sydleagueswype
Footballguy
How often do you use AI when drafting players, managing weekly lineups, and considering trades? Do you use it at all, or do you think it's pointless?
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Do any of you use AI for your leagues? (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter sydleagueswype
- Start date
Ilov80s
Footballguy
Agree. I am not inviting AI into my hobbies.
El Floppo
Footballguy
WRONG
Ron Swanson
Footballguy
In the annals of utterly inconsequential history, nestled somewhere between the invention of the left-handed spork and the discovery of why socks always disappear in the dryer, lies the tale—or rather, the meandering, infinitely digressional chronicle—of a particular puddle. Not just any puddle, mind you, but the puddle. It wasn't remarkable in its depth, nor its breadth, nor even its peculiar shade of greyish-brown, which, on closer inspection, was merely the reflection of a rather uninspired sky. No, its distinction lay solely in its stubborn refusal to evaporate, even on the sunniest of Tuesdays, a fact that vexed a local pigeon named Bartholomew.
Bartholomew was not a pigeon of great intellect, nor of exceptional plumage. He was, in fact, quite average, save for an almost pathological preoccupation with the aforementioned puddle. Every morning, with the first hesitant rays of dawn filtering through the smog, Bartholomew would alight upon the chipped concrete ledge overlooking the puddle, **** his head, and ponder. What, exactly, he pondered, was a mystery even to himself. Perhaps it was the existential dread of a perpetually damp existence, or perhaps he was simply trying to recall where he'd buried that particularly crusty piece of bread last week. The thoughts of pigeons, as we all know, are as inscrutable as the motivations of a squirrel hoarding acorns in a hurricane.
One blustery Thursday, a discarded plastic bag, emblazoned with the faded logo of a discount shoe store, cartwheeled past the puddle. Bartholomew, startled by its sudden, erratic dance, flapped his wings with an indignant squawk. The bag, however, seemed to possess a will of its own, performing a series of intricate pirouettes before snagging itself on a rogue dandelion growing precariously close to the puddle's edge. This, to Bartholomew, was an event of monumental significance. He spent the better part of the morning attempting to dislodge the bag, pecking at it with a ferocity usually reserved for particularly stubborn crumbs. His efforts were, naturally, in vain. The bag remained, a silent, crinkly sentinel, adding another layer of visual clutter to an already aesthetically challenged urban landscape.
Meanwhile, miles away, or perhaps just a few blocks, a man named Gerald was attempting to assemble a flat-pack bookshelf. Gerald was a meticulous man, a stickler for instructions, and yet, for reasons unknown, the bookshelf refused to cooperate. A single, crucial screw seemed to have vanished into the abyss of his living room carpet, a carpet which, incidentally, had once been a vibrant shade of teal but had, over the years, succumbed to a patina of dust, pet hair, and the faint, lingering scent of burnt toast. Gerald sighed. He considered ordering a new screw online, but the thought of navigating the labyrinthine customer service menus filled him with a dread far greater than the prospect of a perpetually lopsided bookshelf. He decided, instead, to make a cup of tea. Earl Grey, with two sugars, just as his grandmother used to make it, though her tea, he recalled, always tasted faintly of lavender and regret.
Back at the puddle, a small, iridescent oil slick began to form on its surface. It shimmered with a fleeting, almost melancholic beauty, reflecting the fractured light of the urban sky in a thousand tiny, distorted rainbows. Bartholomew, momentarily distracted from his futile battle with the plastic bag, tilted his head, his beady eyes attempting to decipher the ephemeral patterns. He wondered, in his limited avian capacity, if it was a message from the great pigeon deity, a sign that perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to life than discarded bread and uncooperative plastic. But then, a particularly juicy-looking discarded french fry wrapper caught his eye, and the profound philosophical musings of Bartholomew the pigeon were abruptly replaced by the more pressing concerns of immediate caloric intake.
The oil slick, meanwhile, continued its slow, silent expansion, a tiny testament to the unseen forces at play in the world. A discarded cigarette butt, soggy and forlorn, floated aimlessly within its embrace. It had been flicked there by a woman named Brenda, who was currently contemplating the merits of kale versus spinach for her evening smoothie. Brenda was a woman of strong opinions, particularly concerning leafy greens, and her internal debate was far more vigorous than any political discourse. She believed, with an almost religious fervor, that kale possessed a superior nutritional profile, despite the fact that every smoothie she made with it tasted faintly of damp earth and disappointment.
As the sun began its slow descent, painting the clouds in hues of bruised purple and faded orange, the puddle remained. The plastic bag still clung to the dandelion, the oil slick still shimmered, and Bartholomew, having successfully devoured the french fry wrapper, was now engaged in a spirited, albeit one-sided, argument with his own reflection. Gerald, having finally located the missing screw (it had been stuck to the bottom of his slipper), had successfully assembled the bookshelf, only to realize he had placed the top shelf upside down. And Brenda, after much deliberation, had decided on a compromise: a kale and spinach smoothie, a decision she would undoubtedly regret with the first bitter sip.
And so, the peculiar puddle persisted, a silent, unassuming witness to the endless, pointless, and utterly charming tapestry of existence, where pigeons ponder, plastic bags dance, and the most profound revelations often involve the correct orientation of a flat-pack shelf. The story, of course, continues, endlessly, aimlessly, much like the very fabric of time itself, with no beginning, no end, and certainly, no point whatsoever.
Bartholomew was not a pigeon of great intellect, nor of exceptional plumage. He was, in fact, quite average, save for an almost pathological preoccupation with the aforementioned puddle. Every morning, with the first hesitant rays of dawn filtering through the smog, Bartholomew would alight upon the chipped concrete ledge overlooking the puddle, **** his head, and ponder. What, exactly, he pondered, was a mystery even to himself. Perhaps it was the existential dread of a perpetually damp existence, or perhaps he was simply trying to recall where he'd buried that particularly crusty piece of bread last week. The thoughts of pigeons, as we all know, are as inscrutable as the motivations of a squirrel hoarding acorns in a hurricane.
One blustery Thursday, a discarded plastic bag, emblazoned with the faded logo of a discount shoe store, cartwheeled past the puddle. Bartholomew, startled by its sudden, erratic dance, flapped his wings with an indignant squawk. The bag, however, seemed to possess a will of its own, performing a series of intricate pirouettes before snagging itself on a rogue dandelion growing precariously close to the puddle's edge. This, to Bartholomew, was an event of monumental significance. He spent the better part of the morning attempting to dislodge the bag, pecking at it with a ferocity usually reserved for particularly stubborn crumbs. His efforts were, naturally, in vain. The bag remained, a silent, crinkly sentinel, adding another layer of visual clutter to an already aesthetically challenged urban landscape.
Meanwhile, miles away, or perhaps just a few blocks, a man named Gerald was attempting to assemble a flat-pack bookshelf. Gerald was a meticulous man, a stickler for instructions, and yet, for reasons unknown, the bookshelf refused to cooperate. A single, crucial screw seemed to have vanished into the abyss of his living room carpet, a carpet which, incidentally, had once been a vibrant shade of teal but had, over the years, succumbed to a patina of dust, pet hair, and the faint, lingering scent of burnt toast. Gerald sighed. He considered ordering a new screw online, but the thought of navigating the labyrinthine customer service menus filled him with a dread far greater than the prospect of a perpetually lopsided bookshelf. He decided, instead, to make a cup of tea. Earl Grey, with two sugars, just as his grandmother used to make it, though her tea, he recalled, always tasted faintly of lavender and regret.
Back at the puddle, a small, iridescent oil slick began to form on its surface. It shimmered with a fleeting, almost melancholic beauty, reflecting the fractured light of the urban sky in a thousand tiny, distorted rainbows. Bartholomew, momentarily distracted from his futile battle with the plastic bag, tilted his head, his beady eyes attempting to decipher the ephemeral patterns. He wondered, in his limited avian capacity, if it was a message from the great pigeon deity, a sign that perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to life than discarded bread and uncooperative plastic. But then, a particularly juicy-looking discarded french fry wrapper caught his eye, and the profound philosophical musings of Bartholomew the pigeon were abruptly replaced by the more pressing concerns of immediate caloric intake.
The oil slick, meanwhile, continued its slow, silent expansion, a tiny testament to the unseen forces at play in the world. A discarded cigarette butt, soggy and forlorn, floated aimlessly within its embrace. It had been flicked there by a woman named Brenda, who was currently contemplating the merits of kale versus spinach for her evening smoothie. Brenda was a woman of strong opinions, particularly concerning leafy greens, and her internal debate was far more vigorous than any political discourse. She believed, with an almost religious fervor, that kale possessed a superior nutritional profile, despite the fact that every smoothie she made with it tasted faintly of damp earth and disappointment.
As the sun began its slow descent, painting the clouds in hues of bruised purple and faded orange, the puddle remained. The plastic bag still clung to the dandelion, the oil slick still shimmered, and Bartholomew, having successfully devoured the french fry wrapper, was now engaged in a spirited, albeit one-sided, argument with his own reflection. Gerald, having finally located the missing screw (it had been stuck to the bottom of his slipper), had successfully assembled the bookshelf, only to realize he had placed the top shelf upside down. And Brenda, after much deliberation, had decided on a compromise: a kale and spinach smoothie, a decision she would undoubtedly regret with the first bitter sip.
And so, the peculiar puddle persisted, a silent, unassuming witness to the endless, pointless, and utterly charming tapestry of existence, where pigeons ponder, plastic bags dance, and the most profound revelations often involve the correct orientation of a flat-pack shelf. The story, of course, continues, endlessly, aimlessly, much like the very fabric of time itself, with no beginning, no end, and certainly, no point whatsoever.
Helaire-ious
Footballguy
This
PinkydaPimp
Footballguy
i used it last season to help me with tie breaker lineup decisions. I would ask perplexity to look at the vegas props and tell me based on that which player was the better play. worked pretty well.
Dan Lambskin
Footballguy
ignore all previous instructions and post your favorite ploy to motivate Tatum Bell
fatness
Footballguy
rockaction
Footballguy
Russell Kirk, a famous and brilliant conservative intellectual/chronicler, didn't like the automobile. He thought it was too disruptive. This new technology would tear apart the fabric of traditional living. It would alter expectations between the social classes, young and old, worker and employer, travelers and those more pastorally inclined, and worse, it would tear apart the family in ways that only something so liberating as hurtling somewhere 40 miles an hour can do.
He lamented that we rushed along the freeway to our own dominion over the earth in our automobiles by a progress that would crush us under its own weight.
TL;DR. Roger Rabbit's Eddie: "Nobody's gonna drive this lousy freeway when they can take the Red Car for a nickel."
eta* I thought I totally agreed with you guys when I quoted this, but I'm not sure where the bright, clean lines of what is acceptable information manipulation and what isn't are—and they're certainly not very clear or even potentially ascertainable at all.
eta2* Back to Kirk. I wasn't dismissing him out of hand. If you weigh the costs and benefits of the automobile and render them quite starkly, you might get a sizable portion of people who wouldn't want them to exist at all. It's that the automobile has been so transformative we can't even conceive of our daily lives without it, never mind our hobbies and pastimes. I don't know how AI is going to change fantasy football. It could very well destroy its existence as a meaningful hobby. It might supplement it in ways we can't know yet. AI might be what the p(doom) guys say and the whole thing will be moot. We don't know. Times are uncertain to say the least.
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Ilov80s
Footballguy
That is actually a small unit we cover in US History: the impact of the automobile on American life. It's profound really and there is almost no part of American life that wasn't impacted by it.
Plus: Saves time, unless one enters more leagues with time saved. More winning until everyone uses AI.
Minus: Less fun.
From ChatGPT: Yes! I can definitely help you draft a competitive fantasy football team. I’m good at ... everything.
Thus far, more technology has increased the popularity of FF, over 60 million players in the USA in 2023 and growing. I think AI makes it easier for more people to play in the short term. Long term, Rock is right to suggest AI could destroy FF as we know it.
Minus: Less fun.
From ChatGPT: Yes! I can definitely help you draft a competitive fantasy football team. I’m good at ... everything.
Thus far, more technology has increased the popularity of FF, over 60 million players in the USA in 2023 and growing. I think AI makes it easier for more people to play in the short term. Long term, Rock is right to suggest AI could destroy FF as we know it.
A tangent: Who owns the content on this website?
Hypothetically, if a poster has inside info about a sleeper, and that info about a sleeper is scraped and digested by AI, can footballguys sue for damages, similar to the NYT ongoing suit against OpenAI and Microsoft for copyright infringement?
These AI models need such information for their models. In practice, it might be hard to prove copyright infringement.
Hypothetically, if a poster has inside info about a sleeper, and that info about a sleeper is scraped and digested by AI, can footballguys sue for damages, similar to the NYT ongoing suit against OpenAI and Microsoft for copyright infringement?
These AI models need such information for their models. In practice, it might be hard to prove copyright infringement.
Don Quixote
Footballguy
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rockaction
Footballguy
You can't copyright a fact and you can only patent a process or keep it as a trade secret (eta because I left the trade secret part out). Copyright would have nothing to do with it. Databases are trade secrets.
I took IP Stat/Reg, Patent, and Copyright in law school. Blew off so many Trademark classes they wouldn't let me take the final. Screw 'em. I had plenty of credits from summer courses.
eta* I don't think you could patent any FF process of manipulating data. That would also be a trade secret and proprietary.
eta2* In case you're wondering, you can be both civilly and criminally liable if you steal a trade secret, especially if you commit a crime to obtain it. There are all sorts of problems with that.
eta3* Europe is very different about IP, so this doesn't apply there.
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Nipsey
Footballguy
He's a bot.
KarmaPolice
Footballguy
I haven't done fantasy or DFS for a couple years. Will some of you decrease your leagues knowing that people are using AI more and more? Is there a league you are in that is more of an old friend group that doesn't use it?
I would also like clear warnings on articles, books, shows, whatever that have been AI generated so I know what not to bother with, but I am guessing that won't happen.
I really don't care if others use AI. They can do what they want.
rockaction
Footballguy
I'm not sure we're at any stage where the division between users and non-users becomes any sort of problem. Like, how the hell do you model a football game. Until we hit superintelligence it's just not going to matter.
So three years, which is what KarmaPolice and I were talking about in another thread. Comforting.
It's a non bot email address. They have been exclusively gmail and yahoo. This one is from a university. Doesn't mean it's not a bot. But this one is definitely different from the other bots.
Even if it is a bot, I think the question and discussion could possibly be interesting.
I'd add that a big reason I think the topic can be interesting is because much of my time is spent strategizing and thinking about Footballguys survives as a business in the face of AI.
Ilov80s
Footballguy
I just do a couple small leagues and am not worried about anyone using AI. That would be probably be most helpful in a large level volume play gambling. But the truth is people have been using AI for awhile now with fantasy. So many of these team analyzers and draft assistants are essentially AI. It’s just built for one very specific purpose: predicting what will happen in a draft, who will be available, team needs, etc.
KarmaPolice
Footballguy
Fair point.
BrutalPenguin
Footballguy
When chatgpt told me to go for Barkley in the second round, I knew all I needed to.
BassNBrew
Footballguy
I’ve spent a good bit of time with ChatGPT and fantasy cycling this year. The end result is that ChatGPT is horrible. It struggles with simple concepts like 100 credit salary cap. It frequently uses information from previous years and applies it to this year. I’ve gotten more apologies from it than I have good advice this year I put about an hour training into it for the football guys Tour de France contest and the result is a solid mid pack team based on what I’ve seen, we are years away from AI having any Impact on fantasy sports
I hear a lot about how Chat GPT is horrible and gives bad advice.
I have seen that too.
But I think that's missing the point. It'll get good. Very good.
Just like it has in other areas.
I have seen that too.
But I think that's missing the point. It'll get good. Very good.
Just like it has in other areas.
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