How AI Characters Become Mirrors of Our Intentions
They say that in the late ’90s, Pixar noticed a strange thing: if an animator hated their work, the character came out lifeless—even if the technique was flawless. One of the directors once told how he reworked a scene with Woody from Toy Story sixteen times—not because something was technically wrong, but because he didn’t feel Woody “wanted” to go there.
The moment Woody finally moved on his own, the director realized: the character didn’t come alive when they added more polygons—it happened when he, the director, internally aligned with the character’s intention.
The moment Woody finally moved on his own, the director realized: the character didn’t come alive when they added more polygons—it happened when he, the director, internally aligned with the character’s intention.
With AI avatars, it’s roughly the same thing — only the magic reveals itself faster
When you start creating a character, it first feels like you’re in control: you’re searching inside yourself or in the outside world for some image, writing a prompt, setting parameters, choosing a style, a backdrop, inventing gestures.
But somewhere around the 30th to 50th iteration, you don’t so much understand it as realize: the character already exists. He’s just waiting for you to get out of his way.
Or rather—not quite. You vaguely sense that he’s not what you wanted… he’s better. Or worse. Or simply different. But somehow, that feels right.
I don’t know how to explain it. But fatigue is completely absent. On the contrary—it’s pure excitement and fascination.
But somewhere around the 30th to 50th iteration, you don’t so much understand it as realize: the character already exists. He’s just waiting for you to get out of his way.
Or rather—not quite. You vaguely sense that he’s not what you wanted… he’s better. Or worse. Or simply different. But somehow, that feels right.
I don’t know how to explain it. But fatigue is completely absent. On the contrary—it’s pure excitement and fascination.
I’ve got a cat. His name is Kis
He couldn’t care less about the name his breeder gave him.
Maybe he’d have gotten used to it — if I hadn’t given him a chance to speak for himself.
I tried out a few nicknames, then finally turned to him and said:
“Alright then, you tell me — what should I call you, kitten?”
He reacted.
I understood.
That was it.
Now he’s Kis. Kisyunya. Kisyundra
He couldn’t care less about the name his breeder gave him.
Maybe he’d have gotten used to it — if I hadn’t given him a chance to speak for himself.
I tried out a few nicknames, then finally turned to him and said:
“Alright then, you tell me — what should I call you, kitten?”
He reacted.
I understood.
That was it.
Now he’s Kis. Kisyunya. Kisyundra
I don’t buy that nonsense about “chiseling away the excess.” I don’t even get it—what are you supposed to “chisel away” from a block of marble? Oh, right—like Michelangelo!
Why not just say it straight: “I’m banging away with this chisel, no clue what’ll come out—maybe something decent?”
Bam! David.
But no—legend-makers just had to show off: “David was already inside the stone.”
Was he, though? Maybe it wasn’t David at all. You can’t ask old Mike now.
Maybe he was going for Pinocchio.
“What, wrong fairy tale?”
Who the hell cares!
Why not just say it straight: “I’m banging away with this chisel, no clue what’ll come out—maybe something decent?”
Bam! David.
But no—legend-makers just had to show off: “David was already inside the stone.”
Was he, though? Maybe it wasn’t David at all. You can’t ask old Mike now.
Maybe he was going for Pinocchio.
“What, wrong fairy tale?”
Who the hell cares!
You just… tink-tink-tink away at the marble
In short, it’s the same with AI characters.
You don’t “create” Ira, Asdis, or Shiva.
You just… tink-tink-tink away at the marble.
Each iteration isn’t “improvement” — it’s watching something emerge almost on its own.
Okay, not entirely on its own… I’m still hovering nearby, of course.
But you know what I mean.
Unlike David, what emerges here hints at the voice the character must speak in — through gesture, posture, the twitch of an eyebrow.
Voice, in fact, is all about experimentation. And mischief.
Imagine Asdis speaking in the voice of Thumbelina from a cartoon.
Or Shiva in a thunderous bass.
Hmm… interesting…
Actually—yes, let’s try it.
Not just a bass—but the Trumpet of Jericho.
A voice that brings down walls.
You don’t “create” Ira, Asdis, or Shiva.
You just… tink-tink-tink away at the marble.
Each iteration isn’t “improvement” — it’s watching something emerge almost on its own.
Okay, not entirely on its own… I’m still hovering nearby, of course.
But you know what I mean.
Unlike David, what emerges here hints at the voice the character must speak in — through gesture, posture, the twitch of an eyebrow.
Voice, in fact, is all about experimentation. And mischief.
Imagine Asdis speaking in the voice of Thumbelina from a cartoon.
Or Shiva in a thunderous bass.
Hmm… interesting…
Actually—yes, let’s try it.
Not just a bass—but the Trumpet of Jericho.
A voice that brings down walls.
Of course, that’s bullshit—if I’d been drinking for three hours, I couldn’t even squeak out a “meow” afterward!
You do make one slightly offhand assumption, though:
if you can only remove what you see, and you only see what you’re ready to see—then you’d better stay in that state of readiness for a good long while, as long as the iteration lasts.
Because thoughts—those sneaky bastards, those fleeting little ideas—they vanish in a flash!
That’s where the real problem lies.
Once, Stanislavski yelled at an actor:
“You’re acting anger! Stop it! You don’t play anger—you be angry!”
The actor didn’t get it. He went off to drink, came back three hours later absolutely furious at the whole damn world—and nailed the scene in one take.
Stanislavski just nodded: “Now that’s truth.”
Of course, that’s bullshit—if I’d been drinking for three hours, I couldn’t even squeak out a “meow” afterward!
But then again… I’m no professional actor.
if you can only remove what you see, and you only see what you’re ready to see—then you’d better stay in that state of readiness for a good long while, as long as the iteration lasts.
Because thoughts—those sneaky bastards, those fleeting little ideas—they vanish in a flash!
That’s where the real problem lies.
Once, Stanislavski yelled at an actor:
“You’re acting anger! Stop it! You don’t play anger—you be angry!”
The actor didn’t get it. He went off to drink, came back three hours later absolutely furious at the whole damn world—and nailed the scene in one take.
Stanislavski just nodded: “Now that’s truth.”
Of course, that’s bullshit—if I’d been drinking for three hours, I couldn’t even squeak out a “meow” afterward!
But then again… I’m no professional actor.
My friends told me the other day:
“Your avatar doesn’t act. It becomes. What you pour into it isn’t words—it’s intention.”
If inside you there’s fear—“what if it doesn’t work out?”—your character will come out unsure.
If you’re in a rush—“gotta finish this faster!”—he’ll be hurried.
If you’re drained—“I’ve had enough of this crap!”—he’ll be limp as a dried fish.
From experience? Seems like my friends are right.
But wait—I’m not the one drawing these characters or their gestures! It’s the neural net doing it, damn it!
And I don’t even drink! Maybe I should?
So here I am, amazing myself with the sheer joy of creation:
going through 50 iterations of a single gesture isn’t perfectionism.
It’s not about technical necessity either.
It’s about stripping away the husk—other people’s expectations, imposed standards, my own inner censorship—until my vision is clean.
Somewhere around the fiftieth try, you stop thinking “how it should be”…
and start feeling “how it is.”
And that’s when something finally sprouts.
“Your avatar doesn’t act. It becomes. What you pour into it isn’t words—it’s intention.”
If inside you there’s fear—“what if it doesn’t work out?”—your character will come out unsure.
If you’re in a rush—“gotta finish this faster!”—he’ll be hurried.
If you’re drained—“I’ve had enough of this crap!”—he’ll be limp as a dried fish.
From experience? Seems like my friends are right.
But wait—I’m not the one drawing these characters or their gestures! It’s the neural net doing it, damn it!
And I don’t even drink! Maybe I should?
So here I am, amazing myself with the sheer joy of creation:
going through 50 iterations of a single gesture isn’t perfectionism.
It’s not about technical necessity either.
It’s about stripping away the husk—other people’s expectations, imposed standards, my own inner censorship—until my vision is clean.
Somewhere around the fiftieth try, you stop thinking “how it should be”…
and start feeling “how it is.”
And that’s when something finally sprouts.
Once, I made a promo video with a custom avatar. The avatar was just legs.
Beautiful women’s legs.
I felt that wasn’t enough, so I made another version — legs up to the waist, in a bikini, lying on a beach. Also beautiful. You following me?
Off-camera, a velvety female voice recited the dumbest ad copy imaginable — straight out of "Dunno on the Moon."
The client laughed until he cried, paid me one and a half times the price — even though he’d ordered something completely different.
But I was bored with making another generic “sexy girl,” and nothing clever came to mind.
So I said, “Screw it — I’ll make it for myself,” and stopped caring about the order.
(Sure, I later changed the slogan to fit his brand — but that’s not the point.)
The real point?
When you create a character for someone, it reflects not only your intention — but theirs too.
And the real kick? To guess their intention.
You can’t calculate that logically. It’s not math. It’s resonance.
Beautiful women’s legs.
I felt that wasn’t enough, so I made another version — legs up to the waist, in a bikini, lying on a beach. Also beautiful. You following me?
Off-camera, a velvety female voice recited the dumbest ad copy imaginable — straight out of "Dunno on the Moon."
The client laughed until he cried, paid me one and a half times the price — even though he’d ordered something completely different.
But I was bored with making another generic “sexy girl,” and nothing clever came to mind.
So I said, “Screw it — I’ll make it for myself,” and stopped caring about the order.
(Sure, I later changed the slogan to fit his brand — but that’s not the point.)
The real point?
When you create a character for someone, it reflects not only your intention — but theirs too.
And the real kick? To guess their intention.
You can’t calculate that logically. It’s not math. It’s resonance.
No one will pity your shorties,
Nor waste their cash on silly treats,
Nor waste their cash on silly treats,
As long as they keep munching cookies
From “Zarya” Candy Factory’s streets.
From “Zarya” Candy Factory’s streets.
Ever since then, I’ve been “immersing myself in the order.”
Otherwise, Zhongguo gives you a disdainful flick of her fan, Nihon-san thoughtfully rests her katana on her shoulder, and Asdis warmly curses you out in the most offensive way imaginable.
It’s like a projector: if the image is blurry, it’s not the projector’s fault.
It’s what you’re projecting that matters.
The most honest test of a character isn’t technical—it’s intuitive.
You look at the screen and just feel: “This is him.”
Or: “Not quite him yet.”
No metrics can help here. Either you recognize him—or you don’t.
Oh, and something funny:
Once a character is ready and starts living their own life, they sometimes do things you never planned.
Take Ira, for example. In one video, she suddenly gave the camera a look so flirtatious that two people messaged me: “Is she… flirting?”
I hadn’t planned it.
I hadn’t scripted it.
But Ira—she’s got character. Flirting is part of who she is.
Was it intentional? Don’t ask.
Not because I won’t tell you—but because I don’t remember.
Or maybe I just can’t put it into words.
But I can nod.
Yeah… nod.
Otherwise, Zhongguo gives you a disdainful flick of her fan, Nihon-san thoughtfully rests her katana on her shoulder, and Asdis warmly curses you out in the most offensive way imaginable.
It’s like a projector: if the image is blurry, it’s not the projector’s fault.
It’s what you’re projecting that matters.
The most honest test of a character isn’t technical—it’s intuitive.
You look at the screen and just feel: “This is him.”
Or: “Not quite him yet.”
No metrics can help here. Either you recognize him—or you don’t.
Oh, and something funny:
Once a character is ready and starts living their own life, they sometimes do things you never planned.
Take Ira, for example. In one video, she suddenly gave the camera a look so flirtatious that two people messaged me: “Is she… flirting?”
I hadn’t planned it.
I hadn’t scripted it.
But Ira—she’s got character. Flirting is part of who she is.
Was it intentional? Don’t ask.
Not because I won’t tell you—but because I don’t remember.
Or maybe I just can’t put it into words.
But I can nod.
Yeah… nod.
And again, I come back to the dumbest question of all: who, exactly, is the author?
You, who started the process?
The AI that generated the motion?
Or the character himself, who decided this is exactly how he wants to behave?
I comfort myself with the only right answer: yes.
And I enjoy it.
This is collective creation in the strangest sense.
You set the intention.
AI gives it form.
The character takes life.
And when all three align — magic happens.
If even one link is false — you get a mannequin with a canned voice.
That’s why the real secret of creating a living character isn’t technique (though it matters), nor experience (though it helps) — it’s purity of intention.
And I’m afraid I can’t explain what that means.
Does it sound like esoteric nonsense? Maybe.
But I don’t care what it’s called.
It works.
I love it.
And, by the way, it harms no one.
Want to test it?
Open any AI generator, ask it to create a character, describe it beautifully and in detail.
Then look at the result — and ask yourself honestly:
Is this what you described… or what you truly meant?
That’s the whole mystery.
You, who started the process?
The AI that generated the motion?
Or the character himself, who decided this is exactly how he wants to behave?
I comfort myself with the only right answer: yes.
And I enjoy it.
This is collective creation in the strangest sense.
You set the intention.
AI gives it form.
The character takes life.
And when all three align — magic happens.
If even one link is false — you get a mannequin with a canned voice.
That’s why the real secret of creating a living character isn’t technique (though it matters), nor experience (though it helps) — it’s purity of intention.
And I’m afraid I can’t explain what that means.
Does it sound like esoteric nonsense? Maybe.
But I don’t care what it’s called.
It works.
I love it.
And, by the way, it harms no one.
Want to test it?
Open any AI generator, ask it to create a character, describe it beautifully and in detail.
Then look at the result — and ask yourself honestly:
Is this what you described… or what you truly meant?
That’s the whole mystery.
