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The World Cup final gave me a bit of a wake-up call.

My dad wanted to know how overtime worked in soccer, so he called my brother to ask him. Without even thinking, I said, "Why didn't you just ask ChatGPT?"

When did that become my first instinct?

Not because ChatGPT couldn't answer the question. It obviously could. What struck me was how quickly my brain skipped over the human part of it. Maybe my dad really did just want the answer. Or maybe he wanted an excuse to call his son. I have no idea. But somewhere along the way I'd started assuming the best answer was always the fastest one.

A couple of weeks before that, I'd bought a Brick, a little device that locks me out of social media unless I physically tap my phone against it. This isn't one of those essays about how technology is ruining us because I don't believe that. I love technology.

The funny thing is, I think I actually use ChatGPT more now than I did before I bought the Brick. Which sounds completely backwards. You'd think spending less time on my phone would mean using less technology, but instead I'd be journaling and suddenly have three questions I wanted to chase down. Or I'd hear something in a conversation and want to understand it better.

So I'd open ChatGPT.

The question was already there before I reached for my phone.

That, more than anything, is what changed.

Before the Brick, I'd pick up my phone because I had a spare minute. Then I'd read whatever happened to be in front of me. Another newsletter. Another LinkedIn post. Another YouTube video. I was learning things constantly, but almost none of it started with my own curiosity. I wasn't following questions that had occurred to me. I was following questions someone else had already decided were worth asking.

I've started noticing the same pattern at work. Some of the most valuable conversations I've had with my manager weren't the ones where we immediately jumped into the task at hand. We'd spend ten minutes talking about life, something we'd read, or an idea one of us couldn't quite let go of. On paper, it probably wasn't the most efficient use of time. In practice, those conversations almost always made the work better because we came back asking better questions.

That's what has me rethinking AI.

Most conversations today are about better prompts, better models, and better workflows. Those are worthwhile skills, but every new model makes execution easier and answers more accessible. If that's where the world is headed, then execution itself starts becoming abundant. The scarce resource shifts to everything that happens before the prompt – the observation that won't leave you alone, the question nobody assigned you, the conversation that changes how you see a problem, and the judgment to know what's actually worth exploring.

AI can help you explore those ideas faster than ever before.

It can't decide which ones matter.

I don't think AI is going to create a divide between people who use it and people who don't. We'll all use it. I think the more interesting divide will be between people who've spent years strengthening their judgment, curiosity, and sense of direction, and people who've spent years reacting to whatever appeared in front of them. AI amplifies both. It gives everyone leverage, but leverage has never been the hard part.

As execution becomes abundant, direction becomes scarce.

The people who create disproportionate value over the next decade won't just be the people who know how to use AI. They'll be the people who know where to point it. They'll have spent years developing an internal compass – the ability to recognize a question worth pursuing, to notice something other people overlooked, or to trust their own curiosity enough to follow it. AI doesn't replace those qualities. It increases the return on them.

Ironically, buying a little piece of plastic that now lives on my fridge didn't make me less interested in technology.

It just reminded me that the most valuable thing I bring to AI isn't a better prompt.

It's knowing why I opened it in the first place.