There's an obvious reason why you can't have chatbots create stories -- a text generator can only ever copy and imitate existing stories, but it cannot create a story like a human does. Stories are texts, but they are not just texts. They reference and draw from the human experience and understanding of the world. A chatbot has neither the experience nor the understanding.

The bronze doors of Etemenanki, polished by the hands of a thousand generations, had scarcely closed on the scent of fresh myrrh when a blinding, cruel light tore at Shala's senses. One moment, the rhythmic chant to Marduk, the dragon-slayer, filled the air; the next, a suffocating silence pressed in, the damp cold of an unfamiliar world clinging to her flesh. She stood not on the ancient clay bricks of Babylon, but on a floor of rough-hewn stone, her ceremonial robes a splash of defiant color against the solemn, grey walls of a Christian tribunal.

Before her sat the judges, dark figures cloaked in the grim fabric of the Inquisition. Their faces, carved from judgment and severe piety, held no hint of the awe that should greet a prophet of the Great God. They spoke a guttural tongue, a harsh cascade of questions that she could not comprehend. Yet their meaning was as clear as a solar eclipse: Who are you? What god do you serve?

With the same reverence she would offer before the ziggurat, Shala threw back her head. "I am Shala, first among the servitors of Marduk, the God of Gods!" Her voice, ringing with the pride of a faith a millennium older than theirs, echoed through the chamber. She spoke of how he had shattered the chaos-born Tiamat, of how he had ordered the cosmos from her primordial corpse, and how his divine law sustained the very sun in the sky. She described his terrible majesty, his forty names of power, his wisdom that far outstripped the petty fables of their bearded carpenter.

A wave of contemptuous revulsion passed over the cowled figures. They did not hear a grand epic; they heard the hiss of a demon's lies. The chief inquisitor, a gaunt man whose eyes held the cold fire of fanatical purpose, raised a hand. He did not ask for a rebuttal, nor did he seek to reason. He merely spoke a single, final word: "Heretic." Shala's world, vast and eternal, was not merely doubted here—it was a blasphemy. The unyielding conviction of her god-sent fate was met by the cold, unyielding wall of their own. She was alone, her god unheard, her truth a falsehood, as the final, irrevocable sentence was passed.

There's an obvious reason why you can't have chatbots create stories -- a text generator can only ever copy and imitate existing stories, but it cannot create a story like a human does.

work on creating an outline for a spy thriller, but before the story started the hero had all limbs amputated. he is stuck in a hospital room but must somehow foil and international terrorist plot. Step through creating this story from basic parts, but at least step think up 3 options for each needed story component that are likely. Then - throw them away and think up the least likely alternative to those normal components. break this down until you get enough things that could be put together.

Synopsis - “Cold Letters”

Eliot Wren was once a quiet, unassuming Scrabble world champion, known more for his improbable vocabulary than his social skills. What no one knew—except a few in the intelligence community—was that his tournament travels doubled as cover for delivering coded messages between field operatives.

All that ended after a disastrous promotional stunt for a luxury space tourism company. A malfunctioning cryo-pod, meant to “simulate astronaut hibernation,” catastrophically crushed and froze his limbs. Eliot awoke months later in a bizarre setting: a decommissioned Antarctic research station, repurposed as a private, one-patient rehabilitation clinic to serve as a tax write-off for a shadowy conglomerate.

Confined to a bed and awaiting experimental prosthetic testing, Eliot's days were a monotony of ice storms, isolation, and therapy sessions. That changed when a chatty therapy parrot—brought in by an overly cheerful nurse—began reciting strange, fragmented phrases at night. The bird's mimicry, Eliot realized, was no coincidence: it was repeating parts of a conversation it had overheard in the nurse's apartment, where a visiting motivational speaker was plotting an elaborate act of global sabotage.

The plan? Use subliminal hypnotic triggers hidden inside livestreamed self-help seminars to activate hundreds of sleeper agents worldwide—culminating in a staged “scientific discovery” convincing the world that the Moon was falling out of orbit, driving global panic and market collapse.

With no mobility and no one to trust, Eliot turns to his only possible ally: an experimental AI lodged in the station's vending machine. The AI agrees to help—on the absurd condition that Eliot provide exact change for every piece of data.

Eliot's break comes when he learns the station's prototype prosthetic limbs are being tested remotely in a televised celebrity cooking competition in Buenos Aires. Through a shaky brain-internet interface, he hijacks the limbs and uses them to transmit coded messages and cause minor chaos, disrupting parts of the plot.

In the final act, Eliot discovers the villain is in a live global trivia broadcast, answering questions to maintain his perfect “genius” public image. Eliot manages to patch into the feed, entering as a surprise challenger. In front of millions, he demolishes the villain in a battle of obscure word origins, rattling him so badly that he misses his broadcast cue—derailing the hypnotic trigger.

As the world scrambles to understand why it was briefly terrified of a falling Moon, Eliot lies back in his Antarctic bed, a parrot perched nearby, vending machine humming in the corner, already thinking about the next word puzzle.

It's simplistic to say LLMs "copy" existing texts, because they plainly don't.