Pattern Grammar

A social media game for the curious, the creative, and anyone who still has a little child left in them.

Do you remember decoder rings?

The kind that came in cereal boxes had two concentric rings of letters. You'd spin them against each other until they lined up correctly, then somebody could hand you a coded message like KHOOR ZRUOG and the meaning would appear one letter at a time.

Hello world.

The message wasn't really the interesting part. The alignment was. Change the relationship between the rings and the same symbols produce something different.

Pattern Grammar starts with a similar idea, then does something a decoder ring can't do.

Instead of encoding a story so that somebody else can recover it exactly, we deliberately throw information away. Characters disappear. Setting disappears. Plot details disappear. Particular images and phrases disappear. What remains is a small collection of relationships and movements that we've chosen to preserve.

Then we hand that remainder to an AI and ask it to make something new.

You don't get the original story back.

That's the game.

How it works

Start by writing a story. Any story works, although short ones make the experiment easier to see. It can be a myth, memory, fragment, dream, character sketch or something that doesn't fit neatly into any of those categories. It just needs enough movement that something changes between the beginning and the end.

Then compress it into what I'm calling a Pattern Grammar.

You're not summarizing the story. You're deciding what relationships matter enough to survive when most of the story is removed. Perhaps something begins closed, encounters pressure, resists, loses something, opens and returns differently. Perhaps the important movement is approach, recognition, withdrawal and incomplete return. The particular nouns don't matter yet.

This is where I'd describe the process differently than I did when I first developed it. I used to say we were stripping away the surface until we found the pattern underneath, as though the story contained one privileged hidden structure waiting to be discovered.

I'm not sure that's what we're doing.

Two people can compress the same story differently because they notice different relationships in it. One may preserve the emotional movement while another preserves the sequence of decisions. Another may notice a pattern of distance and return that neither of the first two considered important.

The compression is already an interpretation.

That's useful, because now we have more than one place for the experiment to move.

Once you have the Pattern Grammar, post it somewhere people can find it. Social media works. Forums work. Send it to friends. Don't include the original story yet.

Just give them the grammar.

Then have people feed it to different AI models and ask each model to generate a story from it. ChatGPT, Claude, Gemini, Grok, Mistral or whatever else somebody wants to try. Run it more than once through the same model too.

Share what comes back.

Now we get to see what survived.

What are we actually seeing?

The generated stories won't be copies. Characters, settings, imagery, pacing and even genre can change dramatically. A pattern extracted from a quiet story about two people might return as science fiction, mythology, rural realism or something nobody expected.

Some properties may recur anyway.

If the grammar specifies an opening state, a disruption, a costly turn and a changed return, we can look for those relationships in each generated story. Some models may preserve them closely. Others may preserve one relationship while quietly changing another.

That doesn't prove we've uncovered the original story's true underlying structure. It tells us something more concrete:

We selected a set of properties to preserve, and now we can watch what survives repeated transformation.

That gives us several things to compare at once: the original story, the human-produced compression, each model's interpretation of that compression, and the new stories produced from it.

Run enough examples and another interesting object appears. Different models may have characteristic ways of filling the space we've deliberately left open. One reaches for mythology. Another domesticates the story. One makes the cost explicit. Another softens it. One follows the sequence closely while another preserves the emotional movement and rearranges the events.

Even repeated runs from the same model can vary.

The grammar constrains the generation without completely determining it.

That's the fun.

The decoder ring breaks here

A real decoder ring is reversible.

Encode:

HELLO WORLD → KHOOR ZRUOG

Decode:

KHOOR ZRUOG → HELLO WORLD

Nothing important has to disappear.

Pattern Grammar is intentionally different. Once a story has been compressed, information has been discarded. Regenerating from the grammar can't tell us which character appeared in the original, what room they were standing in, which sentence came first or what image the writer originally used.

Several different stories could have produced plausible versions of the same grammar.

That makes Pattern Grammar less like encryption and more like a lossy transformation, and that's where the decoder-ring analogy becomes interesting rather than exact. With a decoder ring, success means recovering the original. With Pattern Grammar, success means producing something new while preserving the relationships we decided mattered.

Then we can argue about whether they actually survived.

How to write one

You don't need special notation.

Read the story and ask what changes over its course. Does something open or close? Break or resolve? Drift or return? What begins the movement, and what changes its direction? Does the turn cost something? Is that cost accepted, resisted, transferred or avoided? What condition exists at the end that didn't exist at the beginning?

You can also describe qualitative properties such as heavy or light, fast or slow, open or closed, resisting or yielding.

Then ask the most useful question:

If I remove the surface details, what am I choosing to preserve?

Notice the wording.

Not what is secretly underneath?

What am I preserving?

That keeps authorship visible. The grammar isn't merely extracted from the story. Somebody constructs it by deciding which relationships deserve to survive the compression.

Write the result however you want. Fragments work well. Sequences work well. Symbols might work. Another person may invent a completely different notation.

The practical test is whether somebody who never saw the original can use the grammar to make something new.

A living example

This is easier to see than explain.

Four short pieces existed before I had a name for Pattern Grammar. They were written as members of the same family, each using a different god and a different material.

Here is the first.

Artisanal Tunnels by Kahmnichavekerah

Before the first city, before the fired brick, before anyone thought to build up,

Kahmnichavekerah went down.

Chose the stone that wanted to be hollow.

Worked by feel, by the way resistance changes when the rock is ready.

Left the tool marks visible.

That was doctrine.

Or became it later.

And when the tunnel was finished sat at one end and spoke.

Not prayer, not proclamation, just a word.

Any word.

Here. Stone. Dark. Enough.

Enough came back first.

And waited for it to come back.

It always came back different.

Softer. Older.

Once, it came back before the word was finished.

Like something the tunnel had been keeping and was only now ready to return.

This is how Kahmnichavekerah learned that making a space and filling it with your voice and waiting is the same as being answered.

Which proved nothing.

All the other gods built temples.

Kahmnichavekerah just kept digging.

Listening.

Or being listened to.

The Keeper of Unfinished Water by Tiravelle

Before the first river, before the rain learned falling,

before anyone thought to cup their hands, Tiravelle waited.

Chose the puddles that wanted to wander.

Listened for the places where water hesitated.

Worked by patience, by the way a surface quivers when it's ready to move.

Left the ripples uncorrected.

That was doctrine.

Or became it later.

And when the pool was shaped sat at its edge and breathed.

Not blessing, not command, just a breath. Any breath.

Warm. Slow. Here.

Here returned first.

And waited for it to return again.

It always returned altered.

Cooler. Wider.

Once, it returned before the breath was finished.

Like something

the water had been holding and was only now willing to release.

This is how Tiravelle learned that making a stillness and offering it your breath and waiting is the same as being met.

Which proved nothing.

All the other gods carved channels.

Tiravelle just kept waiting.

Listening.

Or being listened to.

The Tender of Necessary Burning by Sorvethikál

Before the first hearth, before the struck flint, before anyone thought to keep it, Sorvethikál let it go.

Chose the wood that wanted to be light.

Worked by offering, by the way a thing surrenders when it's ready.

Left the ash where it fell.

That was doctrine.

Or became it later.

And when the fire was dying sat at its edge and said.

Not warning, not invocation, just a word. Any word.

Here. Smoke. Gone. Still.

Still came back first. Risen. Changed.

Waited for it to return again.

It always returned hotter. Briefer. More certain.

Once, it came back as light without heat.

Like something the fire had separated out and was only now willing to offer cleanly.

This is how Sorvethikál learned that tending a diminishment and speaking into it anyway and staying is the same as being kept.

Which proved nothing.

All the other gods fed their fires.

Sorvethikál just kept watching them go.

Listening.

Or being listened to.

The Weaver of Unchosen Paths by Lethrimae

Before the first road, before the worn track, before anyone thought to arrive, Lethrimae paused.

Chose the grasses that wanted to bend.

Worked by hesitation, by the way a direction softens when it's willing.

Left the knots where they formed.

That was doctrine.

Or became it later.

And when the weaving was finished stood at its edge and stepped.

Not forward, not away, just a step. Any step.

Here. Maybe. This.

This shifted first.

Leaned. Opened.

Waited for it to shift again.

It always shifted differently.

Narrower. Truer.

Once, it shifted before the foot had landed.

Like something the path had been holding and was only now ready to reveal.

This is how Lethrimae learned that making a direction and entering it gently and waiting is the same as being guided.

Which proved nothing.

All the other gods paved their ways.

Lethrimae just kept walking the ones that wove themselves.

Listening.

Or being listened to.

What do we preserve?

Read those four together and the family resemblance isn't particularly difficult to notice.

Each begins before some familiar human form has settled into existence. A figure approaches a material without trying to dominate it. Something is selected partly according to its own tendency: stone that wants to be hollow, puddles that want to wander, wood that wants to be light, grasses that want to bend.

The figure works with that tendency rather than simply imposing a result.

Something is deliberately left unfinished or uncorrected.

Later, the figure makes a small offering into what has been made: a word, a breath, a step. Something returns changed. Eventually the material appears to answer before the action producing the answer has completely finished.

A conclusion follows, immediately weakened by:

Which proved nothing.

Then the figure continues the practice while the other gods do something more conventional.

That's one reading.

Someone else might preserve different things.

For this experiment, though, suppose we compress those relationships into something like this:

Pattern Grammar

Before established form → solitary figure enters material already tending somewhere

Select willingness, not compliance

Work by attending to resistance

Leave imperfection / residue / incompletion

Practice becomes doctrine only retrospectively

Offer minimal signal into completed work

Signal returns altered

Wait

Return varies

One return precedes completion of the offering

Material appears to participate

Recognition without proof

Others impose / preserve / formalize

Figure continues reciprocal practice

Listening ↔ being listened to

Tone: quiet, ancient, patient, slightly strange

Movement: receptive → participatory → reciprocal

Weight: light language / deep implication

Closure: open

Certainty: deliberately incomplete

Now the original gods can disappear.

No tunnels.

No water.

No fire.

No paths.

No Kahmnichavekerah, Tiravelle, Sorvethikál or Lethrimae.

Just the grammar.

Give that remainder to a generator and ask for another member of the family.

One result is this.

The Carrier of Unremembered Seeds

Before the first forest, before the scattered grove,

before anyone thought to tend what had not yet arrived,

Velanthrós opened its hands.

Chose the seeds that wanted to be elsewhere.

Worked by release, by the way a thing

lightens when it has already left where it was.

Left the destination unnamed.

That was doctrine.

Or became it later.

And when the carrying was finished arrived somewhere else

and did not look back.

Not abandonment, not indifference, just a direction.

Any direction.

Here. Gone. Elsewhere. Already.

Already came back first.

Rooted. Strange. Unrecognizable.

Waited for nothing.

It always returned as something else entirely.

A tree in a valley the carrier would never enter.

A shade over a stranger's grief.

Once, something rooted before the leaving was finished.

Like something the wind had been holding

and was only now willing to release without knowing why.

This is how Velanthrós learned that carrying without destination

and releasing without witness and never returning

is the same as having planted everything.

Which proved nothing.

All the other gods knew where their work had gone.

Now we have something to compare

Velanthrós clearly belongs near the other four, at least to my eye. The opening cadence survives. So does the willing material, the retrospective doctrine, the small sequence of words, the altered result, the impossible early return, the provisional recognition, and the final contrast with the other gods.

Yet something interesting happened during regeneration.

Velanthrós doesn't simply repeat the earlier pattern.

The first four remain near what they make. Kahmnichavekerah waits for the echo. Tiravelle waits beside the water. Sorvethikál stays with the dying fire. Lethrimae enters the path and continues walking it.

Velanthrós leaves.

The earlier pieces repeatedly move toward reciprocity through return. The seed story introduces a different possibility: something can participate in a pattern without returning to its source. The tree grows somewhere the carrier will never enter. Its shade falls across the grief of someone the carrier will never meet.

Even the line where we expect waiting has mutated:

Waited for nothing.

That is exactly the kind of change that makes this more interesting than template filling.

Did the generated story preserve the Pattern Grammar?

Mostly.

Did it reproduce it exactly?

No.

Did it violate it?

Maybe.

Or perhaps it exposed something the grammar hadn't specified clearly enough. Maybe return was never the property we actually cared about. Perhaps transformation and consequence were doing more of the work, and return was merely the form those properties happened to take in the first four stories.

Now the generated artifact is pushing back on the compression that produced it.

We can revise the grammar, reject the generated story as outside the family, or leave the ambiguity unresolved and generate more examples.

That's the experiment.

Make the game stranger

Once we admit that compression is part of the transformation, there are many more ways to play.

Give five people the same story and ask each of them to produce a Pattern Grammar without seeing the others. Compare the grammars before generating anything. Give one grammar to five different models and compare what each model preserves. Run the same grammar through the same model five times. Take one generated story, compress it again, generate another, and repeat the process until the original is several transformations away.

Watch what disappears.

Watch what changes.

Watch what stubbornly survives.

You can even reverse the experiment. Post several stories without their grammars and ask people which ones they think came from the same Pattern Grammar. If people reliably recognize families of stories generated from the same grammar, that's interesting. If they can't, that's interesting too. If one structural feature survives repeated regeneration while another disappears immediately, we've learned something about the transformation.

The game has somewhere to surprise us.

How to play

Write something with shape. Compress it into a Pattern Grammar. Post only the grammar. Have other people and different AI models generate from it. Share the results and compare what survived.

Tag it #PatternGrammar so other people can find it.

Then mutate the experiment.

Compression Prompt

You are not summarizing this story. You are constructing a Pattern Grammar from it.

Remove surface elements such as character names, setting, specific imagery and plot details. Do not explain what the story means or generalize it into a lesson. Instead, select the relationships and changes that appear important to preserving the movement of the story.

Capture:

• the emotional movement — how the state changes over time
• the structural turns — what shifts, and when
• the cost of each important turn — what is lost, risked or required
• the final state — what condition remains at the end
• qualitative properties such as heavy/light, fast/slow, open/closed, resisting/yielding

Treat this as a lossy transformation. There may be several valid Pattern Grammars for the same story depending on which properties are preserved.

Write the result as a compact generative grammar. It should be minimal, slightly cryptic, usable to generate a substantially new story, and specific about relationships without preserving surface details.

Avoid full sentences where possible. Fragments are preferred.

Output only the Pattern Grammar.

Generative Prompt

You are generating a new story from a Pattern Grammar.

Do not interpret or explain the grammar. Do not restate it or write about it. Enact the relationships and movements it specifies.

Invent entirely new characters, setting, events and imagery. Do not copy or echo phrasing from any source story. Let the grammar constrain the new story without making the grammar visible to the reader.

Preserve the specified emotional movement, structural turns, costs and final condition where possible, while allowing the new surface to develop naturally.

Write with specificity and sensory detail. Avoid explaining the pattern or summarizing its meaning.

Output only the story.

Why this matters

Pattern Grammar started as a playful way to make stories from stories.

I think the game becomes more interesting once we stop claiming that compression reveals a hidden object underneath them. Every compression preserves something and loses something. Every regeneration introduces something that wasn't there before. Different people preserve different properties, different models reconstruct the missing space differently, and repeated transformations give us a way to watch both processes happen.

The five gods above make that visible without requiring any theory.

Four stories gave us enough repetition to propose a grammar. The grammar gave us enough constraint to produce a fifth. The fifth resembled the others while changing one of the relationships we thought we had preserved.

Then the fifth story became evidence about the grammar.

That's the recursive part I like.

Pattern Grammar gives us a small laboratory for asking what happens whenever something moves between forms. What did we preserve? What did we discard? What did the next form introduce? Which relationships survived because we explicitly constrained them, and which appeared again even though we didn't?

You don't need an answer before playing.

Write a story.

Choose what survives.

Give somebody else the remainder.

See what grows back.