The same logic runs everywhere now. I've collected cold emails from agents addressed to me as a manager at a London fintech consultancy I left in 2016. I now live in Los Angeles. The agents did the research, hit the wrong target precisely, and went to bed. The cleaning industry's collective spreadsheet says I'm an office cleaning prospect at a company I haven't worked at in a decade. That isn't one bad agent. It's multiple operators working from the same broken substrate, none of whom paid the cost of verifying it.
Then it shows up on the production side. Open Gemini, ask for "a story in 10 sentences," run it twice. Both panes return the same opener: "The old lighthouse keeper, Elias, polished the brass railing, his weathered hands moving with practiced ease." The next nine sentences are also identical, beat for beat. Call it mode collapse, or the default basin of instruction tuning: when the prompt does no work, the model returns to a small set of safe, high-scoring archetypes. A lighthouse keeper named Elias Thorne is one of those.
The handbook ranks #18 in Oncology Nursing, #32 in Leukemia, and #51 in Lymphatic Cancer. People are finding it through the categories they were searching in. The mode-collapsed name from the chat window is now selling cancer advice to people with cancer.
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