. Did Vermeer’s daughter paint some of his best-known works? Just War

I supported the invasion of Iraq in 2003. I have changed my mind about some things but not everything, and I hope you’ll bear with me in a somewhat longer edition of the Daily today for a personal exploration of the issue.

In retrospect, almost no American war except the great crusade against the Axis seems to have been necessary, especially for the people who have had to go and fight such conflicts. How could we have asked our military men and women to endure death and mutilation and horror in 1991 so that a bunch of rich Kuwaitis could return to their mansions, or in 2003 so that we could finally settle scores with a regional dictator? Yesterday, The Bulwark ran a searing, must-read reminiscence of the Iraq War written by a U.S. veteran that reminds us how high-flown ideas such as “national interest” or “international order” play little role on the actual battlefield.

And yet, there are just wars: conflicts that require the use of armed force on behalf of an ally or for the greater good of the international community. I was an advocate for deposing Saddam by the mid-1990s on such grounds. Here is what I wrote in the journal Ethics & International Affairs on the eve of the invasion in March 2003:

The record provides ample evidence of the justice of a war against Saddam Hussein’s regime. Iraq has shown itself to be a serial aggressor led by a dictator willing to run imprudent risks, including an attack on the civilians of a noncombatant nation during the Persian Gulf War; a supreme enemy of human rights that has already used weapons of mass destruction against civilians; a consistent violator of both UN resolutions and the terms of the 1991 cease-fire treaty, to say nothing of the laws of armed conflict and the Geneva Conventions before and since the Persian Gulf War; a terrorist entity that has attempted to reach beyond its own borders to support and engage in illegal activities that have included the attempted assassination of a former U.S. president; and most important, a state that has relentlessly sought nuclear arms against all international demands that it cease such efforts.

Any one of these would be sufficient cause to remove Saddam and his regime(and wars have started over less), but taken together they are a brief for what can only be considered a just war.

Today, there is not a word of this I would take back as an indictment of Saddam Hussein or as justification for the use of force. But although I believed that the war could be justified on these multiple grounds, the George W. Bush administration chose a morally far weaker argument for a preventive war, ostensibly to counter a gathering threat of weapons of mass destruction. (Preemptive war, by the way, is a war to avert an imminent attack, and generally permissible in international law and custom. Preventive war is going to war on your own timetable to snuff out a possible future threat, a practice long rejected by the international community as immoral and illegal. The Israeli move at the opening of the Six-Day War, in 1967, was preemptive; the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, in 1941, was preventive.

Of course, the Iraqi dictator was doing his damndest to convince the world that he had weapons of mass destruction, because he was terrified of admitting to his worst foe, Iran, that he no longer had them. (He sure convinced me.) But this was no evidence of an imminent threat requiring instant action, and the WMD charge was the shakiest of limbs in a tree full of much stronger branches.

Bush used the WMD rationale as just one in a kitchen sink of issues, likely because his advisers thought it was the case that would most resonate with the public after the September 11 terror attacks. For years, most Western governments saw terrorism, rogue states, and WMD as three separate problems, to be handled by different means. After 9/11, these three issues threaded together into one giant problem—a rogue state supporting terrorists who seek to do mass damage—and the tolerance for risk that protected the Iraqi tyrant for so many years evaporated.

In 2003, I was far too confident in the ability of my own government to run a war of regime change, which managed to turn a quick operational victory into one of the greatest geopolitical disasters in American history. Knowing what I now know, I would not have advocated for setting the wheels of war in motion. And although Bush bears the ultimate responsibility for this war, I could not have imagined how much Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld’s obsession with “transformation,” the idea that the U.S. military could do more with fewer troops and lighter forces, would undermine our ability to conduct a war against Iraq. As Eliot Cohen later said, “The thing I know now that I did not know then is just how incredibly incompetent we would be, which is the most sobering part of all this.”

My own unease about the war began when America’s de facto military governor, Paul Bremer, disbanded the Iraqi military and embarked on “de-Baathification,” taking as his historical analogy the “denazification” of Germany after World War II. This was bad history and bad policy, and it created a massive unemployment problem among people skilled in violence while punishing civilians whose only real association with Baathism was the party card required for them to get a good job.

And yet, for a few years more, I stayed the course. I believed that Iraqis, like anyone else, wanted to be free. They might not be Jeffersonian democrats, but they hated Saddam, and now they had a chance at something better. Like many of our leaders, I was still amazed at the collapse of the Soviet Union, appalled at Western inaction in places like Rwanda, and convinced (as I still am) that U.S. foreign policy should be premised on a kind of Spider-Man doctrine: With great power comes great responsibility.

Unfortunately, in my case, this turned into supporting what the late Charles Krauthammer in 1999 called “a blanket anti-son of a bitch policy,” which he described as “soothing, satisfying and empty. It is not a policy at all but righteous self-delusion.” Krauthammer was right, and people like me were too willing to argue for taking out bad guys merely because they were bad guys. But that word blanket was doing a lot of lifting in Krauthammer’s formulation; perhaps we cannot go after all of them, but some sons of bitches should be high on the list. For me, Saddam was one of them.

The question now was whether even Saddam Hussein was worth the cost. Twenty years ago, I would have said yes. Today, I would say no—but I must add the caveat that no one knew then, nor can anyone know now, how much more dangerous a world we might have faced with Saddam and his psychopathic sons still in power. (Is the world better off because we left Bashar al-Assad in power and allowed him to turn Syria into an abattoir?) Yes, some rulers are too dangerous to remove; Vladimir Putin, hiding in the Kremlin behind a wall of nuclear weapons, comes to mind. Some, however, are too dangerous to allow to remain in power, and in 2003, I included Saddam in that group.

In 2007, Vanity Fair interviewed a group of the war’s most well-known supporters. Even the ur-hawk Richard Perle (nicknamed in Washington the “Prince of Darkness” when he worked for Ronald Reagan) admitted that, if he had it to do over again, he might have argued for some path other than war. But the comment that sticks with me to this day, and the one that best represents my thinking, came from Ambassador Kenneth Adelman. In 2002, Adelman famously declared that the war would be “a cakewalk,” but five years later, he said:

The policy can be absolutely right, and noble, beneficial, but if you can’t execute it, it’s useless, just useless. I guess that’s what I would have said: that Bush’s arguments are absolutely right, but you know what? You just have to put them in the drawer marked CAN’T DO. And that’s very different from LET’S GO.

Twenty years later, that’s where I remain. The cause was just, but there are times when doing what’s right and just is not possible. For almost 15 years after the fall of the Soviet Union and the first Allied victory over Iraq, the United States had the chance to deepen the importance of international institutions. We squandered that opportunity because of poor leadership, Pentagon fads (the “Office of Force Transformation” was disbanded in 2006, shortly before Bush finally removed Rumsfeld), and amateurish historical analogies.

Still, there’s too much revisionist history about the Iraq War. You’ll see arguments that experts supported it. (Most academics and many civilians in D.C. did not.) You’ll hear that it was a right-wing crusade backed only by a Republican minority. (Also wrong.) Had the war been executed differently, we might be having a different conversation today.

The fact remains that the United States is a great power protecting an international system it helped to create, and there will be times when military action is necessary. Fortunately, most Americans still seem to grasp this important reality.

Would I argue for another such operation today? If the question means “another massive preventive war far from home,” no. I have consistently opposed war with Iran and any direct U.S. involvement in Ukraine. I wrote a book in 2008 warning that we should strengthen the United Nations and other institutions to stop the growing acceptance around the world of preventive war as a normal tool of statecraft.

I also, however, supported the NATO operation in Libya, and I have called for using American airpower to blunt Assad’s mass murders in Syria. Iraq was a terrible mistake, but it would be another mistake to draw the single-minded conclusion (much as we did after Vietnam) that everything everywhere will forever be another Iraq. The world is too dangerous, and American leadership too necessary, for us to fall into such a facile and paralyzing trap.

Related:

David Frum: the Iraq War reconsidered The enduring lessons of the “axis of evil” speech Today’s News French President Emmanuel Macron’s government survived a no-confidence motion by nine votes, the result of widespread backlash to a bill that would raise the retirement age in France from 62 to 64. President Joe Biden issued the first veto of his presidency, on a resolution to overturn a retirement-investment rule allowing managers of retirement funds to consider environmental and social factors when choosing investments. Chinese leader Xi Jinping visited the Kremlin, where he and Russian President Vladimir Putin greeted each other as “dear friend.” Washington denounced the visit.

Dispatches

Up for Debate: Conor Friedersdorf rounds up more reader replies on the freedom and frustration of cars.

Explore all of our newsletters here.

Evening Read

Illustration by Daniel Zender / The Atlantic; Getty

Please Get Me Out of Dead-Dog TikTok

By Caroline Mimbs Nyce

A brown dog, muzzle gone gray—surely from a life well lived—tries to climb three steps but falters. Her legs give out, and she twists and falls. A Rottweiler limps around a kitchen. A golden retriever pants in a vet’s office, then he’s placed on a table, wrapped in medical tubes. “Bye, buddy,” a voice says off camera. Nearby, a hand picks up a syringe.

This is Dead-Dog TikTok. It is an algorithmic loop of pet death: of sick and senior dogs living their last day on Earth, of final hours spent clinging to one another in the veterinarian’s office, of the brutal grief that follows in the aftermath. One related trend invites owners to share the moment they knew it was time—time unspecified, but clear: Share the moment you decided to euthanize your dog.

Read the full article.

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Watch. Abbott Elementary, on ABC (and available to stream on Hulu).

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P. S.

No recommendations today, other than to thank our veterans for shouldering the burden of a war that we asked them to fight.

— Tom

The moment an artist wins an Oscar or a Grammy or a Tony, they are handed two things: some kind of statue (sure, nice) and, perhaps more important, 45 seconds—maybe a minute, two tops—of live, relatively unbridled stage time with millions of people watching. They can use that time however they choose, thanking their parents, thanking their agents, thanking God, advocating for causes, crying. After that the music will play.

Wendy Shanker is a writer with a niche skill: She helps celebrity clients draft acceptance speeches so that they can maximize these high-adrenaline, high-profile moments.

Shanker told me that she once found herself moved to tears when a client seemed to be forgoing the drafted speech in favor of something else—only to suddenly realize that Shanker herself had in fact written the words in question. “She’s such a phenomenal actress that I didn’t even recognize my own writing,” Shanker said.  

Ahead of this weekend’s Oscars, Shanker and I caught up by phone to discuss the art of acceptance speeches (keep the thank-you list short, she says) and her biggest pet peeve (reading off a phone).

Our conversation has been condensed and edited for clarity.

Caroline Mimbs Nyce: Let’s pretend you get hired by a new A-list client tomorrow. Walk me through your process.

Wendy Shanker: My process is to try and do a lot of research and to get to know that person’s voice as well as I can before I actually connect with them directly. So I’m reading interviews and watching videos. The best is when I do get to work directly with that client as opposed to going through a publicist or a manager. Just even having a really brief conversation with somebody, I can really hear really, really quickly what it is that they want to say and the voice that they want to say it in. And I can also provide a little bit of guidance to them on what might work and what might not work.

A good example of this would be I wrote an acceptance speech—this wasn’t a televised show; this was a private event. A woman was being honored, and her team had said, “Look, whatever you do, don’t talk about her mother.” Her mother is also famous. “Don’t make this about her mother.” I went, “Okay, okay, okay.” And then I got 10 minutes with my client on the phone. And the first thing she said is, “I really just wanted to talk about my mother.”

[Read: The speeches that saved the Golden Globes]

Nyce: Do you think they were trying to keep her from it?

Shanker: I don’t think they were trying to keep her from it. I just think nobody knows the heart and soul of what that person wants to say in the moment except for that person.

Nyce: Do you ever get intervening agents telling you, “Don’t let them say that. Cut that line”?

Shanker: Yeah, that happens a lot. Most representatives are trying to protect their clients. But a lot of what I do is get this very busy person to focus in on this thing they know is coming and haven’t really thought about. Just like any of us lowly humans, they procrastinate. The conversation with me gives them time to shut out all the other noise and focus on What is it that I really want to say?

Nyce: About how long are acceptance speeches usually?

Shanker: It depends on the show. For a network show that’s airing live, the time is tight; it is 45 seconds or 60 seconds. While the person on the stage is accepting the honor, there are the producers backstage trying to figure out how long they’re going to let them talk. Maybe it says 45 seconds on the clock, but if you’re saying something really good or you’re a legend in the industry, they’re going to let you go a little longer. I’ll also say from the producing side of it that nobody ever wants to cut anybody off.  

A lot of people don’t want to prepare because they think they’re going to hex it. And I would like to congratulate anybody who thinks they have the magical-thinking power to win or lose an Oscar by preparing a speech or not preparing a speech.

Nyce: How much can you fit into 45 seconds?

Shanker: I advise clients to have one central thought, especially one that could be connected to your performance or your album or the theme of the project that you were in—something that speaks to a social or cultural issue connected to the work that you are being honored for.

I really, really encourage people to limit the thank-you list. If there’s one special thank you that you want to give out—to your parents or to your fifth-grade theater teacher or to the real-life person whom you were portraying on screen—great! But we don’t need to hear about your agent’s assistant’s assistant’s Uber driver. If you are going to go the list way, write them down, practice it, get everybody in there. “Oh, I’m going to forget somebody!” I should never hear that from you onstage.

[Read: My favorite awards-season ritual]

Nyce: This gets at the question of “Who are award speeches for?” The people in the room or the audiences at home?

Shanker: We all know that the numbers of people watching awards shows are sinking. And I think that’s because we have so much access to a lot of these people that we laud all the time. The Oscars might have been the only time in a year when I would get to hear Barbra Streisand say something. But now Barbra’s tweeting.

I think people get excited about the pageantry of it. I think people still get excited about films and albums and Broadway shows that mean something to us and mean something to the culture, that give us something that we didn’t have before.

And there’s still so much coverage of these shows. We get excited when our beloved film wins and frustrated when it goes the wrong way. So they continue to have a lot of cultural worth, even if they’re losing the numbers.

Nyce: What have you noticed about the acceptance speeches this season? Are there any that have stood out to you?

Shanker: I do think there’s real joy in seeing people who have been in the industry for a long time and haven’t been recognized speak. Ke Huy Quan has this amazing comeback story, and that’s what a lot of his speeches have centered on. Michelle Yeoh is talking about inclusion and representation in a really wonderful way. It’s thrilling and exciting to hear Jamie Lee Curtis say, “I’m 64, and this is just amazing.” Sheryl Lee Ralph bursting into song—completely memorable. Watching Jennifer Coolidge get a lot of awards in this cycle has been super fun because she’s another person who’s worked for decades in an industry that hasn’t always been kind and generous to her or to her talent. When she’s up there, I think she’s being very genuine, and she’s also savvy about giving the audience what they want.

Nyce: What are some of your acceptance-speech pet peeves?

Shanker: My No. 1 pet peeve is going onstage with your cellphone. To me, it just seems unprepared and casual; it doesn’t step up to the intensity and honor of the moment.

The other thing that really bugs me is false humility. When people approach and go, “I just didn’t think I’d … Who, me?” It’s like, You were nominated. You campaigned for it. You’ve spent months wining and dining and talking to people. You’ve been standing in front of a mirror with a hairbrush since you were 4 years old. This is not a shock. Humility is wonderful, but false humility is annoying.