Keep Your Brain in the Game

Four party guests in Jedi, Star Trek officer, witch, and rock singer costumes exchange puzzled looks.

By CJ Powers

Have you ever attended a murder mystery party in costume?

I had attended one, but was the host countless times. They were a lot of fun and generated weeks’ worth of conversations. Some comments showed up 1-2 years later—a great memory maker for work teams, family reunions, and other special groups and occasions.

Most people shy away from throwing complex parties because they know the incredible amount of work involved. Besides, who has the time these days to put one on?

Thanks to AI, we all do.

You’re the Host, Not AI

Imagine asking AI to create custom invitations for your guests. Each one would include costume suggestions, what their character is like and what they know about the murder, and what to keep secret, including whether they are the murderer.

Since it only takes AI a handful of minutes to create the individual invites, a mini-poster insert, and the logistics sheet, you feel amazing, especially with how gorgeous it looks. Since we can’t wait for our incredible party, we tend to quickly glance at the invite materials and send them off.

Then a day or two later, someone makes a comment about the party on Friday, and you scheduled it for Saturday. In your excitement, you didn’t go through the party details as a good host would. Instead, you assumed AI had it covered.

The faster AI gets, the more we tend to trust it. But we should never trust it to do our part, only its own part. You are still the host.

When Easy Feels Finished

There’s a lot to like about getting help with a first draft. A blank page turns into something we can work with, or an idea we’ve been struggling to explain begins to make sense. With that much going well, we may forget to question or push back on aspects that don’t quite feel right.

A 2026 Elon University survey found that 39% of people who use large language models said they were growing overly dependent on AI’s answers instead of thinking for themselves.

Many users also reported gains in learning and creativity, so there’s useful help in the picture along with that concern. These are people’s reports about their own use of AI. The survey doesn’t prove their brains are getting weaker or that everyone asking for help has stopped thinking.

Still, it’s worth noticing what we do after an answer arrives. If we like the sound of it, do we read any further than we have to before accepting the information as truth?

The Trouble Looks Normal

A wild mistake is easy to catch. If the murder mystery invitation tells your guests to bring a folding chair and a live giraffe, you’ll probably read it twice. Friday instead of Saturday is much easier to miss, along with a changed detail, a wrong name, or a promise you never meant to make.

Consider what that might look like in a meeting summary. The notes say the client will consider the proposal, but the AI says the client approved it. Someone reading the summary could start work on a project the client hasn’t agreed to buy, even though most of what they read was useful and accurate.

To catch the change, we’d have to compare the summary with what actually happened in the meeting, rather than giving it a quick glance and trusting AI’s accuracy rate.

AI researcher and writer Ethan Mollick described the risk this way: “People really can go on autopilot when using AI, falling asleep at the wheel and failing to notice AI mistakes.”

His warning gets at the part we have to own, even when the rest of an answer is helpful. In other words, we can’t catch what we don’t bother to look at.

Leave Room for You

Before asking AI for help, take a moment to decide what you’re trying to say, solve, or make. Without some idea of a good result, whatever appears on the screen can start to look like the plan.

For the murder mystery party, you’d want the day, time, place, and what guests should bring clear in your mind. In a meeting summary, you’d want to keep track of which choices were made and which are still open. Those details give you something to compare the draft against, rather than relying on how well it reads.

There’s room to play with the answer, too. Ask AI to explain a suggestion or offer another option, then weigh the ideas for yourself. Maybe it finds a better way to welcome the team or your friends, even if one line makes your murder mystery sound like the opening of a theme park.

Keep what works and lose the trumpet fanfare.

A host checks printed invitations beside her laptop before sending them.

Before You Hit Send

Once you have a draft, read it beside the real information. Names, dates, amounts, and promises deserve a close look because someone else may act on them—you don’t want someone awkwardly showing up a day early.

A fact or a quote needs a different kind of check: open the source and see whether it supports the claim. Asking the same tool “Are you sure?” isn’t a substitute for that look.

The care we give a draft should fit what we’re using it for. If your project affects someone’s money, health, or safety, it requires greater care and the right expertise. Saving three minutes isn’t much of a win if someone else spends an afternoon fixing the result.

As you read, see whether you could explain the answer in your own words. If part of it leaves you puzzled, ask questions and work through it before deciding whether to use it. You may come away with a better draft and a clearer understanding of the subject.

Your Name Stays Attached

Regardless of the degree of help you request of AI, your name is still on the invitation or report. That means the responsibility for the copy is on you. So if AI makes a mistake, you’re responsible for the person showing up on the wrong day.

In an awkward situation, the person isn’t going to think, “Hmm, I wonder if AI was used and made this mistake?” Instead, they’ll wonder why you didn’t care enough about your guests to proofread everything.

So enjoy getting help from AI with the more complex tasks, but make sure you do the human thing of looking out for your guests. Keep your brain in the game.

© 2026 CJ Powers. All rights reserved.

The 13th is a Blessing

Ethan and Dad behind the counter at Miller’s Bakery with a box of doughnuts and a small bag.

Our little suburban village was waking up before the crack of dawn. Miller’s Bakery had been handed down two generations, and today, I was being prepped for the next handoff.

My first batch of doughnuts came out of the fryer at 5:47 a.m.

“Perfect timing,” said Dad, lifting the golden rings onto a cooling rack. “You’re 14, which means you’re officially my apprentice.”

“Which means I officially get paid?” I exclaimed as clearly and slowly as possible.

Dad looked at me like I was trying way too hard.

“Which means you officially get to learn why people pay us.”

“Sounds like a no.”

Dad grinned and handed me a box. “A dozen glazed doughnuts.”

I counted them out and confirmed 12.

“Thirteen,” Dad corrected as he handed me a 13th doughnut in a separate little bag.

“You said a dozen, that’s 12.”

“Around here, that means 13.”

“Okay, a baker’s dozen. I get it.”

“But do you know why?”

In that moment I knew Dad was about to educate me, no matter what my answer. “Dad, I’m still a bit tired. It’s not even six in the morning.”

“Excellent. Then your brain should be fresh.”

Dad leaned against the counter.

“In medieval England, bakers could get into serious trouble for selling underweight bread. There were laws about how much a loaf was supposed to weigh. So, to protect themselves, some bakers started giving customers 13 loaves instead of 12.”

“Medieval times, like when people carried candles around at night. You do know we click an app to turn on our LED colored lighting sequence, right?”

“Okay… wait, what?” Dad’s voice quivered with confusion.

“Nothing, I get it. History repeats itself.”

Dad chuckled. “One day, somebody’s going to ask you why it’s called a baker’s dozen. What are you going to tell them?”

“That they get 13 for the price of 12.”

“And when they ask why?”

“Because we’re… terrible at math?”

The bell above the front door jingled.

“Morning, Frank!” Dad called.

An older gentleman in an old high school letterman jacket stepped inside.

“Morning, fellas. Got any of those cinnamon twists?”

“Fresh out of the fryer. How’s Margaret doing?”

“Better. Doctor says another couple weeks, and she’ll be walking without that brace.”

“Tell her we’re thinking about her.”

Dad slipped two extra cinnamon twists into Frank’s bag.

“One for you and one for Margaret.”

Frank smiled. “Keep doing that, I’m gonna have to start bringing you gifts.”

“Just bring yourself back next week.”

After Frank left, Dad continued his lecture.

“There’s another baker’s dozen story. Centuries ago, bakers often supplied street vendors with 13 loaves for the price of 12. The vendor could sell the extra loaf and make a little profit.”

“Just what I needed. Two history lessons before breakfast. Look, Dad. Times have changed. People just want good doughnuts at a decent price.”

“You’re right.”

Startled, I had to be sure what I heard. “I am?”

“Absolutely. But that’s only part of the business.”

A young woman hurried through the door, phone pressed against her ear.

“Can I get a large coffee and two blueberry muffins? I’m running late.”

“Of course,” Dad said. “Ethan, would you take care of her?” I moved quickly, filling the cup and bagging the muffins.

“Seven eighty-five,” I said.

She tapped her phone against the reader, grabbed the cup and bag, and rushed out.

“See, Dad. Fast. Accurate. Easy. That’s what people want.”

“Some of the time.”

“Well, Dad, for those times, we could buy an AI robot to work the counter. They’ll cost less than hiring a part-time person for a year. They could take orders, answer questions, remember everything, and never call in sick.”

Dad wiped down the counter. “Sounds impressive.”

“Yeah. And we already have an online business. People can order without even talking to us. We could automate practically everything.”

“You’re probably right.”

“So why don’t we?”

Dad looked out the picture window at our quaint village. “Because there are hundreds of places where people can buy a doughnut. Grocery stores. Gas stations. Coffee shops. Delivery apps. Some of them are cheaper than we are.”

“Exactly, efficiency counts.”

“Son, there is a time for it. But when everybody can sell the same thing, people need a reason to choose you. To choose here. To choose Miller’s Bakery.”

“Our doughnuts taste better.”

“Maybe, today. But what happens when someone improves their recipe?”

“We improve ours.”

“And then they improve theirs.”

“Then we improve ours again.”

Dad smiled. “A game that never ends.”

The bell jingled again.

Dad gives Mrs. Peterson an extra doughnut in a small bag as Ethan watches.

Mrs. Peterson came in carrying a canvas shopping bag. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Morning, Helen,” Dad said. “The usual?”

“You remembered?”

“Six plain cake doughnuts and six chocolate frosted. Unless your grandchildren have changed their minds.”

“They haven’t changed their minds about anything except cleaning their rooms.”

Dad laughed and nodded for me to fill the box, as he slipped into the back room.

Mrs. Peterson glanced at me and asked, “Your first official day?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Your father must be proud.”

“He’ll be prouder when I learn how to work the cash register without getting a history lesson.”

She laughed.

Dad came back into the front room with a small bag and slipped a 13th doughnut into it. “One for the driver.”

Mrs. Peterson smiled. “That’s why I come here.”

Dad winked at me as she left the bakery.

“Okay, but seriously, Dad. We could let a robot handle the counter—or even the baking—and spend our time making more doughnuts.”

Dad looked like the wheels in his head were cranking, as he pulled out a rag and wiped down the counters. “Son, let me ask you something. What’s the point of making more doughnuts?”

“To sell more.”

“And the point of selling more?”

“Make more money.”

“And the point of making more money?”

I closed my eyes for a moment and wondered if we were going to continue Dad’s version of the 7 whys. Then I answered, “To have a better life.”

Dad nodded.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He set the rag aside.

“Technology can make things faster. It can make things cheaper. It can even make things easier. And there’s nothing wrong with any of that. But if we keep removing people from everything we do, eventually we remove the very thing that makes life worth living.”

I wondered if people were really what made life worth living.

Dad continued, “Connections. Friendships. Knowing somebody cares whether you show up tomorrow.”

Dad gestured toward the areas of the bakery where each customer had stood while ordering.

“Frank comes because somebody remembers Margaret. Mrs. Peterson comes because we remember her grandchildren.”

“But a robot could remember all that.”

“It could remember the data,” Dad said. “But remembering information isn’t the same as showing empathy and caring about a person.”

“That’s true.”

“Son, convenience is wonderful. But if we trade away every human connection for convenience, we might end up making life lonelier instead of better.”

“That’s a pretty dark thought for a bakery.”

Dad smiled. “Then let’s brighten it up.” He opened a fresh box and began placing doughnuts inside.

I grabbed a box and did the same.

“Remember those medieval bakers, son?”

“How could I forget?”

“They gave 13 because they were afraid of being punished for selling too little. And those street vendors? The extra loaf helped them earn a living.”

“Neither are important today.”

“You’re right, we could give everyone 12 today. But when someone drives across town, fights traffic, finds a parking space, and walks through our door instead of ordering from somebody else, they’ve given us something valuable.”

“Money.”

“Their time. They’ve given us their time. They chose to spend it with us.”

“So we give them a baker’s dozen?”

“We give them a little thank-you for being the person who went out of their way.”

“So the 13th doughnut isn’t really about getting more, but giving more.”

Dad smiled. “Now you’re beginning to understand.”

The bell above the door jingled.

Ethan hands the businessman an extra doughnut in a small bag while Dad looks on.

A man in a business suit stepped inside, looking distracted. “Morning. Can I get a dozen assorted? Whatever’s fresh.”

“Absolutely.” I grabbed the mixed box that I had just finished packing. Then I placed a 13th doughnut into the little bag and placed both items on the counter. “That’s a dozen mixed doughnuts to go, and one special doughnut for the guy who went out of his way to pick them up.”

The man laughed. “Well, that’s the best deal I’ve had all week.”

He paid, thanked me, and headed for the door. But just before leaving, he turned around.

“You know, I usually order from one of those delivery apps. First time I’ve been in here.”

“Thanks for sharing. We’re glad you came.”

The man smiled and closed the door behind him.

I turned to Dad and said, “Okay. I get it.”

“Get what?”

“A robot could have sold him 12 doughnuts.”

“And?”

I smiled. “But I got to give him the 13th.”

Dad put a hand on my shoulder.

“Welcome to the family business.”

© 2026 CJ Powers

I Asked for Help, Not a New Personality

I asked AI to help me with the structure of a complex story. I already had the manuscript, an outline, and an ending I wanted to reach. What I needed was help verifying that all the pieces leading to the ending were where they belonged.

AI decided to be creative.

By the halfway point, AI had changed the story enough to disrupt my ending. Apparently, my AI assistant had promoted itself to coauthor. I must have missed that meeting.

I appreciate having a second set of eyes on a long-form story. But the trouble started when my “help” wandered past the job I had given it, carrying my story along for the ride. The story no longer fit my beginning or ending.

Help Takes a Detour

You may have seen a smaller version of this when preparing for a party. You ask AI for help with a simple prompt, and the result sounds as though your kitchen table has become a corporate headquarters filled with charts, spreadsheets, and an overwhelming party.

Your invitation, which requested your guests bring a bag of chips, now has a strategic objective.

The sentences can be smoothed over and the grammar cleaned up, but now you read the result and wonder who this person is, because it certainly isn’t you.

In my story, I needed the structure examined without changing the story. A clever new direction was still the wrong direction for that job. It belonged in a separate conversation, if I was interested in considering changes.

You Set the Protection Level

Before handing something over to AI, it helps to pause long enough to name what matters. Maybe you want a shorter email, but the apology must stay. Maybe you want a clearer plan, but Saturday afternoon is your family’s.

Those details may seem obvious because you’ve been living them. AI hasn’t. If we leave out the part that matters most, we give it more room to head somewhere we never meant for it to go.

That doesn’t make every wrong answer our fault. AI can miss clear instructions, which is one reason I want to review the result. But stating the destination gives us something better to check than whether the answer sounds impressive.

For a story, that might mean preserving the ending and every existing character. For a work project, it might mean offering three options without making a commitment. The right boundaries depend on what you are trying to protect.

Give Better Clues

Imagine asking AI to write an invitation to game night. With so little to go on, it might deliver an event worthy of engraved stationery. Meanwhile, your actual plan involves mismatched chairs and a competitive game of Uno.

Now give it a few useful clues for context: “This is a casual text to close friends; keep it under 60 words, and make it lightly funny. The date and time are _______. Do not invent food plans or ask guests to bring anything.”

This activity gives the invitation a better chance of fitting the evening that you want.

You can also tell AI when to stop and ask questions. If a missing detail would change the meaning, a question is more useful than a confident guess. Nobody needs an invitation promising homemade lasagna when the host has purchased pretzels.

If AI’s first draft is a bit off, don’t start a new session; instead, provide it with corrective coaching.

Try a small change first and see what happens. You don’t need a secret phrase or a giant instruction manual. You need enough direction to help the tool understand the job you actually want done.

Keep Your Fingerprints

When the answer comes back, read it out loud as the person who will use it. Does it say what you meant? Does it keep the details you asked it to preserve, and would you feel comfortable putting your name on it?

Keep the helpful parts and change the rest. If a new idea catches your attention, you can explore it without letting it quietly replace the original plan. A suggestion is allowed to wait for your decision.

I still want help with my work. I just want my story waiting for me when the help is finished, with its ending intact and its characters still employed.

The next time you ask AI for help, tell it what must still feel like you when it’s done. Let it save you some effort, then put your fingerprints on the result. The finished work should give you more room to be you.

© 2026 CJ Powers