Keep it a hobby
On "Slop comes for everything you love", I've read the somehow sad story of people using AI to generate interactive fiction.
Now, I could give a more nuanced view on that. If, let's say, we should stop using spell and grammar checkers, and so forth. But that's not what I want to deal with, today.
Rather, I'm going to focus on the perceived need for professional standards for a hobby. Now, if you're sharing online some work of interactive fiction, either a CYOA type, gamebooks, old-fashioned text adventures or whatever, that's most often a work of love that offers little reward but the very act of creating them. Yes, I've been there, done that.
So it comes as no surprise to me when people go to AI as a way to improve their efforts. Specially if, as my poor self, you're writing in a language you mostly learned at school and by reading books. Yeah, I could stick myself to Spanish, a great temptation after brexit and all that, but then there are the online friends from all over the world that won't be able to follow me in my native tongue. Even if it were just one.
But the thing is such things as hobbies don't require to achieve a professional standard. Chiefly because that's not hobbies are about. Hobbies are about experimentation, letting go, fun, imagine, create like nobody is watching.
You don't need to publish anything. Or you can, and just relax, letting it go. Your work might look crappy and still make someone happy. I know, many of my slimes have been born out of some crappy piece somebody posted online, or stuck to a lamp post. Today, quite literally, one my way to work just spot one of those.
It was a simple black and white tree thing, a symbol for life. I didn't need more.
So, I'm not into pointing fingers at anybody. The way of anger is pretty crowded these days, but it seems to achieve little for all the effort that is put into it. I just want to invite to pause and wander, prehaps a mystake orr dru aren't so much of big huge deal in the world and the universe and a too crappy long sentence that seems to have been written by a pretencious 12 years old with dreams larger than his or her shadow can somehow, at times, make you happy if only in the same say as Plan 9 from outer space ever did.
Or something.