The breeze over the Wiltshire downs was gentle, carrying with it the scent of damp grass and distant farms. As the family climbed toward the ancient hill fort, grass whispering against boots, they listened quietly to a calm voice in their earpieces. The voice belonged to their ever-present companion, a conversational AI linked seamlessly to a living archive of human experience - the Information Commons.
“People have been walking this route for thousands of years,” the AI guide explained warmly. “What looks like open countryside today was once a hub of activity. Markets, celebrations, storytelling - there were songs sung on this very hill. Would you like to hear one?”
Finn, twelve, glanced at his sister and shrugged. Their mother, Julia, smiled. “Yes, please.”
A faint chorus rose gently, ancient harmonies blending into the wind, voices of people who had long ago stood in the very spot the family now occupied. It was beautiful, fragile. They paused, silent as the song faded softly away.
They continued upward, Finn leading the way. He was always a little ahead, exploring off-path. They saw him crouched by a rabbit hole, hands in the earth. He suddenly stood and ran back to his family, holding a muddy fragment triumphantly in his palm. “Look at this!”
“Interesting,” said the AI, responding to Finn’s excitement. “May I take a closer look?”
Finn raised the pottery shard so it was easier for the AI to see, thumbs wiping the surface to reveal texture and pattern. The AI’s voice became curious. “This pottery is a remarkable find! Likely from southern Europe, around 2,300 years old. It’s rare for this region; perhaps indicating ancient trade or personal exchange.”
“How did it end up here?” Finn asked.
“There are several theories,” replied the AI. “It might indicate ancient trade networks stretching far wider than previously assumed. Alternatively, it could be personal - perhaps brought here intentionally, as a gift, keepsake, or token of alliance.”
“Do we know for sure?” Finn’s father, Tom, asked.
“It’s impossible to be sure. But similar artefacts have been found nearby,” the AI continued gently. “For example, just last year, another walker found an Egyptian glass bead three kilometres from here, catalogued and commented upon by Professor Aditi Patel, a local archaeologist. She left a note suggesting these finds could indicate this hill fort was more than just a defensive asset. Perhaps it had a role as a place of cultural exchange too.”
Julia paused, looking thoughtful. “Professor Patel? I think I remember her. Back when I was studying history, I did some fieldwork near here. I uploaded some photos and notes about the old earthworks—are they still around?”
“One moment,” the AI replied. “Ah yes, they’re still part of the Commons. In fact, your notes about ceremonial gathering spaces were cited in later research.”
Julia laughed softly, surprised, feeling a sudden warmth at the thought. “I’d completely forgotten. Strange - and lovely - to think I left something useful behind.”
“That’s the beauty of the Commons,” said the AI. “Every contribution matters, even the long-forgotten ones.”
Finn, turning the shard over in his hand, asked excitedly, “Will this pottery matter, too?”
“Certainly,” the AI reassured him. “With your permission, I’ll share your discovery with the wider community. It could inspire new research, conversations, and connections. Perhaps others will be drawn here to search, or share insights.”
His sister smiled. “Finn, you’ve made history.”
They continued their walk, reaching the crest of the hillfort. The landscape spread wide around them—farms, hedges, fields—the same landscape countless eyes had seen before.
The AI spoke again, quietly, almost reverently. “In 1843, a traveler named Samuel Yates stood at this location. He wrote: ‘The land itself remembers those who tread its paths. Their lives are whispers we hear when we stop to listen.’”
The family stood silently, looking out. Julia felt a gentle awe, not just at the landscape, but at the unseen web connecting them to everyone who had walked this hill before - and everyone who would come after. For a moment, they weren’t just visiting history; they were part of it.
“Would you like to leave your own reflections for future visitors?” the AI gently prompted.
Julia squeezed Finn’s shoulder softly. “What do you think?”
Finn nodded enthusiastically, then spoke clearly, carefully choosing his words: “I found a piece of pottery today. It came from somewhere far away, and it made me wonder who held it last?”
The AI was quiet for a moment, then warmly replied, “Beautifully said, Finn. Recorded for the future.”
In the quiet that followed, they stood there, just a family on a windswept hill, connected subtly to a vast and generous human collective.
Analysis
For as long as humans have recorded knowledge, we’ve sought ways to preserve it, share it, and build upon it. From oral traditions passed down through generations to vast digital repositories, the methods we use to store and transmit information have always shaped our collective history. In recent decades, a new type of shared knowledge has emerged, something akin to an Information Commons. Unlike static examples (think Encyclopaedia sets and microfiche archives), these systems evolve continually through collective contribution, blending individual discoveries, expert insights, and community experiences into something dynamic and alive.
Wikipedia, for instance, now has nearly seven million articles in English alone, drawing around a billion unique visitors each month. Before Wikipedia, Douglas Adams founded H2G2 in 1999, aiming to create a user-generated, Earth-based edition of his fictional Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Creative Commons licensing, too, has paved the way for creators to freely share their work while preserving certain rights. Now, emerging technologies - like blockchain-based decentralised platforms and AI-enhanced edge devices - are poised to expand the possibilities for what an Information Commons could become.
In 2024 alone, approximately 147 zettabytes of data were created, captured, copied and consumed worldwide, a figure expected to rise to 181 zettabytes in 2025. That equates to a staggering 400m+ terabytes every single day. While the average human consumes over 70 gigabytes per day they only generate 150 megabytes. Even this smaller figure of newly created content - photos, emails, documents - adds up to about 16 gigabytes per person annually. If all eight billion people on Earth contribute at this level, we’d need to handle around 440 exabytes of new data each year. And that’s without considering the explosion of new data coming from sensor logs and always-on personal devices.
This scale frames the challenges of an Information Commons, especially the technical demands it would impose. Thankfully, here at Optimistic Futures we can assume it’ll all just work.
Moderation and governance will continue to be major considerations, particularly to handle misinformation or bias. Historical knowledge sharing provides cautionary tales - consider the effects of propaganda or historical revisionism. The traditional “commons” originally referred to shared land and resources, collectively maintained but vulnerable to exploitation. Without careful management, shared digital knowledge could similarly suffer from misuse, misinformation, or domination by powerful interests. Thus, thoughtful stewardship - including AI verification and active community oversight - will be crucial. Maximal-scale consensus may play a significant role here too, with the binary concepts of true or false yielding to a more nuanced and fluid attribute. Is liquorice nice to eat? Are dogs better than cats?
Pulling the it’ll all just work lever one last time allows us to glimpse the compelling possibilities of this Information Commons: its potential as a living memory. Unlike traditional archives, it could capture formal records alongside subtle, informal contributions, each enriching the other. Julia’s discovery in the story - that her forgotten university notes quietly became part of ongoing research - illustrates beautifully how modest acts of curiosity might ripple outward. Clearly, there remain important questions around privacy and ownership - challenges we’ll need to thoughtfully resolve - but the possibilities once these foundations are responsibly secured feel exciting and full of potential.
My story hints that the Information Commons might naturally draw people into a pervasive game, one where the only prerequisites are curiosity and participation. Take the idea of geocaching, and the thrill of satisfaction when the virtual world connects with the physical. Then imagine local communities mapping rich cultural histories from personal stories and local legends, tourists immersively exploring the world through layered narratives, people spontaneously joining to explore intriguing mysteries through shared insights and theories.
This isn’t about building a better encyclopaedia. Instead, the Information Commons reveals something deeply human - a shared space continually reshaped by innumerable personal contributions. As Julia and Finn found, every discovery, however small or forgotten, enriches the collective narrative. It invites us to imagine a future where personal curiosity and engagement finds a community, no matter how popular or niche the subject matter is.