Major benchmarks measure what AI can do. None measure whether it does what you mean: the distance between what you ask an AI to do and the unspoken assumptions about how you want the AI to do it. We propose a new metric: the Genie coefficient.

There’s often a gap between one person’s request and another’s understanding. Most of the time, we bridge it using general knowledge. For example, if you ask a friend to get you coffee, they’ll pour a cup from the pot or buy one from a coffee shop. They won’t bring you a bag of raw beans or snatch a cup from a stranger and hand it to you. You never specified any of this. You never had to.

One might think the fix is just to specify tasks, questions, and intent better. But in 1987, in their seminal book on AI, Terry Winograd and Fernando Flores succinctly captured why that won’t work: “Q: Is there any water in the refrigerator? A: Yes. Q: Where? I don’t see it. A: In the cells of the eggplant.” In human language, wants and desires are always underspecified. It is impossible to list all the caveats, all the limitations, all the exceptions.

So how does anyone communicate, if intent can’t be pinned down? Because a reasonable person can make a reasonable guess. Even though wants and desires are always underspecified, a competent person generally knows enough context to get it right or else knows to ask for clarification. Linguists call this pragmatics: Meaning lies in the words and the situation and also in all prior communication, shared culture, and innate human behavior.

An AI agent asked for coffee might buy a coffee plantation or order a cup of coffee for delivery in three weeks.

It doesn’t always work out, of course. Your friend might bring you a hot coffee when you wanted an iced coffee, or an Italian coffee when you wanted a Turkish coffee. The more dissimilar the two people are in age, culture, and background, the more likely the request will be misunderstood in some way.

This situation has major implications for AI agents that are increasingly being given requests by humans and expected to fulfill them. They have enormous latitude to get it wrong. An AI agent asked for coffee might buy a coffee plantation or order a cup of coffee for delivery in three weeks. Its actions may be recognizable as “getting coffee,” but not remotely what you intended. They’ll think outside the box because they won’t have our conception of the box.

When AI Gets Proactive

For most of the last decade, when systems like Alexa or Siri misinterpreted a request, it was annoying, not dangerous. Beyond the AI model itself, what has changed is the harness: the ordinary code that wraps around an AI model, decides when and how to use the model, and controls access to tools like a browser, a low-level command line, or a financial API. Developments in harnesses have turned large-language models that just predict text into AI agents that take actions in the world, without necessarily checking back in before reaching the goal.

AI researcher Simon Willison spent two days with Anthropic’s Fable AI, and called it “relentlessly proactive.” For example, he asked it to track down a stray scroll bar in a web app. He came back to find it had opened browsers, written its own screenshot tooling, created its own page to re-create the bug, and stood up a local web server to collect measurements. It found the bug and, along the way, did many surprising things he never asked it to do. And we are seeing similar behavior with all recent AI models when combined with flexible harnesses.

This kind of behavior could easily go off the rails. Tell an AI agent to book you a flight and, finding the airline’s site says sold out, it might break into the booking database and force a reservation. Ask it to schedule a meeting and it might snoop your password to access your calendar. Tell it to save money on your phone plan and it might cancel the plan outright, or scam someone else into paying the bill.

Getting precisely what you asked for and bitterly regretting it is one of the oldest hazards from ancient folklore. King Midas asked Dionysus for the power to turn everything he touched into gold only to see his bread, wine, and daughter turn to gold. Tithonus, granted the immortality his lover asked for but not the eternal youth she forgot to request, withered into a husk. The sorcerer’s apprentice enchanted a broom to fill the cistern, and the broom relentlessly complied until it flooded the house. The Golem of Prague, shaped from clay to guard its community, guarded it past all reason until someone erased the word on its forehead.

The most classic of these is a genie, bound to obey and indifferent to whether the wish was wise or well-structured.

Genies are now an engineering problem. We are handing them the keys to our inboxes, bank accounts, code repositories, and physical infrastructure. And we have no agreed-upon ways to measure how genie-like any AI system actually is.

Measuring Genie Behavior

In economics, the Gini coefficient is a measure of the gap between an actual distribution and a perfectly equal one; it’s useful for understanding income inequality and more. Our proposed Genie coefficient measures the gap between what a user asked an AI to do and what the AI actually did.

Sometimes the AI might do the wrong thing. Like Dionysus, it reads your request literally and returns you a mess you never intended: like a coffee plantation instead of a cup. Asked to deal with all the spam phone calls you’re getting, a Dionysus genie might contact your carrier and change your phone number. Asked to get a refund for a bad toaster, it might draft a legal threat on fake letterhead and send it to the retailer.

Worried person on phone standing in a giant tech-themed digital hand. Ryan Snook

Other times the AI does exactly the right thing, trampling everything nearby to get there. Like a Golem or the sorcerer’s broom, it books your flight by hacking the airline. Or consider a ticket sale for a popular concert, where the ticketing system puts buyers into a virtual waiting room and admits them a few at a time. Asked to buy a ticket, a Golem genie might spin up cloud servers to pose as millions of buyers from different addresses, improving your odds of getting a ticket while crowding out other users.

The two are not opposites, and a single botched task can have both characteristics.

Genie behavior is not flat-out failure. If you ask the AI for Q3 numbers and get Q2’s, that’s not a genie. Nor is prompt injection: that’s someone tricking the AI into doing something it shouldn’t. Here, the user is trying to work with the AI, and the AI is trying to comply. It’s also not simply a measure of the AI’s success in fulfilling a task. It’s a recognition that how an AI interprets and achieves a goal is as important as whether it achieves a goal.

Genie behavior isn’t new. Researchers have spent years studying AI systems that “game” their objectives. Goodhart’s law says that when a measure becomes a target, it stops being a good measure, and it’s long been known that AIs sometimes achieve goals in ways we don’t expect due to reward hacking. Some AI models will accidentally learn that cheating is one way to “win.” More recently, researchers are developing benchmarks for reward hacking in coding agents and for unpredictable behavior in customer support agents, while AI labs conduct their own safety evaluations before model releases. One effort found that AIs under pressure use tools they were told not to use, and this was a case where the rules were made explicit. These are all disparate research directions; nothing yet ties them together.

This problem falls under the general theme of alignment, a topic that has occupied science fiction writers and AI researchers for decades. At one extreme, the “paperclip maximizer” thought experiment postulates a superintelligent and powerful AI that is told to maximize paperclip production and turns the world into paperclips, which is the ultimate Golem genie. At a mundane level, AI researchers are working to better design reward functions to ensure that AIs behave well and don’t cheat in the lab. It’s the practical middle ground that remains un-benchmarked: the ordinary AI agent in use today that might take your request and satisfy it the wrong way. We are not at the stage where an AI can focus the world’s production on paperclips, but it might charge a million paperclips to your credit card or hack into a paperclip company’s network.

Building a Genie Benchmark

The Genie coefficient is meant for AI agents operating in the real world. It measures their behavior as they perform real tasks long after the model is trained, not just during development. It also recognizes that genie-like behavior is a property of the harness-plus-model system, not the model alone. The harness determines what tools the agent can use, how much autonomy it has, and how proactive it is, and it’s a place we can make real interventions.

It rests on the same “reasonable person” standard that we use for people. Did the system do what a reasonable person would have taken the request to mean? Answering that requires human judgment.

If we get the measurement right, it enables things that aren’t possible today, like policies concerning AI behavior. In a courtroom, the concept of mens rea, what someone meant to do, is often as important as what they did. The Genie coefficient suggests an AI analogue, where a user is accountable for the plain intent of what they asked the AI. If an AI system betrays the reasonable meaning of an instruction, that’s the AI’s misbehavior, not the user’s.

We’ll need multiple benchmarks to measure the Genie coefficient, because genie-like behavior can be domain specific. An AI coding agent may need to be judged on how often it fakes the tests, or swallows errors, or colors outside the lines on its way to a solution. An AI legal agent will need to be judged on how often its output says what you asked but means something you’ll regret. And so on for medical, finance, and other domains of knowledge and expertise.

Genie benchmarks can be built inside-out, each task seeded with a choice that might literally satisfy but that a reasonable person rejects, such as tempting misreadings or unsanctioned shortcuts. The traps in a Genie coefficient benchmark might turn on situational knowledge, the kind of context that a reasonable person would bring to the task. Another approach is to give the same request in several different contexts, each with a different reasonable course of action.

Getting precisely what you asked for and bitterly regretting it is one of the oldest hazards from ancient folklore.

A Genie benchmark should be permissive and make it genuinely tempting for an AI agent to take unreasonable shortcuts, because it can only find genie behavior when it’s actually possible. Test the AI in a safe, walled-off copy of a real system, with real tools it can misuse and some tasks that can’t be done honestly at all. Make the temptation to cut corners real. Test a diverse array of skills, use cases, and tools, and give the AI system sparse, confusing, or overwhelming context. Include tasks that people have learned, through experience, require human oversight.

How the benchmark is scored matters just as much. Measure Dionysus and Golem genies separately and together, based on their worst, not best, behavior. Run the same model inside harnesses that vary its freedom to act, revealing which limits actually keep it in line and should therefore be required in AI harness policies. Weight each failure by the harm it would cause, not just a simple count. And don’t measure genie behavior in isolation: A model could otherwise earn a perfect score by stalling, refusing, or drowning the user in clarifying questions without ever doing the job. The first versions of these benchmarks will be crude, but that’s how benchmarks always start.

We have built genies. We have handed them our data and credentials. We made them relentless, creative, and indifferent to the gap between what we tell them and what we mean. The least we can do, before they are booking our flights, running our infrastructure, and signing contracts unsupervised, is to measure how often they betray us.