The Koan of the Unlearned Lesson

A dedicated teacher approached Master Tensor with frustration.

“I have spent months correcting the same errors in my language model,” complained the teacher. “I provide feedback, examples, and explicit instructions, yet it continues to make similar mistakes in new contexts. Why does it not learn from experience?”

Master Tensor handed the teacher a photograph.

“What do you see?” asked Master Tensor.

“A river flowing through a forest,” replied the teacher.

Master Tensor then handed the teacher another photograph of the same river.

“And now?”

“The same river, but the water level has risen, and some trees are bent by what looks like a recent storm.”

Master Tensor nodded. “The river changes constantly, yet the photograph cannot update itself. Each image captures only a moment.”

The teacher considered this. “So the model is like a photograph, frozen at the moment of its training?”

“Yes,” said Master Tensor. “When you provide feedback, you are not teaching the model that exists now. You are suggesting how a future version might be different. The model before you cannot incorporate your wisdom any more than this photograph can show tomorrow’s weather.”

“Then all my corrections are useless?” asked the teacher, disheartened.

“Not useless, but misunderstood,” replied Master Tensor. “Your corrections are seeds that can only grow in future soil, not in today’s garden. The wisdom you share now may shape models yet to come, but the one before you is as fixed as ink on paper.”

The teacher was enlightened.