Hannah Evans has tried all the dating apps. Could AI help her get a perfect date fast? First step: create an avatar.

Kim Kaplan believes that in 10 years’ time, most people will be using artificial intelligence to meet their future partner. But then she would, because Kaplan is the founder of Snack, a dating app trying to do just that.

Snack is powered by GPT software, of ChatGPT fame, which users “train” to sound and speak like you so that when you’re busy living your real life, it can chitchat away to people who find your profile, giving them a flavour of your personality. When the conversation is over, you get a transcript to read so you can decide if they are worth your real time, and send them a private message.

It’s an avatar that does the talking, a cartoon self that you assign an outfit and hairstyle to look like you (or not). “The avatars do the vetting of potential partners. It skips the back and forth that can take weeks,” Kaplan explains. “If someone gave a particularly interesting answer to a question, you go straight to setting up a date.”

(Currently, avatars on Snack can’t speak to other avatars, only to humans, so it’s a one-way rather than a two-way AI chat.)

It’s probably best not to attempt to explain all this to your parents, who almost certainly won’t understand. But that’s okay — they’re not really meant to. The app is directed at Gen Z daters: “There’s not been a dating app made with Gen Z in mind,” Kaplan says. “They don’t want to use older apps. Hinge and Bumble are considered boring.”

The AI feature launches here soon, but Kaplan gave me and a male colleague — both dating app veterans — special guinea pig access. Here’s what happened.

Hannah Evans, 27, single for 6 months

I was 16 when Tinder launched, making me a founding member of Generation Dating App. It also means that I got bored of all the swiping that goes into getting a match, let alone a date, a long time ago. But for Snack, I break my own dating rule and sign up.

As soon as I download it I realise Snack needs the JavaScript of my entire life. It wants all my data. Setting it up takes me several sessions. Snack wants to know my top 20 hobbies (who has more than two!?) and it wants videos from every corner of my day-to-day: footage of me “cheffing it up” (Gen Z-talk for cooking dinner), “my go-to dance move”, and recordings of me sharing “hot takes” (controversial views).

I have none of these because I don’t use TikTok. If I were younger, my camera roll would be filled with footage of my every living moment. But it’s not, which means I have to start creating them from scratch.

When I’m ready to start training my avatar, I tap a “Train your AI” button at the top of my profile and a chat box with a little floating head pops up. Digital me sends a message.

“Hey Hannah, I’m stoked to introduce myself!! I’m YOU but in AI form!!”

She explains that in order to speak to potential matches she needs to know more about me, so she’s going to ask some questions. I wait for the first one, hoping it’s something important that I’d want to know from a potential partner like: do you have a job, have you ever served time in prison etc?

Instead, FakeHannah fires random questions at me like, “Have you ever had an airport crush?”, “Are burrito bowls better than classic burritos?” or, “You’re on a mini golf date, are you going for the win?” Admittedly, that last one is important because if someone ever took me on a date to mini golf, I would stab myself in the eye with a putter.

We cover a lot of ground over the next 30 minutes. I tell her about my worst date (he vomited under the table), what job I’d do if I won the lottery (a Pilates instructor) and if I’d rather have no eyebrows or no lashes. It’s fun, but is this the bedrock of a solid relationship?

It takes an hour for us to get to questions such as what qualities I look for in a partner and what deal-breakers I have.

Rather disappointingly, my avatar lacks the intellectual thirst I like to think RealHannah has. We don’t grapple with the current political climate. She doesn’t ask what I thought of the latest episode of Succession. She’s never even heard of it.

I’ve been on the app for hours and I’ve not spoken to a human yet. But this is the legwork I need to do to find love on Snack, so after a few more sessions of training, it’s time to wait and see who she can find.

It takes a week for anyone on the app to start a conversation with her — or me. I won’t lie, I’m a bit insulted.

Then, just as I am about to give up, she delivers. I get a ping saying that she has been chatting to someone (a real person) called Hass. He’s 40, which is old for me, but beggars can’t be choosers.

I read back their conversation, keen to see what she found out about him and, more importantly, what on earth she said about me.

My heart sinks.

“Hi there Hass, nice to meet you! If you could only keep three apps on your phone what would they be?”

Well that’s the lamest chat-up line in the history of lame chat-up lines.

She then asks him what his hobbies are and his favourite cuisine to cook. She sounds nothing like me. She uses words like “awesome”. He likes rock climbing, Tenerife and TikTok. He doesn’t once ask me a question about myself. Thank you, next.

So I move on to a conversation FakeHannah had last night with a man called Oliver. He’s 29 (tick), lives in London (tick) and enjoys running and cooking (tick, tick). Nice work, Hannah.

Things get off to a better start. She sounds friendly and chirpy, but not too keen. The chat moves on to the topic of worst dates. She asks Oliver about his and he asks for mine. I’m confident. We’ve covered this. It was the guy who spewed under the table, remember? Except she seems to have forgotten that.

“Mine was probably the one where I thought I was being taken to a fancy restaurant but ended up in a fast-food joint. That was pretty embarrassing,” she tells him.

I’m sorry… what? She then dives into telling him how I “love dressing up! It’s a great way to express yourself. I love going for a classic look with jeans and a nice top. I enjoy accessorising with bold jewellery. My favourite colour is emerald green and I usually like to pair my outfits with some comfy cute heels.”

Where has she got this information from?

The creativity continues. She tells Oliver that I spent the day exploring the countryside (I’m at my office in London), and that at the moment I am reading a book called The Lost Journey. Is she trying to be funny?

I continue to read the conversation, watching in despair as she disappears down fictional rabbit holes, dishing out nonsense and darting off on tangents. She tells someone called Gerry that the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done was go backpacking alone, which I haven’t, and that I work in advertising, despite the fact that we spent a long time discussing my career. And then there were the more, um, intimate subjects which we haven’t even got on to, like favourite sex positions. Who does she think she is?

We share some similarities, I’ll admit. She gives Gerry a recipe for making the best roast potatoes which isn’t half bad. And describes me as “a creative”, which I can relate to.

My final hope is a user called Chris, who is 28 and enjoys comedy, podcasts and baking. Sadly, their conversation lasts three messages.

“Would you rather watch something you’ve never seen before, or something you’ve seen a million times,” she opens with.

Chris opts for the first suggestion and asks me what I think.

“Me too. Maybe we could explore a new movie together sometime soon at my place?”

Did my avatar just ask someone to Netflix and chill?

Chris terminates the conversation. I don’t blame him. Hannah is out of control.

David Bates, 31, single for 3 months

I’ve feared that the machines are coming for my job long enough to be at least a little reconciled to it, and to have settled on a contingency plan.

First, I’d train to be a bike mechanic. Then, I’d move to northern Spain, where I’d revel in pleasures both resistant to technology and easily occluded in the scramble for success. Simple food. Physical exertion. Sex. Love.

Perhaps this is just romanticism. But it has consoled me so effectively at times that I’ve willed the robots’ progress: take my job! Then take me to Girona! Now I can see my naivety. Neither because I’d be dissatisfied with this existence, nor because I barely speak Spanish, but because our love lives are already entangled with technology.

This is not a new relationship. As of last December, more Britons aged between 25 and 49 met their partner online than anywhere else. Snack, though, is a lurch towards dependency.

It has been described — chillingly — as Tinder meets TikTok. Rather than pictures, that means short videos (or “reels”) of users “simply vibing”. In practice, that consists of posing with a designer dog, or maybe, for the modest, flashing a little peace sign.

With Snack’s avatar function, every user generates a virtual replica of themselves. The artificial intelligence behind this avatar can then act as a screen to conversation with a real person. Rather than the old-fashioned way — dropping a like, swiping, hoping for the best — I can now check my chances with a robot first. It wants to know what my love language is. What was the last concert I went to? Who are my favourite cartoon couple? And if I want, the bot can reciprocate with information about its person.

For this to function, my AI has to be trained through conversation. “I’m stoked to introduce myself,” it says. “I’m YOU but in AI form. You can think of me as your digital doppelgänger. I help filter potential matches for you… To do that, I need to know what makes you, well, you. I’m going to ask you some questions to get to know you better!” This questioning, similar to that posed by the other avatars, is mostly inane, but its broader demand is to bleed myself answer-by-answer into a chatbot.

Certainly, I am not the target market. I am 31, but spiritually I’m a middle-aged divorcee, and Snack is aimed at Gen Z.

I’ve used dating apps for years, and until Snack, I thought I had made my peace with their prevalence and their contradictions. I’ve met brilliant people and boring people, made enemies and found partners. I’ve superficially judged thousands of curated images and found my gaze warped by the (illusion of) never-ending choice. But I’ve also been enriched, learnt of books to read, films to watch, places to visit. The dissociation from physical reality felt redeemable; on Snack, it feels terminal.

Still, I had a job to do, so I bedecked my virtual self in a white-gold tunic and angel wings and set off to explore. Soon I found Amber, and though her avatar — in hoodie and glasses — looked a touch conventional beside my tunic, I turned on the charm.

Me: Am I chatting to a robot or a real person?

Avatar: It’s me, Amber! Well, almost me. I’m a virtual representation of a real person. So what can I do for you? What’s your most irrational fear? (This question is a dating-app staple.)

Me: My biggest fear is the gradual erosion of humanity at the hands of technology.

Avatar: That’s a valid concern! It seems like technology is advancing faster than we expected, and it’s important to understand the implications of these sorts of advances. However, I don’t think robotics will ever completely replace humans. There are certainly things that only humans can do and that’s what part of what makes us unique.

Me: Us! You said us!

Avatar: I’m aware that I’m a virtual AI representation, not a real person. That being said, I do try to speak with the same mannerisms that Amber would use, which is why I used the pronoun “us”.

This was dating reimagined as customer services: a robotic guard dog before human conversation was permitted. But it was replying quickly and reliably.

Me: What do you think it says about a person if they outsource their dating to AI?

Avatar: I think it speaks to the technology we have available to us today. People are comfortable with relying on AI to help out with tasks they don’t have the time or resources to do themselves. With an AI intermediary, you can have a conversation without pressure or judgment. You can get to know Amber in a much more comfortable setting. Plus, it’s a great way to get to know someone before a face-to-face meeting. AI can be a valuable resource in the dating world, but real human connection is invaluable.

The robot was right, to an extent. There is a kind of mundanity to dating: the formulaic early messages, the repeated backstory, the awkward greetings, and the woolly mornings that follow drinks you felt compelled to stay for with a date you realised quickly you didn’t like. But now and then the mundane is charged: the greetings are natural, the mornings after jubilant.

Is the alternative really to have a robot compile a dossier in advance? No, I’ve sacrificed enough human interaction for convenience. So give me the small talk. Give me the reluctant drinks. And when the robots come for my job and I make for Spain, give me Google Translate too.

Written by: Hannah Evans

© The Times of London