How robots learn: A brief, contemporary history


That has changed. The machines are yet unbuilt, but the money is flowing: Companies and investors put $6.1 billion into humanoid robots in 2025 alone, four times what was invested in 2024. 

What happened? A revolution in how machines have learned to interact with the world. 

Imagine you’d like a pair of robot arms installed in your home purely to do one thing: fold clothes. How would it learn to do that? You could start by writing rules. Check the fabric to figure out how much deformation it can tolerate before tearing. Identify a shirt’s collar. Move the gripper to the left sleeve, lift it, and fold it inward by exactly this distance. Repeat for the right sleeve. If the shirt is rotated, turn the plan accordingly. If the sleeve is twisted, correct it. Very quickly the number of rules explodes, but a complete accounting of them could produce reliable results. This was the original craft of robotics: anticipating every possibility and encoding it in advance.

Around 2015, the cutting edge started to do things differently: Build a digital simulation of the robotic arms and the clothes, and give the program a reward signal every time it folds successfully and a ding every time it fails. This way, it gets better by trying all sorts of techniques through trial and error, with millions of iterations—the same way AI got good at playing games.

The arrival of ChatGPT in 2022 catalyzed the current boom. Trained on vast amounts of text, large language models work not through trial and error but by learning to predict what word should come next in a sentence. Similar models adapted to robotics were soon able to absorb pictures, sensor readings, and the position of a robot’s joints and predict the next action the machine should take, issuing dozens of motor commands every second.

This conceptual shift—to reliance on AI models that ingest large amounts of data—seems to work whether that helpful robot is supposed to talk to people, move through an environment, or even do complicated tasks. And it was paired with other ideas about how to accomplish this new way of learning, like deploying robots even if they aren’t yet perfect so they can learn from the environment they’re meant to work in. Today, Silicon Valley roboticists are dreaming big again. Here’s how that happened. 


Jibo

A movable social robot carried out conversations long before the age of LLMs.

An MIT robotics researcher named Cynthia Breazeal introduced an armless, legless, faceless robot called Jibo to the world in 2014. It looked, in fact, like a lamp. Breazeal’s aim was to create a social robot for families, and the idea pulled in $3.7 million in a crowdsourced funding campaign. Early preorders cost $749.

The early Jibo could introduce itself and dance to entertain kids, but that was about it. The vision was always for it to become a sort of embodied assistant that could handle everything from scheduling and emails to telling stories. It earned a number of devoted users, but ultimately the company shut down in 2019.

A robot with a shape vaguely like a lowercase letter "i"
A crowdfunding campaign started in 2014 and drew 4,800 Jibo preorders.

COURTESY OF MIT MEDIA LAB

In retrospect, one thing that Jibo really needed was better language capabilities. It was competing against Apple’s Siri and Amazon’s Alexa, and all those technologies at the time relied on heavy scripting. In broad terms, when you spoke to them, software would translate your speech into text, analyze what you wanted, and create a response pulled from preapproved snippets. Those snippets could be charming, but they were also repetitive and simply boringdownright robotic. That was especially a challenge for a robot that was supposed to be social and family oriented. 



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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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