Redesigning the Essay in an A.I. World

Last week, I considered the future of the university lecture in an A.I. world. This week, I continue those sets of questions to focus on the essay.

The essay has long been the gold standard of academic writing. In colleges and universities, it’s the default assignment across disciplines: a tool to assess critical thinking, depth of understanding, and rhetorical skill. But in an age of artificial intelligence—where a well-crafted, grammatically flawless, and even insightful essay can be generated in seconds (I know this is a big assumption for some of us)—what becomes of this trusted pedagogical form? Do we abandon the essay? Double down on anti-plagiarism software? Or do we seize this moment to reimagine it for a new era?

The truth is, the essay was already overdue for reinvention. A.I. didn’t create the crisis in student writing; it simply exposed the cracks that were already there. Too often, essays are written not to discover ideas but to perform them—mimicking the structure and tone students think their professors want, offering safe theses and formulaic paragraphs in exchange for a decent grade. What A.I. tools like ChatGPT now threaten to replace was, in some cases, already a hollow exercise.

Yet the essay, at its best, has never been about regurgitation. It is a genre born of curiosity, doubt, and argument. The word itself comes from the French essayer—to try, to attempt. In the hands of Michel de Montaigne, Addison & Steele, William Hazlitt, George Orwell, Virginia Woolf, James Baldwin, Joan Didion, E.B. White, or Annie Dillard, the essay is not a report but an exploration. It is a mode of thinking on the page, of turning experience or evidence into insight. This is the tradition we must return to—not out of nostalgia, but out of necessity. If A.I. can write an essay that earns a B+, then maybe the B+ essay needs to go.

What would a redesigned essay look like in this new landscape? First, it would be more process-oriented. Instead of assessing only the final product, writing assignments could foreground the thinking behind the writing: annotated bibliographies, idea maps, reflective memos, revision notes. These steps can’t be easily automated and offer insight into a student’s intellectual journey. Process writing also shifts the focus from output to growth, from answers to inquiry.

Second, the essay of the future must become more personal and situated. A.I. can mimic generalizations but struggles with context, specificity, and embodied experience. (As I’ve written earlier this semester, you can’t fake the experience.) Assignments that ask students to connect course ideas to their own communities, histories, or ethical commitments create space for meaningful engagement. This isn’t about turning every paper into a personal narrative—it’s about inviting students to see knowledge as something lived, not merely cited.

Third, we must embrace multimodality. In the digital age, argument is rarely confined to 12-point Times New Roman on an 8.5×11 sheet. Students are already composing in tweets, podcasts, videos, zines, and Instagram carousels. These formats require the same rhetorical choices—audience awareness, tone, evidence—but expand what counts as “writing.” Asking students to translate their research into a podcast or infographic doesn’t replace the essay; it deepens it. It teaches adaptability, creativity, and communication across platforms. In a world where A.I. may generate the first draft, these human refinements matter more than ever.

Of course, some will argue this dilutes academic rigor. But the real threat to rigor is not innovation—it’s stagnation. Continuing to assign five-paragraph essays while the world changes around us is not rigor; it’s resignation. Rigor is asking students to think critically about A.I., to engage it as a tool, a topic, and a challenge. For instance, what if students were tasked with generating an A.I.-written draft, then asked to critique its assumptions, revise its structure, or fact-check its claims? What if we stopped treating ChatGPT as the enemy and started treating it as a writing partner whose limitations are as revealing as its strengths?

At the same time, we must also teach the ethical dimensions of writing in an A.I. world. Who gets credit for generated content? What counts as original thought? These are not just compliance issues; they are philosophical ones. They touch on authorship, ownership, and the purpose of education itself. If we redesign the essay only to outsmart the machines, we will miss the deeper opportunity: to prepare students not just to write better, but to think more deeply about how writing works in a changing world.

The crisis of the essay is not a technological one—it is a cultural one. We are being forced to ask what we want student writing to do. Should it prove mastery of course material? Demonstrate independent thought? Persuade a public audience? Reflect on identity and experience? Each goal calls for a different kind of assignment, a different kind of assessment. The age of the one-size-fits-all essay is over.

And perhaps that’s for the best. For too long, the essay has been treated as a static form rather than a living practice. In reimagining it for the A.I. age, we have the chance to make it matter again—to students, to instructors, and to the larger intellectual and civic life we hope higher education fosters.

If the lecture is not dead but reborn through TED Talks, YouTube explainers, and dynamic classroom engagement, so too the essay can find new life—not as a relic of paper-and-pen academia, but as a flexible, evolving genre that teaches the skills we need now: discernment, synthesis, reflection, and voice.

We do not need to mourn the loss of the essay. We need to teach it anew.

This is part 5 of a 10-part series on A.I. and education. Each offers a reflection on teaching courses on Professional Writing, Creative Writing, and Digital Studies in the Spring 2025 semester.