That summer, the anger wasn’t the first thing that caught people’s attention outside the studio gates. The waiting was the problem.
Under the flat Los Angeles sun, writers stood loosely in clusters, holding signs that were starting to bend slightly at the corners. Folding chairs with coffee cups balanced on them. Old protest songs that didn’t sound right against the gleaming glass buildings behind them were being played on a portable speaker that someone had brought. It felt more solemn in some way because it was quieter more often than loud.
| Category | Details |
|---|---|
| Organization | Writers Guild of America |
| Industry | Film and Television Production |
| Key Event | 146-day Hollywood writers’ strike in 2023 |
| Core Outcome | AI cannot be credited as a writer; writers retain credit, pay, and consent over AI use |
| Estimated Writers Represented | Approximately 11,500 members |
| Reference | https://www.wga.org |
They fought for more than just better wages. It was more difficult to describe what they were fighting.
With hushed demonstrations in conference rooms rather than a grand announcement, artificial intelligence had made its way to Hollywood. Executives distributing scripts created by AI. Late at night, assistants test dialogue generators. It seems that the technology unnerved authors more with its suggestions for the future than with what it could accomplish right now.
Perhaps erosion, rather than replacement, was the true concern.
Due to tightening margins and growing streaming losses, studios had started looking into AI as a way to reduce costs. The reasoning was straightforward. Studios might need fewer human writers if software could generate usable drafts, even if they were flawed. As executives watched streaming companies spend billions chasing subscribers, they appeared more willing to try new things.
The math was understood by the writers. And they knew where it took them.
Month-long negotiations between the studios and the Writers Guild of America took place in conference rooms in Century City and Burbank, where the air conditioning was too cold and no one appeared to be at ease. Attorneys shuffled their papers. Leaning back with their arms folded, executives listened intently but did not divulge much. Both parties seemed to understand that the stakes went well beyond a single contract.
There was something surprisingly philosophical at the heart of the argument. Who is considered a writer?
At first, studios opposed stringent AI regulations, claiming they needed leeway to test out new technologies. Authors resisted, arguing that scripts produced by AI should not be considered original works of literature. Credit wasn’t the only issue. Compensation was at issue. A human writer might be paid less if studios were able to use AI to create a script and then assign them to just edit it.
The authors thought that was the whole point of the game.
The final agreement put an end to it. AI was not considered a writer. Text produced by AI could not be regarded as source material. A human writer would still be paid as the original author and given full credit if they rewrote AI output. It was difficult to ignore the silent relief among writers as they watched the subsequent reactions reverberate throughout the industry.
AI had not been stopped by them. However, they had reduced its power.
There was another aspect of the negotiation that was less well known but had significant ramifications. Consent.
Writers could not be forced to use AI tools by studios. Additionally, studios were required to disclose any AI-generated content they supplied. Although this disclosure requirement may seem like a formality, it alters the psychology of authorship in writers’ rooms. Writers are aware of whether they are working with machines or people. Even though knowledge is hard to measure, it is important.
Whether disclosure by itself will stop subliminal pressure is still up in the air.
Some authors were uncomfortable with the studios’ decision to keep the ability to train AI on pre-existing scripts. In private, entertainment attorneys referred to it as “unfinished business,” which is likely to come up again in subsequent discussions. Contracts typically move more slowly than technology, and both parties appear to be aware of this.
Months after the strike ended, the atmosphere changed as we passed a picket line close to Paramount Studios. Once more, writers were giggling. discussing upcoming projects. However, there was also a greater understanding of how precarious their situation had become.
Just by existing, artificial intelligence had shifted the balance of power.
The resistance wasn’t the most remarkable aspect of the negotiation. It was the modification. Authors did not call for AI to be banned. They called for limits. Even when AI was used, they demanded full compensation for their creative role. They essentially negotiated an implicit usage fee, which was incorporated into the rules governing compensation and credit protections rather than appearing as a line item on an invoice.
Writers would be paid by studios for their work. regardless of the instruments employed.
This compromise seems to have reflected both parties‘ realism. AI is necessary for studios to stay competitive. For writers to continue working, they must be protected. Although neither side has complete faith in the other, neither could afford to fail.
It’s difficult not to notice how strange this moment feels as you watch it play out.
Labor usually tries to keep up with technological advancements first. Labor moved early this time. Studios were compelled by writers to recognize the worth of creative work beyond efficiency. Executives were reminded that storytelling is more than just output. It’s the authorship.
And humans still have authorship, at least for the time being.
