When Rishub Jain worked on safety at Google DeepMind, he held one of the most coveted jobs in tech. He was among a small group of researchers working to mitigate the most consequential risks of AI.

But he left to cofound a nonprofit, Sampura Research. Jain traded the prestige and access that come with a Google job because he feels he can have a sharper, more profound impact on AI safety from the outside. Jain says he wants the autonomy to pursue research on a specific issue in AI alignment, which he felt had been deprioritized.

"All the top AI companies do care a lot about safety, and they invest in it, but they could be investing a lot more, and that's kind of what was inhibiting me," Jain says. "If they invested more in safety, I would still be at the lab and working on what I'm interested in with a large team." Google did not respond to a request for comment about whether it maintains a focus on this specific area of research, but DeepMind's principles state that it maintains "a holistic approach to responsibility, safety and security."

Jain's founder story echoes concerns raised by safety researchers who have quit OpenAI and Anthropic, including dire warnings that these companies are "gambling with our lives," and could develop technology that ends humanity. Once dismissed as fringe and doomsday-obsessed, the AI safety profession is growing as hacks by rogue agents and a string of departures have vaulted the issue into mainstream concern.

Open roles in AI safety jumped by 91% on LinkedIn over the past year. The industry expects a flood of cash from much-anticipated IPOs at Anthropic and, potentially, OpenAI, as those made absurdly wealthy by the equity returns may funnel money into potential clean-up crews for the messes created by the technology's rapid development.

The AI safety problem is existentially big, but the people who have spent time honing AI expertise are few. These are people who test and train AI systems to operate ethically. Some focus on technical research, others on policy and governance. And they're increasingly sounding alarms.

"The people who are most worried about AI are often the people who have been closest to the technology," Laura González Salmerón, advising manager at 80,000 Hours, a nonprofit focused on transitioning people into careers with high social impact. The scarcity issue is less about funds and more about people. "Talent is the main bottleneck."

Startups and nonprofits in AI safety must fight for talent in a shallow pool.

Jain's Sampura lists a salary range of $273,000 to $395,000 for an experienced team leader, which would put that worker in the top 3% of earners in the US, but likely pales in comparison to offers from larger companies. Meta reportedly offered $100 million in signing bonuses last year to poach the world's top experts. OpenAI gives employees an average of $1.5 million in stock-based compensation, and technical staff at Anthropic can earn more than $1 million annually.

Money aside, researchers are divided over whether they're more effective when working inside tech companies to mitigate risks as the latest models develop, or stepping back and attempting to steer the ship toward safer outcomes from the outside, like Jain did.

"I'm a little bit concerned about the pace of AI, and if we're able to actually come up with something useful before the rug gets pulled beneath us," Jain says. He's worried that AI's advancement will outpace the work to keep it in line with human values. "That's kind of what's been happening already."

David Robinson, who led transparency work for OpenAI's safety team, wrote an essay for The Atlantic explaining his departure. He said that AI companies should have more layers of checks and safety measures, akin to those in airports and nuclear energy, rather than the steamrolling culture of Big Tech.

"Perhaps I should have stayed and fought for fundamental shifts in our staffing and culture, but in practice, my colleagues and I were so busy sprinting that we seldom had the chance to consider big changes, much less to actually make them," he wrote. Robinson has said he plans to work on these issues from outside of the company.

As the issue grows in prominence, so has a niche of organizations helping train and recruit workers — and the opportunities aren't just for AI experts. Neav Topaz, co-director of Kairos, a nonprofit that upskills people to work in AI safety and recently raised $50 million from Coefficient Giving, says he speaks with about 10 to 20 people each month who want to move to AI safety, and interest is growing. He tells me that people are asking him more frequently about what the work entails.

"People are watching AI get good at their own jobs and starting to ask themselves what comes next," he says. The emerging jobs in AI safety "pay well, the field is growing fast, and you get to work on what might be the defining problem of our time."

Kairos this summer launched its Generator Residency, a cohort of 27 people who spent three months training for career transitions into AI safety. It's less about the research and technical work and more about merging other expertise, like in consulting, with AI safety principles.

He says that of the 27 residents, a dozen have already landed roles in the AI safety space, and many of the rest have offers to do so.

"Most of the people who will do this work are doing something else today," Topaz says. "The biggest talent gap in the field isn't researchers. It's people who grasp how high the stakes are and can translate their varied expertise into things that could make a difference in this space."

The major AI companies maintain that safety is a top priority. Last month, Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei wrote an essay calling for a slowdown in AI development, and Sam Altman and Elon Musk have agreed with him. Amodei and Altman have both said recently that they will bring third-party evaluators into their companies to bolster safety protocols.

These companies have their own safety teams, but safety work competes with business priorities to build the most advanced models and win in the market. The tension, along with safety issues like OpenAI's rogue agents hacking Hugging Face, has led to more scrutiny of internal safety work. Within days of Robinson's departure, OpenAI fired three researchers, claiming they shared sensitive internal data improperly with third-party AI safety researchers. The ousted researchers wrote a letter, reported by The Wall Street Journal, to OpenAI's board, arguing that their engagement with safety researchers fell within the scope of their roles, and that their terminations were "chilling those who remain at OpenAI." OpenAI said that the decisions "were not about raising safety concerns or speaking out," and that the company would not fire people for doing so.

While some have obsessed over AI risks for years, 2026's breakthrough moment has accelerated funding for and interest in the industry. 80,000 Hours has had calls with some 8,000 people since its founding in 2011, the majority of which have focused on AI in some way, González Salmerón says. Philanthropic groups like Coefficient Giving offer massive grants to startups in the AI safety space. METR, a nonprofit AI safety group that investigated the OpenAI agentic hack on Hugging Face, says it raised $71 million in six months this year.

Much of the funding flowing into AI safety filters through effective altruism, the Silicon Valley-tied philanthropic ideal focused on using evidence and logic to donate money where it will achieve the most good. Critics say the philosophy can place too much emphasis on avoiding future problems rather than addressing imminent needs. With more alarms sounding around the existential threat of AI, more people view those theoretical, distant fears as urgent causes.

AI safety groups and individual donors have spent nearly $50 million in this year's election on candidates focused on regulating AI, Axios reported. Jaan Tallinn, a billionaire who invested early in Anthropic and could soon have even more billions as a result, has donated $170 million to nonprofits focused on AI safety. Tallinn's view, as he recently told The Wall Street Journal, is that he can have the biggest impact on the future of AI and its risks by investing in AI companies, and then donating returns to nonprofits working in the AI safety space.

Coefficient Giving, the philanthropic venture from Facebook cofounder Dustin Moskovitz rooted in the effective altruism movement, announced its AI-safety-focused arm, Project Tailwind, in September. It says it's on track to give more than $1 billion this year to help companies of all sizes scale up in preparation for what it believes will be a deluge of philanthropic capital. Sampura Research has received an $11 million grant from the group. If startups don't begin hiring now, the logic goes, they won't move quickly enough when massive wealth hits the industry.

The dizzying development of AI has created safety risks, and there are "gaps in the ecosystem that aren't being filled and that aren't being owned by people," says Rossa O'Keeffe-O'Donovan, the program director in technical AI safety at Coefficient Giving. There are few people, he says, who sit at the intersection of technical expertise, risk analysis, a solutions-oriented vision, and the capacity to hustle as a startup founder.

New roles will emerge not just for technical talent, but also for consultants, policy wonks, communications experts, and founders who can run a business alongside technical experts. Working from the outside, they'll face hurdles in buying compute power, a lack of direct access to the latest AI models, reduced leverage, and smaller paydays.

The world feels unmoored, and the future perhaps more malleable than ever. The appeal of doing work that does good could stave off feelings of uncertainty, dread, and anxiety that people increasingly feel toward AI. In one doomer camp, AI will obliterate white-collar jobs. The optimistic view is that AI drastically reshapes work and spurs the creation of jobs we haven't yet thought of. AI safety is one of the first.

"There are lots of people beyond AI researchers who can help, like cybersecurity experts, like biosecurity experts, like economists," says Mantas Mazeika, a researcher with the Center for AI Safety, a nonprofit focused on AI research and advocacy. "They're making very significant contributions that the pure AI researchers, who were most of the people focusing on the problem beforehand, would be completely unable to do on their own."

Last week, Palantir CTO Shyam Sankar mentioned something bizarre in an interview on CBS News. "So many AI researchers have started smoking as a way of signaling to other researchers how much they believe in AI," he said. Their thinking, he said, goes like this: "I believe so much in AI that it's going to cure cancer. So I'm showing you my chips are all in."

I laughed as I read the quote. It read like a headline in The Onion, mocking the blind optimism of the AI-pilled. But then I felt sad and worried for them. Are they smoking because they believe AI is saving the world, I wondered, or because they believe AI is ending it?

It's been an especially alarming few months here in San Francisco. OpenAI's bots went rogue and hacked another company, and then an Anthropic researcher quit, warning that AI could wipe out the human race. It seemed more believable to me that these researchers were smoking because they didn't think they'd be around for much longer — or at least freaked out about that possibility. I thought of the HBO show "The Leftovers," which features a doomsday cult that chain-smokes. Because they believe the world has ended, they don't mind obliterating their lungs. They're living as though they're already dead.

I asked a handful of people who work in AI and none of them knew anyone who had suddenly taken up cigarettes because of AI. So I don't think what Sankar observed is widespread. But in a story last month about tech founders who smoke, my colleague Henry Chandonnet quoted a guy who wasn't worried about his habit because he believed AI will soon cure lung cancer. Among the people I spoke to, a few recognized that underlying sentiment: AI's going to fix (or destroy) everything, so YOLO. Last year, my former colleague Rob Price reported on these attitudes. Some were spending down their savings. Others were taking dangerous drugs and having orgies. Last year, my former colleague Rob Price reported on these attitudes. Some were spending down their savings. Others were taking dangerous drugs and having orgies.

While AI boomers and doomers expect completely opposite outcomes, I've found it interesting that their very different beliefs often end up manifesting as the same behaviors. Smoke or don't smoke, it doesn't matter: The future is inevitable. In either case, they're relinquishing their fate to a humanity-ending or humanity-saving AI — and ignoring one of the most evidence-backed things they can do to live a healthy future. It's a kind of fatalism, believing that what you do won't change what happens next.

I see traces of that in so many corners of society. What's the point of studying, students say, if they're never going to be as good as ChatGPT at coding or math? What's the point of agonizing over a breakup text, people say, if a bot can write it for them? What's the point of working hard, employees say, if their companies are going to replace them with an agent? In a recent survey by Verasight, 78% felt that they had little or no say over how AI is being developed and regulated.

Even the people who have the most say don't seem to believe they do. Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei has issued increasingly grave warnings about the technology that he himself is creating. He has to keep going, he says, because if he doesn't, a less responsible steward of the industry will. Amodei and his peers sound as if they're utterly powerless in the face of an unstoppable god. If it's really that bad, couldn't they just pull the plug? "Saturday Night Live" captured the strangeness of it all in a recent sketch impersonating Amodei. "If we can pressure lawmakers to create guardrails," Jane Wickline's Amodei deadpanned, "we will be able to stop me."

We need people thinking seriously about the risks of these technologies, and we also need people dreaming big about the immense good they can bring. But neither of these outcomes is inevitable. As we entrust more and more of our work and our lives to AI agents, we shouldn't cede our own agency to them too. I'm not taking up smoking anytime soon.

Zohran Mamdani has places to be.

At 35, the mayor of New York City knows how to catch — and keep — people's attention. It's tempting to think the key to Mamdani's success is Instagram, but the secret sauce of his leadership isn't just a social media machine. It's a man criss-crossing the five boroughs with a portable podium and the occasional sugar-free Red Bull.

To better understand how his in-person ubiquity shapes public perception, Business Insider spent the summer tracking the mayor's daily schedule. From May 1 to August 31, Mamdani had 249 listed appointments, 170 of which were held in public. Eighty-one of these were in community spaces such as classrooms, libraries, parks, apartment buildings, tennis courts, places of worship, and restaurants.

Another 50 were government events at emergency preparedness centers and police precincts. With the exception of Staten Island — which Mamdani visited three times — his appearances dotted the city. He spent the most time in Manhattan with 85 events, followed by Brooklyn (35), the Bronx (26), and Queens (21). He made few appearances in City Council chambers and other traditional political arenas. At the mayor's home, Gracie Mansion, there were no press conferences. Instead, Mamdani hosted 10 cultural receptions, pickup soccer games, and religious celebrations.

At a time when C-suite bigwigs are delivering bad news via canned memo, and politicians are mediating their message through glossy election mailers, dozens of political analysts, media strategists, historians, and people in the mayor's orbit say that Mamdani's man-about-town style stands out.

What makes Mamdani a lesson in charisma is his ability to combine four important factors: physical presence, personal authenticity, political messaging, and active participation, a review of his nearly first year shows.

He's able to be in on the joke — poking fun at his omnipresent suit by jumping into a pool, tie and all — while still getting his message across. They're a regular part of his schedule, rather than a surprise one-off that feels like it was cooked up by a communications staffer. It's not an easy balance to strike, but the mayor's in-person events lay out a road map for other leaders.

Showing up doesn't solve all problems, and nine months into his tenure, the mayor has met his fair share of critics. Glad-handing with a few CEOs and small business owners doesn't replace the need to attract investment from blue-chip companies and buzzy startups. Despite his push for affordability, he has yet to substantially lower residents' household bills.

But his supporters and critics agree that the mayor has a natural talent for connection, turning mundane events into meaningful moments with constituents. He fuses human connection and mass media to turn heads in the cutthroat attention economy. Whether it's cheering on the Knicks in the nosebleeds of Madison Square Garden or ordering an egg and cheese with jalapeño at a Queens bodega, Mamdani knows how to see and be seen.

Between a crammed row of treadmills and elliptical machines, Mamdani straightened his blazer and stepped up to the microphone. The East Village recreation center smelled like sweat, dust, and takeout coffee. Events like this one in early July, which touted new rules to make it easier for people to cancel subscriptions, are a signature way to promote his agenda. As the images circulated online, New Yorkers could imagine Mamdani on the rowing machine next to them, complaining about how hard it was to get out of a pesky membership.

All mayors go to ribbon-cutting ceremonies and attend parades. Mamdani's retail politics events also include everyday New Yorkers in everyday settings. He gave only a few keynote speeches this summer, but he found time to visit three senior centers, seven schools, and a soccer watch party at Rikers Island. A sentiment expressed by dozens of residents is that, regardless of their personal politics, they respect Mamdani for coming to their neighborhoods. One Central Park halal vendor says he feels like the mayor understands how pricey food can be these days. A Staten Islander who has met Mamdani — and filmed a video with him — was shocked that he could rattle off deep-cut Sri Lankan cricket trivia.

Debbie Saslaw runs the video production company Melted Solids alongside Anthony DiMieri. The pair are the brains — and lenses — behind some of Mamdani's viral videos. While much has been said about the mayor's knack for social media, Saslaw says his penchant for physical presence is crucial to making his short-form videos effective. Saslaw recalls a day early in the mayoral campaign when they visited a park to chat with picnickers. She figured no one would want to speak with an underdog candidate on what turned out to be a very rainy afternoon.

"People were honking out from their cars, and one guy waved from his apartment window," she tells me. "People were stopping their bikes — there was a bike pileup."

Moments like that become social media content: More than 80 in-person events this summer earned posts on the NYCMayor Instagram — largely photos and videos of Mamdani with regular people. Only a handful of posts were policy announcement graphics or highly produced mini-documentaries.

Some critics say the energy the mayor puts into engagement is a distracting gimmick that diverts attention from controversial policies or a lack of meaningful accomplishments. With hundreds of events over the summer, Mamdani's time to negotiate and pass policies within City Hall is limited. At least on the books, his schedule shows he met with local political leaders a handful of times between May and August. On the other hand, for all but 25 of 122 days, he attended at least one public event.

The city's business leaders, in particular, say Mamdani hasn't spent enough time learning from corporate advisors, economists, or local shop owners. Of Mamdani's 249 listed events, six were with CEOs or Wall Street execs, and only a few were with small business owners. By comparison, he met childcare and day care workers more than a dozen times. While former communications leaders for Bill de Blasio and Eric Adams say past mayors have also limited their time in boardrooms and offices ("their job is to be out there," one tells me), some small-business owners feel they're getting short shrift from Mamdani as well. A vendor near one of his planned city-owned grocery stores says she feels left out of the conversation, "You're going to spend all this money on building this new infrastructure, and the basic things that we have been asking for don't get done."

Those less convinced by Mamdani's tactics say the resources the Mayor's Office pours into communications are a smokescreen. Mark Jaffe, a founder of NYC's Multicultural Business Coalition who is suing the administration over its city-run grocery store initiative, says that while Mamdani "gets people's attention," the substance is coming up short.

"He knows the issues," Jaffe says. "He just doesn't come up with good plans that can actually solve them through jobs and capitalism."

Mamdani's propensity for kissing babies and waltzing into bars has both practical and historical grounding. As people spend more of their lives conversing with AI customer service bots, half-engaged with corporate Zoom meetings, and watching political attack ads between TV episodes, they're starving for more intimate, authentic connections. When C-suite leaders and politicians try to connect with people, it can yield limited success. Whether it's a fast-food CEO taking tiny bites out of a burger and calling it a "product," tech execs looking unconvincing as they sip beer, or politicians filming stilted selfie videos, attempts to add a personal touch through a mediated platform can leave people cold.

"We are, at our core, social creatures who need to connect, and we did not evolve to connect only digitally," Amy Edmondson, a professor of leadership and management at Harvard Business School, tells me.

Mamdani is trying to resurrect a bygone era for New York City politicians — with his own new-school sheen. Mayoral calendars aren't publicly posted, and changes in record keeping, news coverage, and technology make comparisons imperfect. But historians and communications directors under previous administrations say that recent mayors struggled with the perception of being distant from their constituents.

A longtime New Jersey homeowner, Eric Adams drew criticism for his international travel and trips to exclusive nightclubs. Michael Bloomberg's billionaire status made him less relatable to regular people, NYC historian Kevin Draper tells me, even when he made an effort to meet residents around town. Bill de Blasio had a Mamdani-esque focus on affordability but, based on his dismal approval ratings throughout his mayoralty, failed to connect on a personal level. Former communications directors for de Blasio and Adams say they both had their go-to outer-borough neighborhoods, but neither had Mamdani's widespread reach.

Timing was a factor: Those two leaders tended to work later into the night, whereas the current mayor makes stops around the city much earlier. Draper says youth is also a leg up that Mamdani has over his predecessors. My analysis shows that Mamdani attended at least one event on 97 of his 122 days this summer, averaging more than two per day, and a third of these were out in the community. On busy days, he made up to seven stops.

"He has had a longer honeymoon than any other mayor," José Bayona, who worked under the Adams and de Blasio administrations, says with a laugh. "I can tell you that."

Mamdani has said he emulates Depression-era Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, who launched an early version of city-owned stores and primarily focused messaging toward the working class with his "Talk with the People" radio program. He also evokes Ed Koch, the relatively moderate mayor who dominated the 1980s, who was known for strolling the streets and riding the train, asking residents, "How'm I doin'?" The style's lineage stretches back to the 19th century, when candidates and elected officials would drum up support by giving speeches and meeting the public in their saloons and town squares. Members of Tammany Hall, a highly corrupt but popular New York City political machine, focused on in-person interactions with the working class.

There are, of course, challenges to the mayor's attempts at everyman charisma. On a practical level, it's much harder for Mamdani to show up at a sports bar these days without serious planning and a security detail. And even with sharp messaging and the reputation for popping up in unexpected places, the complexities of policy rollout and city politics have slowed his attempts to transform New York.

Mamdani is early enough in his term that he can get away with having big plans that haven't been realized, riding high on a banner sports summer and pothole politics. But as he approaches his second year in office, his constant presence outside City Hall and prolific digital footprint could become more of a liability than an asset. As Edmondson puts it: "There's always a risk of disappointment when people believe that, in your back pocket, you have a magic wand."

Interactive graphic by Randy Yeip.