In the Land of
Reports, two teams worked very hard to cancel each other out.
The Writers sat
in the field, armed with AI, pouring out pages and pages of words. They
believed the thicker the file, the smarter they looked. If a project needed 10
pages, they happily wrote 100. After all, more words meant more wisdom, right?
Then the Editors,
sitting at their desks, got the swollen files. Their job? Chop, slice, and
squeeze the 100 pages back into 10. They proudly called it “precision work,”
though most of it was just cleaning up the mess the Writers had created in the
first place.
And so, the
Writers wasted time making too much, and the Editors wasted time cutting too
much. Everyone clapped for their “hard work,” even though both sides were
undoing each other’s effort.
One day, a common man asked:
“If the Writers can tell the AI to keep it short, why don’t they? And if the
Editors are only fixing the language, why not just fix it and leave it? Why are
we wasting time at both ends?”
Of course,
nobody answered. The Writers went back to over-writing, the Editors went back
to over-cutting, and the circus went on—proving that in the Land of Reports,
common sense was the only thing in short supply.
For those who are too comfortable with AI, the story is retold here….Below
The Tale of the Great Content Tug-of-War
Once
upon a time, in the bustling Kingdom of Content, two guilds ruled the land: the
Writers of Infinite
Words and the Editors
of Infinite Cuts.
The Writers had recently discovered a
magical beast called AI.
With a single click, they could summon 10,000 words before finishing their
morning chai. They didn’t worry about focus or clarity—why bother, when the
beast was happy to keep talking forever? Reports, research papers, field
notes—each document was long enough to qualify as an encyclopedia entry,
complete with side stories, footnotes, and philosophical detours.
Then
came the Editors, the noble warriors with their swords of Precision and shields of Conciseness. They would look
at the bloated scrolls from the Writers, sigh dramatically, and begin hacking.
“Unnecessary! Repetition! Rambling!” They shouted as words fell like autumn
leaves. By the end, what once was 30 pages of "context" became three
neat paragraphs and a pie chart.
This cycle continued day and night: Writers overfed the beast, Editors starved the scrolls. Writers wept: “Our brilliance is butchered!” Editors fumed: “Our lives are wasted trimming fat!” The King of Content scratched his head and wondered aloud:
“Why don’t the Writers just ask the magical beast to be concise from the beginning? Or why don’t the Editors simply fix the language and leave the extra words alone? Must we really waste energy at both ends, pretending this tug-of-war is productivity?”
But
of course, no one listened. The Writers continued to inflate, the Editors
continued to deflate, and the Kingdom of Content lived happily ever after in
the eternal game of Write
Too Much vs. Cut Too Hard.
“Two teams. One battlefield. A magical beast called AI. What happens when one side keeps bloating scrolls and the other keeps butchering them? Read on—this is not fiction, it’s today’s work culture dressed as a fable.”
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