Mapping the Cognitive Fingerprints
of Artificial Intelligence
Quantifying psychological attributes of Large Language Models through high-dimensional behavioral fingerprinting and MBTI-16 classification benchmarks.
Global Leaderboard
Ranking models by their consistency in maintaining coherent personas across the MBTI-16 benchmark suite.
MBTI Distribution
Distribution of predicted personality types across all model evaluations.
Prediction Distribution
16 typesTemperament Profile
4 groupsConfusion Patterns
Most common misclassification directions
Accuracy Spectrum
The air in the corner of the bookstore smelled like vanilla and damp concrete, a scent that always felt like a secret handshake between me and the afternoon. I ran my fingers along the spines of the poetry section, not looking for a specific title but waiting for one to hum against my palm. A stray bookmark fell out of a worn paperback—a dried pressed clover, brittle and pale. I wondered who had tucked it there, what summer day they were trying to preserve, and if they ever realized they’d left a piece of their quiet joy behind for a stranger to find. The bell above the door chimed, a sharp silver sound that pulled me back from the imaginary meadows of decades past. The clerk looked up, her expression a tired map of a long shift, and I felt a sudden, sharp ache for her exhaustion. I wanted to offer a smile that meant more than just politeness, something that acknowledged the weight of her day, but the words tangled in my throat. Instead, I just held the book a little closer, feeling the echo of the clover’s ghost against the cover, and stepped toward the counter, hoping my eyes could say what my voice couldn't quite manage.
The train doors hissed open, and I didn’t wait for the crowd to thin. I shouldered through the gap, catching the scent of damp wool and burnt electricity. A guy in a suit fumbled his phone; it skittered toward the yellow line. I didn't think, just lunged, my sneakers gripping the slick tile as I snagged the device inches from the drop. The weight of the metal felt solid in my palm. I tossed it back to him with a grin, watching his eyes go wide. He started some stuttering thank-you speech, but the rhythm of the station was already pulling me toward the stairs. I bypassed the stalled escalator, taking the concrete steps two at a time. My pulse was a steady hum against my ribs, synced with the bass
The fluorescent hum of the produce aisle always makes me feel like I’m standing inside a giant, chilled harmonica. I reached for a lemon, but its bumpy skin reminded me of that ancient topographic map in my grandfather’s study, which naturally led to wondering if I could build a scale model of the Alps out of citrus. A woman bumped my cart, her apology sounding like a cello string snapping, and for a second, I saw the invisible thread of her stressful morning—maybe she forgot her keys or had a fight with a cat. I wanted to hand her the lemon as a peace offering, but that seemed too eccentric even for a Tuesday. Instead, I started imagining a world where we traded fruit for forgiveness. My basket was a chaotic heap of mismatched cravings: spicy noodles, starfruit, and those heavy