AI is moving beyond chat — and into creativity and play 



AI hasn’t just arrived — it has quietly become part of the default experience online. 

What started as a curiosity has quickly turned into a habit. In classrooms, students now draft essays with LLM tools beside them, replacing the familiar rhythm of notes, revisions, and late-night writing sessions. 

Even dating apps — long seen as one of the most human corners of the internet — are increasingly powered by AI, from generating profile prompts to optimizing matches. In subtle ways, AI is beginning to shape not just what people do online, but how they interact with others. 

AI isn’t just useful anymore; it’s becoming fun to interact with 

What began as a tool for getting answers is gradually becoming something more participatory, where users aren’t just asking questions, but creating, experimenting, and engaging with the AI. 

Not just in isolated moments, but continuously. What was once a system you opened, used, and closed is beginning to take on a more persistent role — something that responds, evolves, and stays present as you move through different contexts. 

What’s changing is not just what AI can produce, but how people engage with it. 

Instead of one-off exchanges, interaction is becoming something that unfolds over time. Rather than asking a question and moving on, users are returning, adjusting, and building on previous inputs — creating a sense of continuity that wasn’t there before. 

This shift becomes more visible when you look at how digital content itself is starting to change. 

For years, most online experiences have been built around passive consumption. People scroll, watch, listen, and move on. Even when interaction exists, it’s often limited — tapping a button, leaving a comment, or consuming from a set of predefined options. 

That model is starting to expand. 

Instead of watching a piece of content from start to finish, users can step into it and interact with it in more direct ways. Where interaction once meant simply watching or listening, it can now involve speaking, moving, or using the camera to respond. 

Imagine blowing out a digital candle through your phone’s speaker, or pointing your camera at a sunset and having the system identify and react to the shifting colors in real time. The experience becomes less about viewing and more about participation — not just consuming what others have made, but actively shaping how it unfolds. 

Former GitHub CEO Thomas Dohmke said in a TED talk that creating software is becoming as simple as building with LEGO. The line between creator and consumer can become less defined. Creation may look less like a separate task and more like a natural extension of interaction. 

In this environment, interaction and participation become the core experience. 

One example is Aippy, where users move through a feed of playable mini-games rather than videos. Instead of watching a clip and moving on, each post invites a response — tapping in to play, reacting to the mechanics, or trying a different variation of the same idea. 

Photo by Aippy 

Rather than relying on traditional coding, users describe what they want in natural language, and the system turns it into something interactive. A simple idea, a game, a mechanic, or a prompt can quickly become something others can play with, modify, and reinterpret. 

Over time, this creates a loop. One person’s idea becomes another person’s starting point. Interaction leads to creation, and creation feeds back into interaction. 

Platforms like this point to a broader shift. AI is not just helping to enable conversation, but lowering the barrier to participation, allowing more people to take part in shaping digital experiences, not just consuming them. 

It’s still early, and these experiences are far from fully consistent. But the direction is becoming clearer. 

If the first phase of AI made information easier to access, this next phase may be about making interaction more fluid, continuous, and responsive. 

As people spend more time engaging with AI — not just asking questions, but playing, experimenting, and responding — the experience begins to change. 

What emerges may not look like a better chatbot, but something closer to a new layer of the internet. A space where content is not simply delivered, but continuously shaped by the people interacting with it. 

Digital Trends partners with external contributors. All contributor content is reviewed by the Digital Trends editorial staff.



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Do you ever walk past a person on the streets exhibiting mental health issues and wonder what happened to their family? I have a brother—or at least, I used to. I worry about where he is and hope he is safe. He hasn’t taken my call since 2014.

James and his brother as young children playing together before his brother became sick. James is on the right and his brother is on the left.

James and his brother as young children playing together before his brother became sick. James is on the right and his brother is on the left.

When I was 13, I had a very bad day. I was in the back of the car, and what I remember most was the world-crushing sound violently panging off every surface: he was pounding his fists into the steering wheel, and I worried it would break apart. He was screaming at me and my mother, and I remember the web of saliva and tears hanging over his mouth. His eyes were red, and I knew this day would change everything between us. My brother was sick.

Nearly 20 years later, I still have trouble thinking about him. By the time we realized he was mentally ill, he was no longer a minor. The police brought him to a facility for the standard 72-hour hold, where he was diagnosed with paranoid delusional schizophrenia. Concluding he was not a danger to himself or others, they released him.

There was only one problem: at 18, my brother told the facility he was not related to us and that we were imposters. When they let him out, he refused to come home.

My parents sought help and even arranged for medication, but he didn’t take it. Before long, he disappeared.

My brother’s decline and disappearance had nothing to do with the common narratives about drug use or criminal behavior. He was sick. By the time my family discovered his condition, he was already 18 and legally independent from our custody.

The last time he let me visit, I asked about his bed. I remember seeing his dirty mattress on the floor beside broken glass and garbage. I also asked about the laptop my parents had gifted him just a year earlier. He needed the money, he said—and he had maxed out my parents’ credit card.

In secret from my parents, I gave him all the cash I had saved. I just wanted him to be alright.

My parents and I tried texting and calling him; there was no response except the occasional text every few weeks. But weeks turned into months.

Before long, I was graduating from high school. I begged him to come. When I looked in the bleachers, he was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t help but wonder what I had done wrong.

The last time I heard from him was over the phone in 2014. I tried to tell him about our parents and how much we all missed him. I asked him to be my brother again, but he cut me off, saying he was never my brother. After a pause, he admitted we could be friends. Making the toughest call of my life, I told him he was my brother—and if he ever remembers that, I’ll be there, ready for him to come back.

I’m now 32 years old. I often wonder how different our lives would have been if he had been diagnosed as a minor and received appropriate care. The laws in place do not help families in my situation.

My brother has no social media, and we suspect he traded his phone several years ago. My family has hired private investigators over the years, who have also worked with local police to try to track him down.

One private investigator’s report indicated an artist befriended my brother many years ago. When my mother tried contacting the artist, they said whatever happened between them was best left in the past and declined to respond. My mom had wanted to wish my brother a happy 30th birthday.

My brother grew up in a safe, middle-class home with two parents. He had no history of drug use or criminal record. He loved collecting vintage basketball cards, eating mint chocolate chip ice cream, and listening to Motown music. To my parents, there was no smoking gun indicating he needed help before it was too late.

The next time you think about a person screaming outside on the street, picture their families. We need policies and services that allow families to locate and support their loved ones living with mental illness, and stronger protections to ensure that individuals leaving facilities can transition into stable care. Current laws, including age-based consent rules, the limits of 72-hour holds, and the lack of step-down or supported housing options, leave too many families without resources when a serious diagnosis occurs.

Governments and lawmakers need to do better for people like my brother. As someone who thinks about him every day, I can tell you the burden is too heavy to carry alone.

James Finney-Conlon is a concerned brother and mental health advocate. He can be reached at [email protected].



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