On explanation, shared curiosity, and the trust that makes a conversation worth having.
Last week, I had Korean food in Hong Kong with a Korean friend who had booked the restaurant.
There was something mildly embarrassing about making the visitor organise dinner. Fortunately, he’s a good friend.
We hadn’t seen each other for twelve years. The last time was over dinner in Korea, with plenty of drinks. Somewhere in that conversation, we’d talked about crypto and Bitcoin.
This time, he told me something I hadn’t known: he’d gone on to buy some.
I had strong views about Bitcoin back then. Its subsequent rise wasn’t something I’d considered impossible. But having conviction isn’t the same as knowing what will happen.
And I wasn’t selling him anything. I’ve never considered myself a salesman, or a particularly strong communicator. He listened, evaluated the idea, and made his own decision.
I’m not claiming credit. What interested me was that a conversation twelve years earlier had led somewhere—and I hadn’t known until now.
There’s a Chinese expression, 一見如故 (yī jiàn rú gù): meeting someone and feeling as though you’ve known them for years. Although we were old friends, it captures the ease of that evening. Twelve years apart, and very little distance to cross.
Over food, drinks, and more drinks, we discussed all sorts of things, including AI. He asked thoughtful questions. I enjoyed explaining what I’d been doing.
That surprised me, because lately I’ve been telling myself that I don’t want to explain things anymore.
“Who asked for the explanation?”
Another close friend prompted that thought around the same week.
“I’m not very good at explaining things,” I told her.
Then I corrected myself.
It wasn’t quite that I couldn’t. I just didn’t want to.
“Who asked for the explanation?” she replied.
It wasn’t a put-down. She knows me well, and there’s enough trust between us for a blunt question to become something worth considering rather than something to defend against.
Since I started using AI for coding over the past twelve months, I’ve noticed that I’m talking less.
The obvious explanation is busyness. Keeping up with the field takes attention.
But I’ve also become more selective about conversations. Before introducing an idea, I sometimes anticipate the work involved: the background, the examples, the qualifications.
What feels like one observation in my head may require a whole backstory before it makes sense to someone else.
Trust doesn’t give us the same background
A third conversation brought this into focus.
I was explaining a problem I’d encountered with over-specifying prompts for AI coding. This friend is one of my best friends. He knows my software development background and has trusted me with technical work.
But he didn’t immediately understand the point.
We were starting from different experiences. I was referring to situations he hadn’t encountered in the same way.
He was receptive. We worked through it. Eventually, the idea became clearer, and he was willing to explore it.
Still, explaining took time.
Trust had given him a reason to take the observation seriously. It hadn’t automatically supplied the context needed to understand it.
That’s where I think AI could help.
Help with the explanation
I don’t mean bringing in AI to prove me right. Nor do I mean answering every question with “go ask a chatbot.”
I mean using it together.
I describe my observation. My friend explains what isn’t clear. AI helps us unpack a concept, try another example, or identify an assumption I’ve left unstated.
Perhaps he understands my point better. Perhaps his questions reveal that I need to revise it.
I would still need to check that the explanation represented what I meant. A convincing paraphrase isn’t useful if it quietly changes the claim.
But I’d welcome help with rebuilding background. I don’t always want to produce every possible version of an explanation myself, on the spot.
AI can help bridge understanding. It cannot, on its own, create the trust that makes us willing to explore an idea together.
How quickly should I change the channel?
The dinner with my Korean friend complicates my claim that I don’t want to explain things.
He asked questions. I explained things. We explored possibilities. None of it felt like a burden.
We had history, but the ease also came from curiosity and goodwill. That can happen with someone new, too. You don’t always need years of friendship to recognise someone you can talk to.
And agreement isn’t the requirement. Thoughtful disagreement can be the best part.
What I’m less willing to entertain is questioning whose purpose seems to be catching someone out rather than understanding what they mean.
There’s a Cantonese saying: 「唔啱 Channel」 If the channel isn’t right for you, change it.
I’ve become better at doing that—recognising when a conversation isn’t going anywhere and allowing myself to leave it there.
But I’m also wondering how quickly I reach for the remote.
Sometimes we genuinely have nothing we want to explore together. Sometimes we simply haven’t found a way to understand each other yet. I don’t want to mistake one for the other.
The trust I value in my closest friendships had to begin somewhere. And explaining isn’t only something trust makes easier; it can also be one of the ways we build it.
I still have plenty to say
These three conversations happened within roughly a week. Together, they made me question the story I’d been telling myself.
“I don’t want to explain things” is too broad.
I still enjoy sharing ideas. I want questions that make me think. And I value conversations where something unexpected emerges—a clearer understanding, a different perspective, or a possibility worth exploring.
The Bitcoin story reminded me that a conversation can lead somewhere without either person setting out to persuade.
Perhaps I’m becoming more deliberate about where I put my attention. Perhaps I’ve also become less patient with the work that understanding sometimes requires.
I haven’t fully worked that out.
But after a long dinner with an old friend, I know I’m not finished talking.
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