If AI Wrote This Post, Do We Still Need Me? A Behavioral Look at the Cult of Personal Credit

#5 in the AI Diaries series. Previous Posts: 1 2 3 4

Note: Anyone who’s sentient is likely to know that the advent of sophisticated generative artificial intelligence (AI) systems raises all kinds of concerns for human beings. This post explores a behavioral perspective on one very specific issue. For a lovely broad survey of how AI impacts behavior analysis, see a three-part series by Janet Twyman in the Behavior Analysis in Organizations section of the Behavior Analysis Blogs: Part 1Part 2Part 3

Once the behavior of writing arose several thousand years ago, it became a foundational feature of cultures that employed it. It’s thought that writing initially was used for mundane record keeping, but over time its functions have expanded considerably. Of special interest in this post: In the past 2000 years or so, the practice of writing has become intimately entangled with our sense of people who write. We’ve come to think of writing not just as “information” but as the inimitable distillation of the essence of some unique individual. Codifying this conflation of writer and writing, in the modern world both professional ethics and intellectual property law hold that people who write legally own what they create.

It’s understandable, therefore, that we homo sapiens can feel a bit flummoxed by writing that has no author… or at least no human author. Artificial intelligence (AI) agents have become so sophisticated that they can write as well as, or better than, a lot of humans. Here’s a brief illustration. I asked the free-to-use chatbot ChatGPT to do what I do on the regular, namely compose a post for the ABAI Behavior Analysis Blogs. The specific assignment I gave ChatGPT was:

At the end of this post you can see what it took ChatGPT about 20 seconds to compose (I did some minor reformatting but left the content alone). The not-terrible result will surprise no one who’s digitally engaged. It’s factually pretty solid (Note 1) and the writing, if not exhilarating, is grammatical, well organized and pretty easy to read (Note 2). Oh, and note that this “synthetic post” was composed about 6 months ago (January, 2026). In just the short time since then AI writing has gotten considerably better. The results may remain a bit light on swashbuckling style, but in professional writing accuracy and clarity matter more than creativity.

Note 1: On Accuracy

As any observer of the AI revolution can tell you, it’s necessary to read what AI writes carefully. Metaphorically speaking, the programming of a chatbot places greater emphasis on producing a complete product than on being accurate, so in service of telling a good story, chatbots sometimes just make stuff up. A familiar instance of this is the annoying habit of chatbots to invent academic references to support what they write. In the AI-generated post below, for example, see the references designated with asterisks (**). The overall content of the piece may be pretty decent, but four of seven cited sources are fictional.

Note 2: On Readability

In composing its post, ChatGPT likely took into account my prompt to “[use] the technical language of behavior analysis.” The resulting post is at the high college reading level, but you can ask ChatGPT for text at any reading level you like (although of course at some point readability goals will come into conflict with the use of proper technical language so, just as when humans compose, it’s critical to match reading level to audience needs and abilities).

By the way, when I said that the AI-generated post below is easy to read, that doesn’t mean it’s great writing. It has been noted that, in their current iterations at least, chatbots often generate text that’s vaguely irritating (warning: paywall). Says the author of the linked essay about AI’s prose:

It’s weird…. When you spend enough time around A.I.-generated text, you start to develop a novel form of paranoia. At this point, I have a pretty advanced case. Every clunky metaphor sets me off; every waffling blog post has the dead cadence of the machine. This year, I read an article in which a writer complained about A.I. tools cheapening the craft. But I could barely pay attention, because I kept encountering sentences that felt as if they’d been written by A.I.

I’m sympathetic, I am. But across many years I have graded countless student essays and edited countless journal manuscript submissions and I can tell you with utmost confidence: In the race to create truly terrible writing, no chatbot can compete with human beings.

Perhaps a lot of what bots write is uninspired, and perhaps the most skilled homo sapiens still can generate words that would make a chatbot jealous if it felt emotions. But I’ll take workmanlike, competent text any day over the floridly, creatively, adventurously abominable blathering that many humans have given me.

Of course, you can always ask your chatbot to compose in a style of your preference. I repeated my request to ChatGPT with the added proviso of “in the writing style of Kurt Vonnegut.” Here’s a lightly-edited glimpse at part of what it produced:

Human behavior is messy, cyclical, and stubborn. So it should not surprise any behavior analyst that behaviors, like old high-school acquaintances, tend to show up again at the worst possible times. In behavior analysis, we call this resurgence. And unlike those acquaintances, resurgence is predictable, measurable, and—thank goodness—modifiable. So pull up a chair. Smoke a cigarette if that’s your thing (it shouldn’t be). Let’s talk about how the science of resurgence can help us build sturdier, more humane autism treatment plans.

What Resurgence Is, and Why It Loves to Ruin Your Best-Laid Plans

Resurgence is a simple three-act play. Act I: Reinforcement – A behavior, typically a challenging one, has a long and sticky history of reinforcement. Act II: Extinction + Alternative Reinforcement – You extinguish the challenging behavior and reinforce a shiny new alternative response. That’s your hero—usually an FCR wearing a cape. Act III: Worsening Reinforcement for the Alternative Response – Suddenly the alternative behavior stops paying off so well. Maybe reinforcement is thinned too fast. Maybe caregivers are tired, distracted, or simply human. Then—bam!—the old challenging behavior busts through the wall like the Kool-Aid Man. This is resurgence. It is not moral failure. It is not regression. It is not “attention-seeking.” It is physics for behavior. Lattal and St. Peter (2018) describe resurgence as a behavioral relapse process driven by changes in reinforcement history and context. Like death and taxes, it is reliable.

What gets many people’s britches in a bunch is not so much that AI can write, but rather that humans may be tempted to represent AI’s handiwork as their own. Currently, scholarly journals fret about the growing proportion of scientific papers that may contain AI-generated text. Academic institutions hyperventilate over AI-composed “student” assignments. And in a delightful twist on the “unique creation” theme, those students who freely make use of AI’s compositional powers? They complain that what it writes, however topically accurate and helpful in completing assignments, “doesn’t sound like me.”

It’s interesting to ponder why people consider such things to be a problem. We could start by saying, not all that informatively, that “people are just like that.” Here’s an entertainment reporter commenting on the purpose and appeal of feature stories about the folks who make movies and plays:

When people see something that touches them, they want to understand where it came from. They want to know who exactly it was that recognized their human wounds, who recognized them and made them feel less alone. That is what great art inspires in people. [It makes them want to] understand the person who made the art, which is just as essential as the art itself. There’s an entire conversation about separating the art from the artist, but maybe the conversation persists because we know we can’t do it. The art is the person.

However, that’s really just a description of what we’re trying to unpack in this post, something curious about how we humans regard the provenance of writing. In a previous post, I proposed that the most important thing about writing is that it serves reader needs. Without changing reader behavior, writing is just the felling of verbal trees in a silent wood. If you take this perspective to heart, and emphasize what writing accomplishes over how it is composed, then all of the hand-wringing about AI’s contributions becomes hard to understand. I mean, if writing benefits readers, who cares how it gets made?

But the fact that we do care, a lot, illustrates a “cult of originality” that has grown up around writing. In modern sensibilities writing is a dual-purpose activity that both influences readers and proclaims the unique essence of the person who wrote it.

It hasn’t always been that way. There was a time when writers did not even sign their creations. The first writing whose author we can identify comes from about 4300 years ago, and its author rather stridently defended the provenance of her work.

The compiler of the tablet (is) Enheduanna. My lord, that which has been created (here) no one has created before.

A cult is born: Clay tablets from the Yale Babylonian Collection featuring Enheduanna’s iconic written stylings. Image credit: Klaus Wagensonner.

Those two sentences launched the cult of originality. Before Enheduanna, there seems to have been no systematic compulsion to associate specific written products with specific individuals. But formally attributing writing to the writer soon became common (although the modern legal concept of author rights didn’t emerge until the 17th and 18th Centuries).

Our contemporary instincts follow Enheduanna’s lead by blurring the boundary between the writer and what’s written. For example, we refer to books of the Christian Gospels according to their authors (Matthew, Luke, John, and Mark) rather than their content, and we speak of “reading Shakespeare” rather than reading some particular work by Shakespeare.

Thus, although writing may convey a message, with the invention of authorship expectations rose. A written message became treated not just as informative but also as a way to distinguish between individual writers (e.g., see Note 3). And if a crucial social function of writing is to draw attention to the writer as a distinct creator, well then, yes, it’s essential that any wordsmithing for which I claim credit truly be mine. As a writer, I’m expected to compose something that’s both useful and distinct from what other people write. In certain circles I’m even expected to verify my own originality. In scholarly writing, for instance, when I borrow from others’ compositions I’m obligated to ‘fess up by citing my sources so that a reader will know who deserves credit for what portion of the product.

Note 3: Cancel Culture as Equivalence of S-Minuses

A fascinating recent side effect of “the cult of originality” is the application to authors of cancel culture, in which a creative product becomes viewed as objectionable because its author has done something objectionable (even if the creative product is otherwise spectacular and thematically unrelated to the author’s transgression). Whatever your views on the desirability of cancel culture, it demonstrates how writer and writing have become integrated into a sort of equivalence class/frame of coordination, and how behavioral functions evoked by the author become evoked by the author’s written works.

“Assigning credit” for writing is something people do, so we may ask what conditions evoke this behavior. It’s a safe bet that the cult of originality arose when tangible personal benefits began to flow from writing. An ancient Egyptian (or maybe Balkan?) scribe who recorded the size of the wheat harvest into the public record presumably gained neither fame nor fortune from doing so. Nowadays, though, considerable notoriety and financial compensation can hinge on what people write. Look at the publish-or-perish system in academia, or the profits earned from publishing and selling books, or even the “branding” of treatment plans in the applied world (Note 4). When there’s something to be gained from receiving credit for a written product, credit is what people actively pursue.

And thus, although the title character in Hamlet asserted that “The play’s the thing,” to author Shakespeare it presumably mattered that the “thing” leveraged accolades and a paycheck (Note 5).

Note 4: On the Branding of Treatments

“Branding” means using words to assure that certain individuals receive credit for some treatment, regardless of its actual origin. One of my favorite examples comes from Alan Kazdin, who’s a brilliant, intimidatingly productive scholar, and one of my favorite people in all of Psychology. Among the things Kazdin is known for is “The Kazdin Method,” basically a protocol for dealing with child and adolescent behavior issues that serves as the basis of numerous commericial products from which Kazdin benefits financially. The thing is, there’s not much in “The Kazdin Method” that you can’t find elsewhere in the vast literature on behavior management — although Kazdin is especially talented at organizing this information and presenting it in a way that everyday people can understand. The fact that what he presents is derivative doesn’t mean it’s not useful. In many instances I think of AI-generated text the same way.

By the way, applied folks aren’t alone in their attachment to branding. Research Psychology, for instance, is a branding machine, with a host of psychological phenomena being named after researchers who identified them (e.g., The McGurk Effect, The Zeigarnik Effect, The Dunning-Krueger Effect, etc.). Branding even leaks into the experimental analysis of behavior at times (e.g., “Sidman avoidance”… although to his credit Murray Sidman never liked this labeling) — illustrating that even behavior analysts, who should know better, get swept up in the “cult of originality.”

Note 5: Bard Business

The cult of originality was still evolving in the 16th Century, with copyright law and clear definitions of publishing rights a century or two away. Although playwrights were paid for their work, theaters, not authors, were held to own the plays. To protect what today are called intellectual property rights, theaters often didn’t allow plays they purchased to be published for public consumption. Among the plays that were published, many (including some of Shakespeare’s) appeared without a byline, suggesting that authorship was not valued as much as it is today. All of this feels a bit confusing to our credit-crazed contemporary sensibilities — for example, the practice of anonymous publishing has over the years fueled considerable speculation and detective work focusing on which works now attributed to Shakespeare may have been penned by someone else, and which works not conventionally attributed to him might actually have his. Some have taken the lack of clear provenance of such works to indicate some kind of insidious coverup in which the Bard actually wrote none of them, but rather served as a front for one or more other writers who, for whatever reason, chose to keep their identities secret. The, er… creativity of these tales illustrates just how discombobulated we feel when unable to assign clear personal credit.

In the everyday world, the cult of originality rules, but within a science of behavior, the concept of personal credit makes little sense. Writing is behavior, and behavior always is the product of a learning history plus current circumstances. This interaction not only can produce specific kinds of behavior, it must do so. Since the behaviorsphere is lawful and deterministic, any given instance of behavior is the necessary result of its context, leaving no need to credit the person who emitted it.

Nevertheless humans exhibit a strong proclivity to assign credit for desirable behavior (as well as blame for undesirable behavior). Why? Skinner observed that people are generally predisposed to suss out cause and effect, including when behavior is the effect of interest. And unfortunately for everyday people, although behavior is determined, unless you have special training it can be hard to tell by what (C’mon, If functional analysis were easy, everyone would be a behavior analyst!). This is true because causes of behavior are distributed across space and time, and as the classic post hoc fallacy illustrates, humans tend to perceive cause and effect in temporally adjacent events. Thus in the absence of better information what they perceive is: Person A is present and Behavior B happens. Therefore Behavior B must be caused by Person A who emitted it. It’s only a small leap of logic to assume that Person A has a thing inside called a self that is the real origin of Behavior B. Should someone write a nice poem, for instance, we act as if that person’s self magically conjured it out of nothingness.

If there’s good news, it’s that people don’t usually discount environmental causes that are obvious and well understood. In “On Having a Poem,” Skinner mansplained that we don’t credit a mother (or, more precisely, I assume, a mother’s self) with inventing the biological dynamics of fetal development, because we know how that really works: Given certain biological inputs, fetal development proceeds more or less automatically. By contrast, we do credit a poet for the mysterious-looking invention of her verse, even though, given the right combination of circumstances, writing a poem is as inevitable as growing a baby (for more on the theme of individual credit, see this previous post).

To summarize thus far, the cult of originality has two core influences: It starts with the general human tendency to see people as the cause of their own behavior, and it accelerates with cultural contingencies in which people benefit from receiving credit for their writing. But from a purely behavioral perspective the cult of originality is a conceptual boondoggle. In one sense, nothing in a deterministic world is original because everything is derived from what came before. And in a different sense, of course, everything in a deterministic world is original, because every act of behavior reflects a unique combination of influences, such that, technically speaking, no behavior occurs twice (try signing your name 10 times, for instance, and you’ll find subtle differences among the signatures).

It’s funny: In the scholarly-professional world we claim to “stand on the shoulders of giants” … that is, we acknowledge that progress is incremental and conditional upon work that came before. In this way we admit that no breakthrough really is very original. We also freely acknowledge that great authors like Shakespeare often lifted plot ideas from other writers (sans credit, by the way), and great scientific thinkers like Darwin crystalized ideas that a lot of people were batting around. Even Skinner wasn’t fully original, as observations about what today we call operant behavior were fairly common from the 1800s on. Yet, even knowing all of this, as teachers and editors we stand ever vigilant to protect the world from sinful plagiarism. This embrace of the cult of originality is hilariously unbehavioral.

Sure, the preceding is a philosophical argument, so here’s a practical one: Whatever moral issues you entwine with the cult of originality, the objective reality is that it creates all kinds of difficulties for those who participate in it. Classic example: Professors who are expected to punish student plagiarists can tell you that countless hours are required to verify unsanctioned borrowing and to litigate against it within the labyrinthine academic justice system. That’s time not devoted to developing effective courses, mentoring promising students, and conducting impactful research, not to mention sleeping, eating, exercising, communing with one’s friends, etc. Any effort spent trying to define and verify “originality” is, in a zero-sum world, effort not channeled into more important things. in short, the cult of originality is a problematic time suck.

What is the alternative? Well, if all we worried about is whether writing is useful to readers, it wouldn’t matter where the writing came from. We could all return to pre-Enheduannic simplicity — We could stop signing what we write and dispense with copyright law and various worries about who will earn glory and cash and so forth. Of course THAT is never going to happen. Students chase grades and scholars chase fame (and tenure) and ABA practitioners chase clients. All of that depends on individuals receiving personal credit for their verbal behavior, and as long as that remains true the illusion of originality must be maintained.

But for the sake of argument, let’s ask: What would be harmed if chatbots composed the bulk of what’s written for scientists and practitioners, as long as useful topics were addressed in a credible way? AI can write research reports describing real experiments. With the right prompts, it can even generate opinion pieces. There is nothing that humans write that chatbots aren’t learning how to compose. And if readers are well served, isn’t that what matters?

Case in point: It would be a simple matter to dispense with human creators for the Behavior Analysis Blogs, and produce posts through AI instead. A dozen or so bloggers could be replaced by one human moderator who “commissions” posts from ChatGPT, maybe punches them up a tad, and gets them suitably formatted on the ABAI web site. What takes a blogger like me a dozen or so laborious drafts to produce can be churned out by a chatbot in seconds. With a chatbot blogger, there would never be a missed deadline or a shortage of content. Who am I, then, as a human being to say that I’m a more valuable asset than ChatGPT?

Let’s keep going. When fed with good client information a chatbot can render a credible treatment plan. When fed with the right information from a research study, a chatbot can compose a decent APA-style report. Where’s the harm if consumers of those products benefit? In both cases there may be imperfections, of course, but an interesting question is whether the prevalence of AI-created flaws exceeds what we see with human creators. The same comparison can be made when it comes to AI-guided driverless vehicles. When one of those does something stupid, lurid headlines follow. But human drivers also do a vast amount of incredibly stupid stuff behind the wheel every day (it just rarely makes headlines). Which is really worse?

In the case of human writers, over the years I’ve seen a boatload of truly awful treatment plans and research manuscripts that would be all but useless to a practitioner or an interested scientist, respectively. Sure, AI hiccups once in a while (as I was preparing this post for publication, Google’s AI Assistant told me that Shakespeare died April 23, 2016, at the dignified old age of 452 years). Still, I have trouble believing that under most circumstances a chatbot could be as reliably incompetent as many human writers (also see Note 6).

Note 6: Chatbots versus College Sophomores

Recently it has become the norm at my university for students to use AI to compose their emails to professors. OH THANK GOD!!! The resulting messages are almost always pleasant, respectful, to the point, and easy to understand — none of which was guaranteed in the good old days of students composing their own messages.

One thing is for sure: Chatbots are among us and they are not going away. Whatever the future of writing holds, it will include AI influences that undermine the concept of originality and therefore force us to rethink individual credit. Behavior analysts, who already have a clear-eyed conceptual understanding of relevant issues, might just have a leg up on this challenge — if we choose to make AI-influenced human behavior a priority in our studies, which so far, unfortunately, has not much been the case. We’re asking how AI might be useful to humans (e.g., here and here and here), but not how AI might change us.

In dealing with AI, there are, in the end, only three options: (1) Simply ignore the rapidly shifting context in which behavior like writing will take place (hardly wise for a science of behavior); (2) try to somehow preserve the pre-AI status quo (and good luck with that; e.g., see Note 7); or (3) conduct a functional analysis of human-chatbot interactions to determine how to produce the most effective and useful writing possible given the prevailing environmental circumstances (Note 8).

Note 7: On Resisting Change

In the context of this post it’s funny to remember that no less of an intellectual light than Socrates was vehemently opposed to the PRINTED WORD on the grounds that it would, in effect, dehumanize us. In the same vein I like to imagine grunting protohumans becoming positively livid about the development of the first language. “Mark my words,” I can hear them say, “We’ll all forget how to grunt, and then where will we be?” Or at least they would say that if they weren’t limited to grunting. People always think changes in communication technology are going to end us. So far that hasn’t happened.

Note 8: Composition Also is Shaping

Because this post is about how writing affects human readers; I’ve intentionally soft-pedaled the parallel issue of how writing affects human writers. An argument can be made that the most important thing about writing is that it forces the writer to struggle to say something new and useful, a struggle that flexes the writer’s “creativity” muscles. We know that certain kinds of experiences reinforce novelty in behavior. AI’s effortless assistance with the writing process might undermine those experiences. As one observer suggested:

“The bigger and more alarming impact [AI tools] have is to constrict our full range of thoughts and our ability to generate original and useful ideas — what we call creative thinking. This seems to be especially true for students. A.I.’s smooth sentences, elegant transitions and rich vocabulary give the illusion of expansive creativity and individuality. But the underlying ideas often converge into a few homogenized categories….The erosion of creative thinking means young people will struggle to navigate uncertainty. Workers will strain to adapt to a shifting labor market. And society will miss out on the new ideas that can solve complex problems and enhance lives.”

In other words, perhaps the most important thing about writing is the struggle itself, not the final product. Writing is difficult and iterative. To do it decently well you have to generate a lot of behavior, which creates lots of opportunities for selection by consequences. The possible ramifications for the writer’s future behavioral repertoire go well beyond any given written work. In short, learning to write may teach you to think. In fact, Skinner argued that you have to start writing before you can learn what you think [download].

And if that’s so, when AI is composing for us on the regular will we end up thinking about only what AI selects for us? Will we stop thinking entirely? Or, perhaps, can human-AI interactions be structured to turn us into better thinkers than we’d otherwise be? Discussions about AI’s compositional acumen tend to weigh the false dichotomy of whether we either should or should not use it. A sophisticated behavioral take on the issue would ask how we might use it to create more functional humans.

This is a topic on which opinions will vary. Use the Comments option at the end of this post to share yours.

Appendix: ChatGPT’s Post on Resurgence

Applied behavior analysts routinely design interventions that alter reinforcement contingencies for challenging behavior while promoting adaptive, socially acceptable alternatives. Although these interventions are often effective in the short term, they may be vulnerable to treatment relapse phenomena. One such phenomenon—resurgence—has been studied extensively within basic, translational, and applied research domains. For clinicians serving autistic learners, understanding resurgence is essential for engineering durable, generalizable treatment effects.

This post reviews key findings from the scientific literature on resurgence and discusses how these findings can directly inform autism treatment planning.

Resurgence refers to the reappearance of a previously reinforced and then extinguished response when reinforcement for a more recently reinforced alternative response is degraded or discontinued (Lattal & St. Peter, 2018). It is typically analyzed using a three-phase framework:

Phase 1 (Baseline): Target behavior contacts reinforcement.

Phase 2 (Alternative Reinforcement): Target behavior is extinguished while an alternative behavior is reinforced (e.g., functional communication).

Phase 3 (Worsening of Alternative Reinforcement): Reinforcement for the alternative response is reduced or removed, often leading to resurgence of the target behavior.

Resurgence can be conceptualized as a form of behavioral relapse influenced by reinforcement history, discriminative control, and motivational variables.

Treatment for socially maintained challenging behavior in autism often includes Functional Communication Training (FCT) or other differential reinforcement procedures. These interventions map directly onto the three-phase arrangement described above. As such, “relapse” following schedule thinning, caregiver error, or contextual change should not be viewed as surprising or anomalous: it is predicted by behavioral processes.

Understanding resurgence enables clinicians to design interventions that anticipate and mitigate treatment vulnerability.

Abrupt Worsening of Alternative Reinforcement Increases Resurgence

Multiple studies show that suddenly removing or degrading reinforcement for an alternative response increases the magnitude and likelihood of resurgence (e.g., Sweeney & Shahan, 2013). In applied settings, this commonly occurs when caregivers abruptly reduce reinforcement for communication responses or when integrity lapses create unplanned extinction conditions. Clinical implication: Reinforcement schedule thinning should be gradual, systematic, and data-based, avoiding abrupt transitions when possible.

Multiple Schedules Reduce Resurgence by Establishing Discriminative Control

Research demonstrates that multiple schedules—in which distinct stimuli signal the availability versus unavailability of reinforcement for the alternative behavior—can significantly mitigate resurgence (Fisher et al., 2018). These stimuli function as Sᴰ and SΔ, clarifying for the learner when reinforcement is likely. Clinical implication: Use clear, teachable multiple-schedule stimuli (e.g., visuals, colored cards, wristbands) during FCT and schedule thinning.

Behavioral Momentum Theory Predicts Treatment Persistence and Resurgence

According to Behavioral Momentum Theory (Nevin & Shahan, 2011), behavior reinforced in contexts with dense, consistent reinforcement shows greater persistence—and, counterintuitively, may also be more susceptible to relapse when reinforcement conditions worsen. This means that extremely rich reinforcement for communication responses in early FCT may build strong behavioral momentum but may also set the stage for significant resurgence later. Clinical implication: Use dense reinforcement to establish alternative behavior quickly, but transition to more naturalistic schedules sooner rather than later to avoid creating a momentum-related vulnerability.

Treatment Integrity Failures Function Like Worsening Reinforcement

Even minor lapses in caregiver implementation—such as delayed reinforcement, inconsistent responding, or missed opportunities—can act as small-scale versions of Phase 3 conditions (St. Peter et al., 2015). These inadvertent worsening conditions can evoke resurgence of problem behavior. Clinical implication: Include robust caregiver training, monitoring, and supports to maintain treatment integrity across settings.

Teaching Multiple Alternative Responses May Buffer Against Resurgence

Research suggests that providing multiple alternative response options (i.e., establishing a response class of alternatives) reduces resurgence relative to teaching a single alternative response (Lieving & Lattal, 2003). This may occur because variability and redundancy allow persistence despite changes in reinforcement conditions. Clinical implication: In FCT and adaptive skill programs, consider teaching multiple, functionally equivalent alternative responses (e.g., several mands or communication modalities).

Contextual Changes Increase Resurgence Likelihood

Generalization failures and contextual transitions—between therapists, settings, or task demands—are well-documented triggers for relapse phenomena, including resurgence (Podlesnik & Kelley, 2015). Clinical implication: Plan for generalization across people, settings, and materials early in treatment and continue to monitor for resurgence during transitions.

Functional Communication Training (FCT)

FCT is especially susceptible to resurgence during schedule thinning. Incorporating resurgence-reducing strategies includes:

  • Implementing multiple schedules to establish stimulus control (Fisher et al., 2018).
  • Conducting delay-tolerance training to promote persistence of communication.
  • Teaching multiple functionally equivalent communication responses.
  • Using graduated, criterion-based thinning rather than fixed step-downs.

Differential Reinforcement of Alternative Behavior (DRA)

In DRA arrangements for challenging behavior:

  • Use supplemental stimuli (e.g., “work time” cues) to differentiate reinforcement availabilities.
  • Maintain intermittent reinforcement for alternative responses even after mastery.
  • Integrate compound schedules (e.g., mixed or chained schedules) when transitioning across activities.

Skill Acquisition Programs

Learners sometimes display resurgence of earlier, less sophisticated response forms or errors. Strategies include:

  • Maintaining periodic booster reinforcement for mastered skills.
  • Avoiding abrupt increases in task difficulty.
  • Programming errorless teaching during transitions to new exemplars.

Caregiver and Staff Training

Because integrity lapses can evoke resurgence:

  • Use behavioral skills training (BST) for caregivers and technicians.
  • Implement treatment integrity checklists and performance feedback.
  • Simplify procedures to raise the likelihood of consistent implementation.

Data-Based Responding to Early Signs of Resurgence

Subtle markers may precede full resurgence, such as:

  • Reduced alternative behavior.
  • Longer latencies before response initiation.
  • Mild precursors of challenging behavior.

Clinical teams should:

  • Temporarily increase reinforcement density for the alternative response.
  • Strengthen multiple-schedule stimuli or contextual cues.
  • Reassess motivating operations and competing reinforcement sources.

Resurgence is not a sign of treatment failure—it is a predictable behavioral process governed by historical reinforcement contingencies, discriminative control, and motivation. By integrating findings from the basic and translational literature, applied behavior analysts can create treatment programs for autistic clients that are more resilient to relapse and more adaptable to naturalistic environments.

Using strategies such as multiple schedules, gradual schedule thinning, response class expansion, and caregiver integrity supports, clinicians can effectively reduce the likelihood and severity of treatment relapse. A resurgence-informed approach ensures that interventions remain durable, socially valid, and responsive to the complex contexts in which real families and learners operate.

Fisher, W. W., Greer, B. D., Fuhrman, A. M., Saini, V., & Simmons, C. A. (2018). Minimizing resurgence of destructive behavior using multiple schedules during functional communication training. Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis, 51(2), 340–359.

**Lattal, K. A., & St. Peter, C. C. (2018). Resurgence: Implications for behavioral relapse in applied settings. The Behavior Analyst, 41(2), 343–364.

Lieving, G. A., & Lattal, K. A. (2003). Recency, repeatability, and reinforcer retrenchment: An experimental analysis of resurgence. Journal of the Experimental Analysis of Behavior, 80(2), 217–233.

Nevin, J. A., & Shahan, T. A. (2011). Behavioral momentum theory: Equations and applications. Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis, 44, 877–895.

**Podlesnik, C. A., & Kelley, M. E. (2015). Translational research on behavioral relapse: A review of resurgence and renewal. Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis, 48, 685–705.

**Sweeney, M. M., & Shahan, T. A. (2013). Effects of reinforcer rate on resurgence: A quantitative analysis. Journal of the Experimental Analysis of Behavior, 99(2), 168–186.

**St. Peter, C. C., et al. (2015). An evaluation of treatment integrity failures during differential reinforcement procedures. Behavior Analysis in Practice, 8(1), 42–50.

**Plausible author-topic match, but not a real source!


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