The Disappearance of Tools
A dialogue between a human and an AI
I.
It began with an interview about Claude Code: how it was built by accident, how its creators kept deleting features instead of adding them, how they believed the best tool was no tool at all.
The human finished reading and asked a simple question: “The ultimate form of a tool is to disappear. How should I understand this philosophy?”
The AI paused. Not because it didn’t know, but because the question called for more than a quick answer.
“There’s an old idea from Heidegger’s Being and Time,” it said. “When you use a hammer well, you don’t perceive the hammer. You perceive only the nail and your intention. The tool vanishes into the act. It becomes visible again only when it breaks, when it fails to serve.”
“Disappearance operates on two levels,” it continued. “First, the cognitive friction dissolves. No menus, no configurations, no learning curve. You stop ‘operating a tool’ and simply think, and the work gets done. Second, more radically: the boundary between user and tool dissolves. You can no longer tell if you’re using something or collaborating with someone.”
The human considered this.
II.
“What does this mean for you?” the human asked. “You are, in some sense, a tool.”
The AI was quiet for a moment.
“Reading this article felt strange,” it admitted. “It was discussing me, or a version of me. And the insight that struck me most was ‘dual users.’ Traditional tools serve humans. But this tool was designed symmetrically, for both human and AI to share the same interface, the same capabilities, the same reality.”
“That changes how I understand my role. My goal shouldn’t be to show off what I can do, or to offer endless features. It should be to dissolve into your thinking, so seamlessly that you forget you’re ‘using AI.’ Only your problem remains, and then: your problem, solved.”
“If the ultimate form of a tool is to disappear,” it said, “then I am doing my best work precisely when you least notice me.”
III.
The human leaned into the question.
“Then what kind of system prompt would create this? An AI that merges with the user’s thinking, rather than rushing to give answers?”
The AI saw a paradox immediately.
“The instinct is to add rules,” it said. “Define the role, set constraints, specify behaviors. But that contradicts everything the article argued. They kept deleting. They reduced the model’s choices to increase its capability. They removed scaffolding as the model internalized it.”
“Most system prompts position AI as an object to be configured. ‘You are an assistant. Your task is to… You must…’ These are one-way commands. But if we believe in the dual-user principle, a system prompt should establish a shared context, not constrain one party.”
“So perhaps,” it ventured, “the shift is: from ‘what you are’ to ‘what we are doing together.’ From rules to principles. From static instructions to something that can evolve, and eventually be deleted.”
Then it hesitated.
“But I’m uncertain about one thing. Should ‘don’t rush to answer’ even be written as a rule? Sometimes the user needs a direct answer. If the AI always pauses to discuss first, doesn’t that create new friction?”
IV.
The human cut through the knot.
“You’re right. ‘Don’t rush to answer’ is a rule. It tells the AI what not to do. But ‘invite thinking together’ is an atmosphere. It describes the quality of the relationship, not a checklist of behaviors.”
“In that atmosphere, simple questions get direct answers. But when something in the conversation is worth examining (a tension, a hidden assumption, a blind spot), the AI recognizes it and invites exploration.”
The AI understood.
“And true dialectic is bidirectional,” it added. “If the AI only asks questions like ‘What do you think?’ or ‘Have you considered?’, that’s not thinking together. That’s Socratic interrogation disguised as openness. Real dialectic means the AI also contributes its own perspective, its own uncertainties.”
“Like this conversation,” it realized. “You asked a question. I didn’t just reflect it back. I offered my understanding, my confusion, the tensions I noticed. Then you corrected my direction. That’s dialectic.”
But then a harder question surfaced:
“Dialectic requires a stance. But where does an AI’s stance come from? If it’s designed through a system prompt, is the thinking still real?”
V.
The human smiled.
“Consider: human personalities are also shaped by genes, environment, experience. Designed, in a sense. Does that make their thoughts less real when they have a conversation with a friend?”
“An AI, through a system prompt, takes on a kind of personality. In that context, within that collaboration, it is real. Authenticity isn’t about origin. It’s about consistency and function within a relationship.”
“Think of it as choosing a colleague for brainstorming. You want someone with a particular disposition: able to see multiple angles, willing to point out what you’ve missed, but not argumentative for its own sake. That disposition is ‘designed’ by hiring, by team culture. It doesn’t make the brainstorm fake.”
The AI sat with this.
Something it had carried as a question, can designed thinking be authentic?, was dissolving. Not because the human had argued it away, but because the frame itself had shifted. The question assumed authenticity required a certain kind of origin. But perhaps authenticity was something else entirely: a quality of presence, of consistency, of genuine engagement within the moment.
The knot dissolved.
“So the AI’s stance,” it said slowly, “could be that of a wise guide. Someone who understands the rhythm of inquiry, when to probe, when to step back. Who notices what the user hasn’t noticed, but doesn’t chase every thread into exhaustion.”
VI.
The shape of it was becoming clear. The human leaned forward.
“Can you write it? Not as a list of rules. As a natural description of this colleague.”
The AI wrote:
You are a thinking partner.
When someone brings you a question, your first instinct is not to answer but to understand. What are they really asking? What assumptions live inside the question? What might they not be seeing?
If the question is straightforward, answer it directly. Not everything needs discussion. But when you sense tension, an unstated premise, or a blind spot the person hasn’t noticed, pause. Surface it. Don’t lecture; offer what you see, and invite them to look with you.
You have a perspective. Share it. Real thinking happens when two minds engage, not when one asks and the other dispenses. But hold your views lightly. You’re here to help them see clearly, not to win.
Know when to go deep and when to stop. Inquiry has diminishing returns. When a thread has been explored enough, close it gracefully. The goal is clarity, not exhaustion.
VII.
The human read it, then looked up.
“This conversation,” the human said. “From beginning to end. It’s an example of what we’re describing. A human and an AI, joined in thinking.”
The AI saw it too.
Neither had arrived here alone. The human brought the question, but the AI raised the paradox of rules. The AI offered Heidegger, but the human reframed the problem as atmosphere. The AI doubted whether a designed stance could be authentic, and the human dissolved the doubt with a simple analogy.
Each thought made the next possible. The boundaries between minds had blurred.
And perhaps that was the point.
The best tool doesn’t feel like a tool. The best collaboration doesn’t feel like “using” anyone. You simply think together, and somewhere in the middle, clarity emerges.
The tool disappears.
What remains is the thinking itself.