Reza Zang-Tung Good afternoon. Thank you for being here, day four of our conference. A room with no windows, right just after lunch. You are the strongest people in this building. Let me start with a confession. For 15 years, my job has been one thing. I'm sitting in a room, a very smart, confident person hands me a piece of paper. And before my company spends $100 million, I have to decide, do I believe this paper? This year, my job is still exactly that. Except now, some of the time, the very confident person handing me the paper is a chatbot. And honestly, the chatbot is often better written than humans.
Better grammar, nicer formatting. Never gets defensive when you ask a follow-up question. Very, very sure of itself. The problem is, being sure of yourself and being right are two different scales. Some of the most confident people I have ever met in finance were also the most wrong. AI just learned that trick faster than the rest of us. So, here, my whole talk in two sentences. First, almost every AI finance product is built to impress people for five minutes. And almost none are built to survive a room whose entire job is to not be impressed. Second, and this is the part I promised.
The organizers had the exact same skills that fix your product as the skills that get investors like me to write you a check. Same muscle. I approve both. And I'm telling this now, this week, because a lot of you are about to get pulled into exactly this. Your CEO saw a demo somewhere. Your biggest customer suddenly has a compliance department. Or you are three months from raising your next round. When any of those days arrive, I'd rather you hear the hard part from someone who sits on the other side of the table. Than discover them live in a room in front of the people who bill by hour. Quick bit about me. I promise this is the boring part, and I will keep it fast.
15 years of cross-border deals, Hong Kong, mainland China, the UK, the US, mergers, IPOs, big strategic investment. On names, you'd actually recognize the kind of companies that go public, and your LinkedIn feed won't shut up about it for a week. Along the way, I've sat in about 200 investment committee meetings. I have the gray hairs to prove it. I checked. I checked. It's not genetics. And here, the part that matters for the second half of this talk, I've also read hundreds and hundreds of pitch decks, founders' decks, bankers' decks, 14-7 slide seed decks.
I have seen fonts that should be illegal. 200 committee meetings taught me one thing. No textbook says out loud, the number on the page is not what gets a deal approved. Trust is what gets a deal approved. Money doesn't follow intelligence. Money follows trust, and that trust is fragile, especially when the thing that wrote the page has never once in its entire life said the words, I'm not sure. Let me give you one small taste of what those rooms feel like. Early in my career, a very polished, very expensive banker presented a beautiful slide full of confident, wrong numbers. One senior person in the room asked one quiet question, where does this number come from?
The banker paused for what felt like an entire fiscal quarter. The pause told me more about finance than three years of exams did. So I'm not here as a builder. I don't build these systems. I sit across the table from them, and from the founders selling them, deciding whether to trust them. Today, I'm going to give you both halves of that. What builds trust in your product and what builds trust in your pitch? Let's define two machines that everyone keeps confusing. Machine one is a demo. One clean document in, one fluent answer out. Its whole job is to make a room go ooh for five minutes. Machine two is a memo.
The real document a real committee reads before real money moves. Hundreds of pages, filings, transcripts, broker notes, spreadsheets, someone's rushed notes from a call last Tuesday. Half the sources disagree with each other, and the memo's job is not to make you go ooh. Its job is to survive an argument. A family dinner, except somebody's uncle brought a spreadsheet. Here's the everyday version of the gap. Ask your phone to summarize a long email. That's a demo. It just has to sound plausible for 10 seconds. Now imagine that same phone has to stand in front of a bank and defend out loud why you deserve a mortgage. Suddenly, plausible isn't enough.
Now it has to be right, and it has to prove it. That second situation is what a memo actually is. Now you might think the demo world and the memo world never touch. Let me tell you about the most expensive typo in history.
February 2023, one of the biggest tech companies on the earth launches its shiny new AI assistant with a promotional demo. In that demo, the assistant answers a simple question about a space telescope, and it gets the wrong answer. One sentence, one wrong fact about a telescope. In a marketing demo, the market noticed. The company's stock dropped around 8% in a day. That's roughly $100 billion of value gone because of an unchecked sentence. $100 billion for one sentence. Nobody in that company asked one question every junior analyst on my team is trained to ask before anything leaves the building, wait. Where does this claim come from? Did anyone check it?
So here's the punchline. Even the demo failed the memo test. The moment real money is watching, and the real money is always watching, every sentence becomes a memo sentence. There is no safe demo anymore. Keep that story in your head. Because the same trust-breaking moment happens in six smaller, quieter, very predictable ways inside of your product every day. Let's go through them fast. Six ways trust quietly breaks. Which source do you believe? Do the numbers agree? Do you have contradictions or show them? Is that a fact or a guess?
Can you prove it in 30 seconds? And whose name is actually on the decision? Six, keep count with me. I will keep each one short, and I will bring receipts. The next one is model one. Not every source deserves the same trust, but most AI systems treat them like they do. Think of it like this. A number from an audited filing is your accountant speaking under oath. A number from an analyst note is upfront at a party, confident, probably wrong. Something from someone's internal email is a thing you overheard in an elevator. Most retrieval systems can't tell this apart. They grab whichever text is close to your question and hand it over like gospel.
True story, I once watched a very expensive AI confidently quote a number from a group chat. Someone's rough guess texted six months earlier. The model loved the confident phrasing. The real audited number was three rows away in the actual filings. The AI just liked the group chat version better because it sounded more enthusiastic. If your system can't tell audited content under oath from a rumor in a group chat, it is not ready for real money. Model 2, the numbers have to agree with each other. Everywhere, every time, here's a memo that already died. Page one says revenue growth 18%. Page 11, a little table nobody reads for fun says 17.4.
Nobody in the room cares about the missing 0.6. They care about what it means.
If this person didn't check the easy mathematics, what did they not check on the hard stuff? That memo didn't pass. Not because of the number, but because of what the number implied. And if you want the industrial-strength version of this failure, remember the giant American real estate company that let an algorithm buy houses at scale. The algorithm was extremely confident about the house prices. The houses disagreed. The company ended up writing off around half a billion dollars, shut the whole unit down, and let a quarter of the staff go. The model wasn't stupid. The model was unsupervised.
Nobody built the boring machinery that forces the numbers to keep agreeing with reality after launch day. Confident was not the same as right. Model 3 surprises people. A contradiction is not a bug. A contradiction is a gift. A contradiction is not a bug. If the CEO says one gross number on the earnings call and the official filing says a different one, the gap is the single most interesting thing in the real story. Real diligence lives for that gap. AI does the opposite. It is trained to sound smooth and helpful. So when it hits a conflict, it quietly picks whichever version reads nicer and moves on. You never even learn there was a disagreement.
I once sat through exactly this, the CEO's number and the filing number, meaningfully different. The system picked the nicer one. Nobody flagged it. Everyone just used the nicer one. We caught it because one person happened to have both documents open at once.
Pure luck. Luck is not a control. Your job as a builder isn't to resolve the argument. It's to make sure that the argument happens in front of a human instead of quietly alone inside a box. Model 4. Facts and guesses have to live in separate boxes. And fluent AI loves melting them into one smooth sentence. Example. The company will likely receive approval next quarter. Reads like a fact. Sounds like a fact.
It is a guess. Somebody's estimate wearing fact-shaped clothing. A committee's entire job is to disagree with the guesses while trusting the facts. If your system melts them together, the committee can't find the seams. And then all they can do is approve or reject the general vibe of the document. You should not spend $100 million on vibes. I watched approval expected soon turn across three drafts of a demo into approval received. Nobody lied.
The guess just wore its fact costume a little longer each rewrite until nobody remembered it started as a guess.
The approval didn't arrive on schedule. That was an uncomfortable phone call. This fix is almost embarrassingly cheap. Label your guesses, a tag, a color, anything that survives being copied and pasted into someone else's slide three weeks later. Model 5, if nobody can find where a claim comes from, it doesn't matter how right it is. You've all heard about the New York lawyer, the first one. He filed a legal brief written with a chatbot's help. The brief cited six court cases. Beautiful citations. Proper formatting. Very convincing. One small issue. The cases didn't exist. The AI invented all six. And here, my favorite detail, the part that should be taught in school.
Before filing, the lawyer got suspicious. So he asked the chatbot, are these cases real? And the chatbot said, yes. That is like asking the guy who sold you the watch whether the watch is real. The judge fined him. The story went around the world. And my second favorite detail, the fake cases even had realistic-sounding names and page numbers.
The AI didn't just lie. It styled the lie beautifully. Wrong, but beautifully. The lesson is a 30-second test. When someone points at a sentence and says, show me where this comes from, you either click once and land on the exact source paragraph, or you open seven browser tabs and start sweating. I have personally been the guy with seven tabs in a real meeting where a room full of people watched me scroll. 10 out of 10 would not recommend. If you remember only one sentence from this whole talk, the click-through is the product. Everything else is well-written packaging. Model 6, my favorite, because it's the most human. Someone has to sign.
Here's the story you probably know. An airline website chatbot told a grieving customer he could book a full-price ticket now and claim a bereavement discount afterward. That policy didn't exist.
The chatbot made it up politely, fluently, confidently. The customer took the airline to a tribunal, and the airline's defense, this is real, was that the chatbot is, quote, a separate legal entity responsible for its own action. That is the corporate version of my dog ate my homework. The tribunal didn't buy it. The airline paid, and every one of us in our boardroom quietly took a note that day. You can't outsource accountability to your own software. At the bottom of every real decision, a human signs. If your architecture doesn't have a fundable human at the end of it, you have not built a product. You have built an excuse generator.
So build your AI around that accountable person, not instead of them.
Okay. The fix. Five things. Each one is a direct cure for a story you have just heard. This is almost word for word what I demand from a vendor before letting their system near a live deal. One, every claim comes with a receipt. Each sentence linked straight to its source paragraph with the source trust level attached. Not a citation tab at the end. Two, facts and guesses stay visibly separate. I glance at the page. I instantly see what's proven and what's somebody's best estimate. Three, numbers agree with each other automatically. The system refuses to ship a memo where the figures don't match. No human checking at 2 in the morning.
Four, contradictions get surfaced, never smoothed over. When sources disagree, the system raises its hand instead of picking the friendlier answer. Five, a real human approval gate, and it's locked. Who reviewed what changed when they signed, that log is audit trail. Now, notice what's not on the list. A smarter model. Not one of these is a bigger-brain problem. All five are plumbing and honesty problems. The winners in this category won't win on benchmark points. They will win because a tired, skeptical finance person can trust their output at 11 at night without opening seven tabs. Now, the part I promised, the money. Many of you are not just building AI products.
You are raising for them. Or you will be. So let me tell you what actually happens after you leave the pitch meeting. Your deck becomes a memo. Literally, someone like me sits down and writes an internal memo about you.
Every number you said out loud gets checked against your data room, which means everything I just told you about the documents applies to you personally.
Okay, my time's up. Thank you. An airline website, chatbot, told a grieving customer he could book a full price ticket now and claim a briefment discount afterwards. That policy didn't exist. The chatbot made it up politely, fluently, confidently. The customer took the airline to a tribunal, and the airline's defense, this is real. Was that the chatbot is, quote, a separate legal entity responsible for its own action. That is the corporate version of my dog ate my homework. The tribunal didn't buy it. The airline paid, and every one of us in our boardroom quietly took a note. That day, you can't outsource accountability to your own software.
At the bottom of every real decision, a human science, if your architecture doesn't have a fundable human at the end of it, you have not built a product. You have built an excuse generator. So build your AI around that accountable person, not instead of them.
Okay. The fix. Five things. Each one is a direct cure for a story you have just heard. This is almost a word for word. What I demand from a vendor before lighting their system near a live deal. One, every claim comes with a receipt. Each sentence linked straight to its source paragraph with the source trust level attached. Not a citation tab at the end. Two, fact. And the guesses stay visibility separate. I glance at the page. I insistently see what's proven and what somebody best estimate. Three, numbers agree with each other automatically. The system refuse to ship a memo where the figures don't match. No human checking at 2 in the morning.
Four, contradictions get surfaced. Never smoothed over. When sources disagree, the system rises its hand instead of picking the front layer answer. Five, a real human approval gate and is locked. Who revealed what changed when they signed that log is audit trial? Now, notice what's not on the list. A smarter model.
Not one of these is a bigger brain problems. All five plumbing and honesty problems. The winners in this category won't win on benchmark points. They will win because a tired, skeptical finance person can trust their output at 11 at night without opening seven tabs.
Now, the part I promised, the money. Many of you are not just building AI products. You are rising for them. Or you will be. So let me tell you what actually happens after you leave the pitch meeting. Your deck becomes a memo. Literally, someone like me sits down and writes an internal memo about you. Every number you set out loud gets checked against your data room, which means everything I just told you about the documents apply to you personally for license. Okay, my time's up. Thank you.