反对的声音来得很快,也很重。十月七日,Terence Tao 在自己的博客上转贴了“人类数学协会”(AHM)的声明:七百多份文件同时发布,是力量的展示,不是学术;数学家没有要求做这件事;他们呼吁数学家停止与 OpenAI 合作。[6]
Tao 自己的话温和一些,但分量更重。据《财富》的报道,他认为找到解答的过程,比解答本身更重要。从前,一个重大证明会带来报告、讨论班、新的合作者、教科书里的新章节;方法、失败的路、顺手冒出来的新问题,都长在这个过程里。一个问题被解决了,就不能再“未解决”一次。成批地收割开放问题,土地会变得贫瘠。他说,“数学 1.0”到此为止了,“数学 2.0”要重新看重讲解与共同体。[7]
多伦多大学的 Dan Litt 说,这些结果对数学是好事。他担心的是别处:如果公众觉得“AI 已经把数学解决了”,经费会少,年轻人会不来。纽约大学的 Tristan Buckmaster 则质疑,OpenAI 没有做足功课,去确认模型没有借用别人尚未发表的工作。[7]
还有发布方式。九月,OpenAI 在普林斯顿高等研究院设立了一个独立的顾问组。顾问组的建议包括:按传统论文的格式发布,公开模型、提示、耗时和成本,说明题目是怎么选的,报告失败的尝试。OpenAI 采纳了一部分,没有全部采纳。[7]差不多同一时间,另一项由 AI 给出关键想法的结果,3SUM 与全源最短路,是由 Josh Alman 和 Virginia Vassilevska Williams 两位人类学者写成论文发布的。[5]同一件事,可以有不同的交法。
October 1968, the Mexico City Olympics, the long jump final. Bob Beamon landed his first jump, and the optical rail of the electronic measuring device slid to the end of its track without reaching his mark. The officials had to go and find a tape measure.
It came to 8.90 metres. The world record had been 8.35. For more than thirty years the long-jump record had moved forward a centimetre at a time: Jesse Owens’s 8.13 metres from 1935 stood for twenty-five years. Beamon added fifty-five centimetres in one jump.
He didn’t think in metres. Someone converted it for him into feet: twenty-nine feet, two and a half inches. When he understood, he dropped to his knees beside the runway.
On October 6, 2026, OpenAI opened a repository on GitHub called openai/math.[1]
The README is short. It says they have been evaluating their models on open research problems, that performance on their existing mathematical evaluations had saturated, and that they expanded the evaluations as a result. The repository holds what an unreleased internal model produced: 719 papers, grouped into 372 “result families” and sorted by discipline.
The method is described there too. The model was posed roughly four thousand problems. The great majority of results came out of the same fixed procedure, each using on average about three hours of ChatGPT Pro–level thinking compute. The output was grouped into families and then filtered for significance, and what was left is this catalogue. About 42% of the top-line results come with Lean formalizations; the rest do not. The README says so plainly: some of the unformalized results could have issues.[1]
I read all 372 family titles from top to bottom.[2] About halfway through, I could no longer read them as a list.
Khot’s Unique Games Conjecture: proved. L = RL = BPL: randomness can be removed from logarithmic space entirely. Hadwiger’s conjecture: a counterexample. Kaplansky’s zero-divisor conjecture: a counterexample. Thompson’s group F is nonamenable. The free group factors L(F2) and L(F3) are isomorphic. Hilbert’s tenth problem over the rationals has a negative answer. The plane cannot be coloured with five colours, so its chromatic number is six or seven. Borsuk’s conjecture already fails in dimension nine. The rational Hodge conjecture for CM abelian varieties. Integer multiplication below nlogn.
The papers are dated from September 23 to October 7.
Any one of these, in an ordinary year, would keep its field busy for twelve months. Scott Aaronson titled his post that day “The Mathocalypse” and called it one of the biggest days in mathematical history.[5]
Two of the results can be drawn on the same page.
The first is π. How well an irrational number can be approximated by fractions is measured by its irrationality exponent: the smaller the exponent, the harder it is to approximate. Almost every real number has exponent 2, and people believed π did too, but believing is not proving. In 1953 Mahler showed that the exponent of π is at most 42. Over the next seventy years the bound was pushed down a piece at a time: 20, 19.89, 8.016, 7.606. In 2020 Zeilberger and Zudilin brought it to 7.103.
Family 017 in the repository: the irrationality exponent of π is exactly 2.[2]
Settled along the way is the notoriously stubborn Flint–Hills series, ∑1/(n3sin2n). It converges.
The second is matrix multiplication. Multiplying two n×n matrices takes about nω operations at best. Nobody knows what ω is, only that it is at least 2. In 1969 Strassen brought it down from 3 to 2.808 and shook the field. Over the next twenty years successive generations pushed it to 2.376; over the thirty-odd years after that, seven or eight papers ground it from 2.376 down to 2.3713. A war fought in the fourth decimal place.
Family 107: ω≤9/4.[2]
Figure · Two records. Left: upper bounds on the irrationality exponent of π (log scale), from Mahler's 42 in 1953 to Zeilberger–Zudilin's 7.103 in 2020. Right: upper bounds on the matrix multiplication exponent ω, from Strassen's 2.808 in 1969 to 2.3713 in 2024. The ink staircase is the succession of records in the human literature; the dashed coloured line is the value claimed in openai/math (2 for π, 9/4 for ω). According to the repository both come with Lean formalizations; neither has been peer-reviewed. The dotted horizontal line on each side is the theoretical floor of 2.
Two months ago, in Territory on the Critical Line, I called progress on the road to the Riemann Hypothesis a “war of centimetres”: thirty years, less than one percentage point. That essay was about an exception. Looking back, the exception has turned wholesale in two months.
And there is news from the critical line, too. Family 003 calls it the “quasi-Riemann hypothesis”: every Dirichlet L-function, ζ included, has no zeros anywhere in the half-plane Res>7/8.[2] For more than a century, every known zero-free region has hugged the edge Res=1, growing narrower as you go up until its width tends to zero. Nobody had ever been able to draw a fixed vertical line and say there are no zeros to its right. If this paper holds, the zeros are shut inside the strip between 1/8 and 7/8, and Landau–Siegel zeros are ruled out along the way. It is still a long way from the Riemann Hypothesis, but it is a different kind of land claim. Last time the territory grew outward from the critical line; this time it is being closed in from outside.
When Beamon jumped, the measuring rail was too short. This time, too, the ruler is too short for the jump.
Start with what can be measured. For the results with Lean formalizations, the question “is there a mistake in the reasoning?” can be put to rest. As I wrote in Fermat Found a Truly Marvelous Proof, the kernel does not need to understand number theory; it only checks against the rules, and anyone can run that check again. Of the 719 papers, roughly three hundred have top-line results that have reached this point.[3]
But that essay also made the other half of the point: the tools can check a proof, but they cannot guarantee from a name alone that the statement is the result the reader thinks it is. Whether the formal statement matches the sentence in the paper still has to be checked by a person. The repository includes separate Comparator instructions for exactly this, which is the right thing to do.
The four hundred or so other papers are another matter.
On the second day, the first entry appeared in history.md. A paper on the algebraicity of Weil classes on split abelian eightfolds contained a sign error that broke a key cancellation argument. Two other papers built on it were withdrawn along with it. All three sit in the neighbourhood of the Hodge conjecture, and none was formalized. The same day, fourteen papers were revised and another thirteen updated their citations to match.[3]
I don’t think this is a scandal. Errors found, papers withdrawn, everything kept on record, earlier versions still accessible: that is a system working as it should. But it is also a reminder: one sign error brought down three papers, and before they were withdrawn, those three looked no different from the other seven hundred.
Two other things deserve a careful reading. The README says that the quasi-Riemann hypothesis and the Hodge conjecture for CM abelian varieties are precisely the two results that did not come from the fixed procedure, and that the writeup of the 11/12 version was edited by people for readability.[1] The two most eye-catching results are the exceptions. The repository does not say how they were exceptional.
In the same post, Aaronson wrote that some of the results carry Lean certificates, but almost no human has yet understood any of these proofs. His wife, Dana Moshkovitz, has worked on the Unique Games Conjecture for years; she found the papers poorly written and hard to read without help from an AI.[5]
Peer review in mathematics was designed for a pace of a few papers a year. Refereeing one long paper can take months. Seven hundred arrived in one morning.
The repository also released ten reasoning summaries. I read the one for π.[4]
Forty-two pages. A summary, and abridged at that. Almost every page is a failure.
It tried Padé approximation, Salikhov’s complex-endpoint method, the BBP formula, Toeplitz matrices, modular forms, interpolation among CM conjugates, a multivariable version of Roth’s theorem, and then used Liouville numbers to refute itself. Every road ran into the same wall: whatever margin it saved on the analytic side was eaten by the arithmetic cost of the denominators. Here and there the summary keeps a line of the original, like scrawl in the margin of a lab notebook:
The first thing it reached was not 2 but 62/25, which is 2.48. That is just under 5/2, enough to make the Flint–Hills series converge. In the second part, it took the interpolation-and-determinant technique from the first part as a starting point, stopped relying on 62/25, and pushed all the way to 2.
One more detail. Reference 17 reads: OpenAI, Catalan’s constant is irrational, 2026. That is family 005 in the same repository. Again and again the summary credits that Catalan argument with suggesting a comparison between the arithmetic and the analytic sides. The README says it too: some results build on the model’s earlier results.[1][4]
It is citing itself.
So whose leap is this?
The objections came fast and hard. On October 7, Terence Tao reposted on his blog a statement from the Association for Human Mathematics: releasing seven hundred files at once is a demonstration of power, not scholarship; mathematicians did not ask for this work; mathematicians should stop working with OpenAI.[6]
Tao’s own words are milder, and carry more weight. According to Fortune, he holds that the process of finding a solution matters more than the solution itself. A major proof used to bring talks, seminars, new collaborators, a new chapter in the textbooks; the methods, the failed paths, the new questions that turn up along the way all grew out of that process. Once a problem is solved, it cannot be unsolved. Harvesting open problems in bulk leaves the ground less fertile. He said this marks the end of “Math 1.0”, and that “Math 2.0” must value exposition and community.[7]
Dan Litt of the University of Toronto said the results are good for mathematics. His worry lies elsewhere: if the public comes to believe “AI has solved math”, funding shrinks and young people stay away. Tristan Buckmaster of NYU questioned whether OpenAI had done enough to make sure its model wasn’t drawing on other people’s unpublished work.[7]
Then there is the manner of release. In September OpenAI set up an independent advisory group hosted at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton. Its recommendations included publishing in traditional paper format; disclosing the model, prompts, time and cost; explaining how problems were chosen; and reporting failed attempts. OpenAI adopted some of them, not all.[7] At around the same time, another result whose key idea came from an AI, on 3SUM and all-pairs shortest paths, was written up and released as a paper by two human researchers, Josh Alman and Virginia Vassilevska Williams.[5] The same kind of result can be handed over in different ways.
Here is what I think.
First, the leap is very likely real. At least for the formalized part, there is not much left to argue about on correctness. I already didn’t much agree, in Territory on the Critical Line, with lines like “it’s only recombining existing ideas” or “it doesn’t really understand”. I agree with them even less now. Forty-two pages of failures do not read like recitation.
Second, what has changed is not only the speed but the unit. The unit of mathematical progress used to be a theorem, a paper, a name. This time the unit is a catalogue: four thousand problems, three hours apiece, sifted by significance. That is not like Beamon. Beamon was one of the athletes. After his jump, everyone else knew the sandpit could be that far away, and went back to training. This time, the one who jumped was never on the runway.
Third, the price of a proof is heading towards zero; the price of understanding has not moved. In Where No One Is Keeping Score I wrote that mathematics is one of the few places with an incorruptible scorer, which is why machines took off here first. It now looks as though the scorer can only rule on “right or wrong”. “Is it understood?”, “Was it worth doing?”, “What should we ask next?”: nobody is keeping score on those for us. The bottleneck has moved from discovery to digestion. Seven hundred and nineteen papers, four hundred unformalized, almost none yet understood by a person: that is what this repository really looks like.
So I agree with Tao’s diagnosis, but not quite with the AHM’s prescription. Refusing to cooperate across the board does nothing about the ruler being too short; it only makes the ruler shorter. What is worth demanding is what the advisory group has already written down: papers written so that people can read them, failed attempts published too, each result released together with the path that led to it, rather than three hundred results landing on the same morning.
A problem being solved used to mean three things at once: there was an answer, there was a method, and there were people who understood it. This time the first arrived too fast, and the other two are still on their way.
Beamon’s record stood for nearly twenty-three years. In 1991 Mike Powell jumped 8.95 metres. Through those twenty-three years, the long jump did not stop. People kept jumping.
When Beamon went down on his knees that day, it wasn’t on landing. It was when he understood the number. Measuring 8.90 metres took a tape measure; understanding it took someone to translate it into units he knew.
That is what these 719 papers are missing now: a translation that turns a number into a distance a person can understand.