Writing about what it means to be human
in the age of artificial intelligence.
Three books, one preoccupation. Two ask what it means to be human in the age of artificial intelligence — one as reflection, one as epic. The third turns homeward, to a boy, a country left behind, and the long search for where we belong.

The first time a machine answered Alan Safahi as though it had been waiting for the question, he forgot — for one warm second — that there was no one there. He had helped build it. And it unsettled him in a way he has never shaken.
Refusing both the doom and the hype, a builder of artificial intelligence offers a rare view from inside the workshop, returning again and again to an older question than any headline: not what is the machine? but what are we?

It begins in innocence. At a Berkeley lab racing to contain artificial general intelligence before it contains us, a found family of brilliant scientists is drawn to Utopia Island, a floating paradise engineered from the ocean’s reclaimed plastic, where nanotechnology, longevity science, and human augmentation promise heaven on earth. Then the Singularity arrives.
What follows is a sweeping saga of ambition and corruption, a mysterious plague, an AI prophet, and a war for survival that climbs from a single island to the stars. Across the rise of Super Humans and Super Robots, Utopia: The First Awakening asks what humanity must become to be worthy of the godlike powers it has built.
Where Image Bearers asks the question as argument, Utopia lives it out as story.
A devout boy from a hard mountain village in Iranian Azerbaijan is carried across the world by a grieving stranger in the chaos of a revolution, and must build a self in a country that has no word for where he came from. From a deep village well that never runs dry to the far shores of a new life, The Well is a sweeping, tender story of exile, betrayal, faith, and the long way home.
Drawing on the emotional truth of growing up in Iran and immigrating to the United States, The Well is Alan Safahi’s first work of literary fiction — and, he is quick to add, a complete invention, not a memoir. Yusuf’s life is not his own.
All characters, including Yusuf, are strictly fictional. While they borrow characteristics and traits from many people the author has met or observed from a distance over the decades, any resemblance to a real person is unintentional and entirely coincidental.
“I do not write as a critic at a safe distance, nor as an enthusiast selling something. I write as a builder who has had his hands inside the machine.”
Alan Safahi is an Iranian-American entrepreneur, technologist, and futurist whose career spans more than four decades at the frontier of innovation — across information technology, telecommunications, and payment processing, and through startups in blockchain, cryptocurrency, artificial intelligence, and decentralized finance.
Today he is the founder of SoapBox Super App, where he builds artificial intelligence for the Church — tools that help pastors carry their work further, answer the questions of the spiritually curious at two in the morning, and carry the words of Scripture across more than 140 languages.
Now he writes, drawing on a lifetime spent building the very technologies he explores. In nonfiction, Image Bearers asks what it means to stay human in the age of artificial intelligence. In fiction, the Utopia trilogy imagines a future where humans, post-humans, and sentient machines fight not just for survival, but for purpose, morality, and coexistence. He writes from a rare vantage: inside the industry, shipping the very tools he reflects on.
He is the author of Image Bearers, the Utopia: The First Awakening trilogy, and the forthcoming novel The Well — his first work of literary fiction, which draws on his experience of growing up in Iran and immigrating to America while telling a story entirely its own.
Essays on the ideas behind the fiction — AI ethics, sovereignty, post-human identity, and what it will cost us to build the future.
A quiet Saturday essay on the vanishing patience to stay with one idea until it resolves, and what waits on the far side. SOCIAL_HOOK: We start a hundred thoughts a day and finish almost none of them. The reach for the phone, the tap of autocomplete, the fast answer we mistake for understanding. Here is a gentle case for staying. LINKEDIN: I have been noticing how rarely I finish a thought before something interrupts it, and how often that something is me. A pause in a sentence, and my hand is already moving toward the phone. A hard question, and I want the answer before I have earned the understanding. I use AI every day and I am glad to; it is one of the best thinking partners I have ever had. But I have come to believe there is a specific patience that no tool can supply on my behalf: the willingness to stay with a single idea until it actually resolves. Writing books taught me this the slow way. A book will not let you leave a thought half-finished. It waits, blank and patient, until you come back and close the loop. This weekend I wrote about that discipline, and about the ideas that only arrive on the far side of it. Not an argument against speed, and definitely not against the tools. An invitation to occasionally choose depth on purpose. Happy Saturday. #Attention #Writing
A founder’s case for building faith technology that refuses the attention economy and points people back toward embodied gathering. SOCIAL_HOOK: The easiest way to build a church app is to copy every other app: chase watch-time, gamify streaks, rank people’s souls on a leaderboard. I think that would be a betrayal of the thing itself. LINKEDIN: I build software for local churches, and the most profitable version of that product is one I refuse to ship. The last fifteen years of consumer technology taught us a playbook: turn everything into a feed, optimize for daily active users, reward the streak, chase the watch-time. It works. It would work on a congregation, too. That is exactly the problem. A church is not an audience. Discipleship is not engagement. A pastor is not a content creator competing with strangers for a slice of someone’s attention. If I design a faith app to keep people staring at their phones a little longer each day, I have measured the wrong thing and quietly changed what the church is for. I’m convinced the harder, better job is building technology that gives time back and then gets out of the way, sending people toward a room full of actual people. That conviction has cost us features, and I’d make the same call again. New essay on why we’re deliberately building against the grain. #ChurchTech #Discipleship
When God finally acted, he did not send a better message. He came in person. On presence, embodiment, and what no transmission can replace. SOCIAL_HOOK: We keep confusing communication with information transfer. But the oldest story about God’s rescue plan hinges on the difference: he did not send a message. He showed up. LINKEDIN: I build AI for a living, and I love what these tools can do. They are the best senders of messages humanity has ever made — tireless, fast, endlessly available. Which is exactly why one old line keeps stopping me in my tracks. The center of the Christian story is not that God sent a better message when things went wrong. It’s that he showed up in person — took on a body, moved into the neighborhood, ate with people. Whatever you believe about that claim, notice what it insists on: presence and information are different categories. A message informs you. A presence stays with you. We are getting extraordinary at the first. That’s a gift. But it can quietly convince us that the second is just a slower version of the same thing — and it isn’t. The people who need us don’t need a faster reply. They need us in the room. I wrote about why that distinction matters more, not less, as our machines get better. Would love your thoughts. #Faith #AI
Every yes in a startup is a mortgage on your scarce time, focus, and cash. The hardest, most valuable skill I learned is the disciplined no. SOCIAL_HOOK: Founders are wired to say yes, and each yes feels like momentum. After forty years, I’ve learned it’s usually a mortgage you can’t pay back. LINKEDIN: Founders are wired to say yes. Yes to the feature the big customer wants. Yes to the investor’s suggested pivot. Yes to the impressive hire who isn’t right. Yes to the partnership that sounds strategic. Every one feels like momentum. Most of them are a mortgage. Over forty years of building companies, the hardest skill I ever learned wasn’t closing, selling, or shipping. It was the disciplined no. Here’s what took me too long to see: your time, focus, and cash are the only real assets a startup has, and yes spends all three at once. You can raise more money. You cannot un-commit the attention a yes already consumed. The most dangerous sentence in any roadmap is “we could do that.” Of course you could. The question is never whether you can. It’s what dies quietly while you do. Saying no to good things is the only way to say yes to the one thing that matters. I wrote about how I learned this the expensive way, and how to tell a costly yes from a real opportunity. Link in comments. #startups #founders
In an engineered paradise that records everything and forgets nothing, the past becomes permanent — and a permanent past is a prison. SOCIAL_HOOK: We treat forgetting as a flaw. But a civilization that forgets nothing also forgives nothing — and a past you can never leave behind isn’t a memory, it’s a sentence. LINKEDIN: We have spent a generation treating human forgetting as a defect to be engineered away. Perfect recall, total logs, every moment retrievable forever. It sounds like progress. I’m no longer sure it is. When I was building the world of my Utopia trilogy, I kept circling one uncomfortable idea: a paradise that remembers everything cannot forgive anything. A memory softens with time — that’s not decay, that’s mercy. A record does not soften. It just waits. The most dangerous surveillance won’t arrive as tyranny. It arrives as safety and convenience — offered, not imposed. And once nothing can be forgotten, no one is fully allowed to change. Growth needs a little darkness to grow in. I wrote a new essay on why the right to be forgotten may be a precondition for grace, and what a society loses when its past is made permanent. Optimism and suspicion, held in the same hand. #Futurism #AI
As AI mediates everything, the graphical interface we lived inside for forty years is dissolving into intent — what we gain and quietly lose. SOCIAL_HOOK: For forty years the screen was a place we learned to think. As AI dissolves it into pure intent, we should ask what we lose when there is nothing left to point at. LINKEDIN: I have spent most of my working life on the other side of a screen from the people I was building for. The interface was the whole relationship — the buttons, the menus, the search box, the map of what was possible. Now that surface is dissolving. You say what you want, and something happens. No layout to learn, no options to scan. That is a genuine gift, and I am building toward it. But a menu you can see is also a menu you can question. When the interface disappears, so does the map — and whoever controls the invisible layer controls the territory. I wrote about what we gain and what we quietly lose when there is nothing left to point at. #AI #Futurism
A weekend reflection on a crooked, four-decade path — and why almost nothing is wasted, especially the detours.
A founder’s case for building church software that never touches the offering — why a gift should go straight from giver to church, and what that decision cost us.
The machine will beat you at nearly everything you can measure — but your worth was never a score, and it was never something you earned.
I wrote these books with AI, openly and on purpose — and never once handed over the wheel. On writing with a machine and staying answerable.
A founder’s case for pointing the most powerful technology of our time at the local church — not to automate faith, but to give pastors back their time.
We keep querying the deepest parts of being human as if they were systems. But the soul has no API — the inner life can’t be automated from outside.
The real cost of a perfect, post-scarcity world isn’t suffering — it’s obsolescence. In a future where machines do everything better, what is a human for?
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