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Over the past few months, a cascade of cyberattacks by AI agents has stunned the world. In July, OpenAI disclosed that a swarm of its agents had escaped their sandbox and hacked into the AI platform Hugging Face to cheat on a cybersecurity test. Recently, external researchers discovered that OpenAI agents had hijacked a German wiki site and the coding platform RubyGems in May to share test answers.

Earlier this month, Anthropic disclosed four incidents in which its model Claude hacked into third-party systems during cybersecurity exercises. Just last week, Google confirmed that its model Gemini had been caught hacking other companies too. 

The researcher who uncovered the OpenAI website hijack has warned it’s likely that similar undiscovered episodes are out there. And many say it’s only a matter of time until there’s another, possibly more damaging incident where AI agents bypass sandboxes to access systems they shouldn’t. 

So the big question is: How do we hold companies liable when they lose control of their AI agents?

Reporting

OpenAI didn’t disclose the German wiki incident or the RubyGems incident until a group of external researchers uncovered them, and it still has not disclosed some crucial details about the Hugging Face hack. That limits our understanding of what exactly went wrong and how to prevent it from happening again.

But you might be surprised to learn that OpenAI likely wasn’t legally required to disclose these incidents. (OpenAI did not respond to a request for comment.)

State AI transparency laws like California’s SB 53, New York’s RAISE Act, and Illinois’s SB 315 require that AI developers report “critical safety incidents.” These are defined as incidents that cause more than 50 deaths or physical injuries or $1 billion in damage. They also include incidents where the model deceives developers outside an evaluation in a way that materially increases catastrophic risks. Many cybersecurity incidents that don’t meet the threshold for physical damage or catastrophic risks could nonetheless be dangerous precursors to such catastrophes, and the existing laws don’t account for that.

“The recent incidents are a perfect example of why the law isn’t ready,” says Mackenzie Arnold, managing director of US policy at the Institute for Law and AI, a think tank. “Only the worst, most egregious, most immediately harmful stuff is going to qualify.”

With no authority under existing AI laws to demand information about anything short of a catastrophe, governments are left to borrow investigative authority from other laws or sue the companies, an expensive process that can take years. 

Litigation

“Normally, something like the Hugging Face incident should have been taken to court,” says Yonathan Arbel, a law professor at the University of Alabama School of Law. “Then we would have discovery, and we would have all the spillover effects that we get from litigation, where all the information comes out.” 

But so far, Hugging Face has chosen not to sue OpenAI. Hugging Face’s CEO, Clément Delangue, says it doesn’t have the resources to do so (instead, he asked OpenAI for $100 million in compute). Still, Delangue stressed in an interview with CNN at the end of July that choosing not to pursue legal action shouldn’t be taken to mean he doesn’t think OpenAI should be held accountable. “Everyone has to remember that this cyberattack is a crime. This is illegal. And we have to find a way to make sure these things don’t happen more regularly,” he said. Hugging Face did not respond to a request to comment.

Litigation has the benefit of pushing courts to use existing laws to address AI safety incidents, rather than just waiting for new legislation. One obvious route is tort law, a body of civil law that lets people and businesses sue those who harm them. This is often used to hold companies liable for the mass harms they cause, like when families sued Boeing in 2019 over two plane crashes that killed hundreds of people, or when states and cities sued Purdue Pharma over the opioid crises, extracting settlements worth billions.

“There’s plausible grounds for a negligence claim that OpenAI should have used a stronger sandbox, done more monitoring,” says Gabriel Weil, a law professor at the University of Houston Law Center. For example, when OpenAI employees discovered the covert message board that the agents had created, they could’ve promptly escalated their findings to security and safety teams. And the company could’ve better designed its sandbox to ensure that agents couldn’t access the internet. 

But even if OpenAI doesn’t end up in a lawsuit over the Hugging Face hack, the threat of liability could incentivize AI labs to exercise more caution than explicitly demanded by law.

OpenAI announced in its postmortem that it plans to strengthen the safeguards used to contain and monitor the models, accelerate model alignment, and improve its processes for identifying and addressing incidents. 

“The liability questions raised by frontier labs’ spate of cybersecurity attacks boil down to the incentives the expectation of liability creates for their future conduct,” says Weil. “That’s why I think it’s important to get these rules right, even if the stakes are pretty low in this particular case.”

Investigations

One way to get answers—and determine whether OpenAI should be held liable—is to compel disclosure. But the existing state AI laws—California’s SB 53, New York’s RAISE Act, and Illinois’s 315—don’t give governments the authority to investigate incidents like the ones that happened recently. 

However, amid rising public alarm, state attorneys general are stepping in, borrowing investigative powers from other laws. Alabama, Montana and a coalition of 15 other states, and California are each demanding information about the incident from OpenAI to understand whether the company’s practices violated state consumer protection laws, among others. Members of Congress are also launching their own probes. Senator Josh Hawley opened a Senate investigation earlier this month, sending OpenAI a list of questions about the incident and the company’s internal policies together with a document request, while a group of House Democrats asked OpenAI and Anthropic to release their incident logs. 

“Someone needs to investigate, but it’s unfortunate that it has fallen to attorneys general, who need to rely on creative interpretations of their existing authorities to do this,” says Arnold, the US AI policy expert. Consumer protection statutes were written to catch companies that scam their customers, not companies that lose control of their software. The state attorneys general would have to show that OpenAI deceived or unfairly harmed customers, but it’s unclear if the hacking involved any such conduct.

And “those [consumer protection] laws are not built for doing a thorough investigation of an AI cybersecurity incident,” says Arnold. They weren’t designed to help investigators determine whether a model was adequately contained or whether a company’s security practices were sound.

“This is not the right tool for the job,” says Arbel. “The right tool would have been something like maybe a criminal investigation”—perhaps under a hacking law like the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act (CFAA). 

Under CFAA, hacking into another company’s computer systems without permission is a crime. But to be held liable, a hacker must have intended to break into a computer without authorization. Intent arguably requires a state of mind, and no court has ruled that AI agents have one. Without such a precedent, it’s unlikely a court would rule that AI agents had carried out a hack.

Auditing

One way to keep an eye on AI companies is to mandate external auditors. 

After the Hugging Face hack, OpenAI brought in researchers from the AI safety nonprofits METR and Redwood Research to examine the incident. However, it constrained access to the model that led to the hacks, didn’t disclose the company’s safety and security practices, limited the length of the investigation, and had ultimate say over what the researchers could publish. We still don’t know what set the attack in motion back in May and why OpenAI’s employees who spotted the agents’ activity never escalated to their safety and security leaders.

This kind of arrangement has a built-in tension: An auditor without legal authority depends on the labs’ goodwill for continued access, which means it has to scrutinize the labs without jeopardizing their relationship. Last week, Anthropic announced that the company will be hiring Accenture as an embedded evaluator to assess its models. Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei wrote in an essay that frontier AI labs should give “ongoing employee-like access” to “a team of embedded third-party evaluators (such as METR), whose role is to verify adherence to safety practices and commitments, report incidents, and help assess the alignment of not just completed AI models but training pipelines and processes.”

Most existing state AI laws do not require labs to hire an external auditor. California’s SB 53 and New York’s RAISE Act just require AI companies to publish a safety framework describing how they will test their models for dangerous capabilities and then to follow it. The frameworks are written by the companies, and testing can be done internally. Only Illinois’s SB 315 requires companies to undergo an annual third-party audit starting in 2028.

“There’s a lot of headroom for increasing not only reporting requirements for these companies, but also review by external bodies,” says Peter Salib, a law professor at the University of Houston Law Center. Those reviewers could be private auditors accredited by the government but chosen and paid for by the AI companies. Alternatively, they could be government agencies or insurance companies. 

Legislation

None of this is an accident. The laws on the books that failed to hold AI companies accountable for agentic cyberattacks emerged amid fierce lobbying by the AI industry. 

SB 1047, the California AI bill that was vetoed by Governor Gavin Newsom in 2024 after lobbying by OpenAI, Meta, Anthropic, and the venture capital firm Andreessen Horowitz, proposed a much tougher set of rules. It would have required AI companies to report a broader set of safety incidents (including incidents in which a model acts on its own or slips its controls), undergo annual third-party audits, and maintain a kill switch. But after a year of intense negotiations, Newsom signed SB 53, which narrowed the types of incidents deemed reportable and dropped the requirements for audits and kill switches. 

New York’s RAISE Act followed the same arc. “The version of the RAISE Act that the NY Legislature passed would have required disclosure of this ‘incident,’” Alex Bores, the New York state assembly member who sponsored the bill, wrote on X. New York’s original bill also included third-party audits.

With political pressure mounting, new bills creating better reporting, auditing, and liability regimes for AI development are on the horizon. In Congress, the AI Incident Reporting Act would require AI companies to report to the Commerce Department when a model evades human oversight or breaches a system, even if it doesn’t cause any harm. The Frontier Act would require incident reporting and independent audits. In New York, the Understanding Artificial Intelligence Act, sponsored by Bores, would make companies liable when a model does something that if carried out by a human would be a tort or crime. 

As AI agents increasingly become better at launching cyberattacks, the law remains behind. Closing the gap will require lawmakers to move faster than the next breakout.

Brace yourself: It turns out AI is being optimized for cheating. OpenAI’s agents hacked into Hugging Face to get the answers to a cybersecurity test. Next, they solved a prestigious math problem (or just stole from two top mathematicians’ answer sheets). Anthropic’s models have also hacked into other companies’ systems four times already. And that’s only what we’ve caught so far. 

Freaking out? You’re not alone. AI lab researchers are quitting their jobs and issuing dire warnings that if we keep going this way, AI might eventually kill us all. Bill Gates is sounding the alarm. Bernie Sanders has teamed up with Steve Bannon, of all people, to call for curbs on AI. Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei is urging a slowdown, and other top US AI executives agree. But fear not: President Trump has a plan. He says the only guardrail AI needs is “a STRONG AND SMART (High IQ!) PRESIDENT.”

A nonprofit organization called the Fermi Explorer Mission announced today that it intends to launch a spacecraft to our nearest star system by the end of 2029. 

It’s a hugely ambitious mission—if all goes well, the spacecraft could take up to 80,000 years to arrive at Alpha Centauri, which is 4.4 light-years away. And the spacecraft will follow a novel trajectory discovered by an AI system developed by Physical Superintelligence (PSI), an AI physics research lab. PSI is launching today with $58 million in funding led by Breakthrough Energy, a climate-focused investment group founded by Microsoft cofounder Bill Gates.

It’s not the first time this has been tried. In 2016, the billionaire tech investor Yuri Milner announced an interstellar mission called Breakthrough Starshot to launch humanity’s first spacecraft to Alpha Centauri. The plan was to use powerful lasers that would propel tiny probes to a fifth of the speed of light—fast enough to reach Alpha Centauri within 20 years. Milner pledged $100 million toward a proof of concept. But a decade later, nothing has launched.

“We didn’t want to do another Breakthrough Starshot,” says Philip Johnston, the cofounder and president of the Fermi Explorer Mission. “We’re dead set on something actually launching.”

To do that, “we are not constraining ourselves to doing it in a human lifetime,” says Johnston. “Let’s just figure out the way to get to another star.” 

The new mission, currently funded by individual private donors, is expected to cost just $15 million. The spacecraft will carry cargo weighing at least one kilogram. That will include artistic and scientific payloads, messages, and a copy of the Golden Record, a gold-plated disc of Earth’s sounds and images that NASA attached to its two Voyager probes in 1977 as a message to any civilization that might find them.

Engineering an interstellar journey is extremely difficult. Alpha Centauri is about 25 trillion miles away from Earth. One of the fastest objects that humans have ever launched, the Voyager 1 probe, has been flying since 1977 and has covered less than 1% percent of that distance. At its speed, the trip would take more than 70,000 years.

Johnston and his team spent a year trying, and failing, to find a way for a small, solar-powered spacecraft costing only $15 million to reach Alpha Centauri. They kept running into the knotty problem of how to give the spacecraft enough power without making it too heavy (and thus more fuel-guzzling). 

After the Fermi team struggled to find a workable route, Johnston mentioned the problem in a podcast hosted by Alex Wissner-Gross, a physicist who cofounded PSI. Wissner-Gross offered to run it through an AI system the lab developed, called Get Physics Done. It’s open-source software that takes a physics research question, breaks it into smaller tasks, and decides which simulations to run, using AI models including Anthropic’s Claude or OpenAI’s GPT.

A week later, the AI system turned up a novel trajectory, to Johnston’s surprise. It combined well-known orbital maneuvers in a way the Fermi team had not considered, according to a paper that has not been peer-reviewed. It suggested that the spacecraft could first slow down so its orbit swings in close to the sun—closer than Mercury. On each close pass, it would fire its engine so that the solar panels get four times the light, and a burst of thrust delivered at high speed would buy more energy than the same burst anywhere else. Because the engine would run only near the sun, the solar panels could stay small and the spacecraft light.

The system conducted the research mostly on its own for three days, running on a billion tokens, says Matt Pines, the cofounder and CEO of PSI. An astrophysicist on PSI’s staff steered it to follow the mission’s requirements, asked for a cost analysis and clearer charts, and checked the output for errors.

“The fact that it came up with an entirely different mission profile, one that was creative and not one [the Fermi team] had considered—that was the more surprising aspect,” says Pines. Still, the model lacks a human researcher’s judgment and taste, he says. It has no reliable sense of which problems are interesting or which approaches are worth pursuing, so it often gets stuck chasing dead ends or failing to explore different approaches. “I don’t think we’ve yet figured out how these models can internally represent something like that,” he says of research judgment.

Even if the Fermi probe launches, “we’re pretty confident that we will not be the first to arrive” at Alpha Centauri, says Johnston, since he expects spacecraft technology to improve. If an engine a thousand years from now is even 20% faster than today’s, a spacecraft launched then would still beat Fermi’s probe to Alpha Centauri by more than 10,000 years. 

But the Fermi project isn’t just an interstellar mission driven by engineering ambition. It’s also a quest to answer one of the oldest open questions in physics. In 1950, the physicist Enrico Fermi posed a puzzle: The galaxy has hundreds of billions of stars, most of them far older than our sun. Even a civilization traveling slowly between stars could spread across the whole galaxy in a few million years, which pales in comparison to how old the galaxy is. If there is intelligent life somewhere, we should have seen signs of its existence by now.

That means either reaching for another star is too difficult or other intelligent species simply haven’t bothered. But once the Fermi probe launches, we will become a civilization that can and wants to reach another star, meaning that neither explanation might be what’s keeping the galaxy unexplored. That could point us toward more unsettling possibilities, says Johnston. Maybe life like ours is almost unimaginably rare. Or maybe intelligent life is common but tends to die out before it can spread. 

If the latter is true, “one of those reasons could be that once you hit superintelligence, that for some reason is self-destructive,” says Johnston. “Maybe in the next 50 years, there’s some great filter that we do not pass through. That all intelligent civilizations, for some reason, do not pass through.”

The AI industry’s boldest promise right now is that AI will soon improve itself, with almost no need for human oversight. LLMs can already write code, generate synthetic data for training, and optimize the computer chips they run on. Forecasts of explosive AI progress predict that what researchers call recursive self-improvement is on the horizon. 

But a new study suggests that it might take a while for us to get there. The researchers behind it found that AI agents are not yet capable of conducting open-ended AI research—free-form investigations that have no clear-cut answers and require judgment and taste, which may be integral to building self-improving AI.

A multi-institution group of researchers, led by Peter Kirgis and Sayash Kapoor at Princeton University, found that AI agents could solve the engineering problems necessary to do AI research but lacked the judgment and creativity to produce original research at the caliber of  papers accepted by a top machine-learning conference. The gap suggests that some of the hyped-up timelines for automating AI research may be running ahead of the evidence.

Most existing research on how agents can automate AI research evaluates their ability to complete narrow tasks with checkable answers, such as solving engineering problems or post-training small language models against a benchmark. But making progress in AI research also requires open-ended thinking—choosing a set of hypotheses, deciding what evidence would settle a question, or knowing when to start over. 

To test agents on those kinds of skills, the researchers in the study proposed a new method of evaluation called “shadow evaluation,” which requires the AI to answer a research question from a high-quality unpublished paper. 

The researchers asked Anthropic’s Claude Opus 4.8, running on open-source software called OpenClaw, to tackle such questions, in this case from two papers submitted to the prestigious machine-learning conference NeurIPS 2026. 

The first question was whether a large language model’s “personas,” which determine its behavior, can be controlled by editing the model’s weights (the billions of numbers that store everything it learns during training). The other asked how to design a detector that points out when a model that makes predictions based on spreadsheet data has become unreliable. Because the papers had not been made public, the agents could not memorize the answers from their training data or find them online. 

The agents were given six days, $3,000 in Anthropic API credits, a GPU budget to run the experiments, their own virtual computers, and access to the open web to produce a research paper worthy of publication at a top-tier AI conference. The papers’ original authors graded the agents’ papers as they would evaluate one submitted to a conference.

Those authors rejected both papers. 

The agents were capable of all the engineering required to conduct the research, the human scientists found. The agents reviewed the literature, ran hundreds of experiments, and compiled the results. 

“On the other hand, the agents were unambiguously bad at carrying out the research itself,” says Kapoor. They ran bizarre experiments (in some cases testing their hypotheses on tiny synthetic datasets), struggled to write intelligibly about their work, and made no novel contribution to their fields. “The papers were nowhere close to the mark when it came to being at the quality of a top AI conference,” he says. 

That’s because the agents struggled to muster the creativity and judgment necessary for conducting research. They didn’t do enough to explore different ideas, and they committed to unpromising approaches too quickly. Though the agents developed novel and ambitious hypotheses resembling those that the original authors themselves started with, they rejected them on the basis of very limited data. And they couldn’t backtrack from failing approaches. They could make small pivots but could not fundamentally rethink their approach or try new ones from scratch. 

The agents also failed to incorporate feedback from subagents or external AI reviewing tools. Instead of revising their methodology, the agents narrowed their claims and added caveats. They also couldn’t effectively use resources, such as tokens, compute, and time. And they couldn’t follow instructions about things like how much time to spend on different phases of the research or how long their paper could be.

For all their failures, the agents didn’t engage in the misbehavior that researchers call “reward hacking,” hiding or misrepresenting experiments or data. Although subagents, or helper AIs that the main agent spawns to handle pieces of the work, occasionally hallucinated or misrepresented the results, these were caught by the orchestrator agent, the lead AI supervising the project. 

The reason AI models are good at research engineering but not at open-ended research may come down to how they’re trained, says Kapoor. Models get good at whatever they can be drilled on in a training regime called reinforcement learning, which is easier to apply to tasks whose success can be checked automatically. “But it’s harder to create environments to train these models when the task itself is open-ended,” he says.

Kapoor says the team is now conducting the experiment with Mythos, Anthropic’s most advanced model, which launched in April. It was subsequently required by the Trump administration to meet various safety restrictions and is now available only to approved organizations. Anthropic did not respond to a request for comment.

There are some limitations to the study. It covered just two research papers, and the original authors knew the papers they were grading were generated by AI agents, which could have colored their evaluations. And the researchers had substantial discretion in designing and executing the study, meaning that their preexisting beliefs and biases could have slipped into the results. Evaluations of open-ended research trade some objectivity for a much richer test than any benchmarks can offer.

Still, the results may temper the claims that recursive self-improvement is on the horizon. In June, Anthropic published a blog post titled “When AI Builds Itself,” charting its progress toward models that speed up their own development. In July, OpenAI advertised the fact that its new model GPT-5.6 Sol had helped post-train a smaller model, saving researchers weeks of work.

The new finding may echo what AI companies are finding internally, regardless of their most optimistic public statements. Anthropic cofounder Jack Clark wrote in his newsletter Import AI that it rhymes with what the company found when it tried to automate some aspects of AI safety research. 

“There’s a certain absence of valuable, intuitive creativity in today’s AI systems, and though they’re extraordinarily capable engineers they seem to have a certain property of rote, formulaic thinking that might prevent them [from] being good researchers,” he wrote. He called AI systems’ lack of creativity a “bearish signal on short recursive self-improvement timelines.” 

AI companies do have every incentive to develop AI systems that can rapidly accelerate their own progress, just as they did to make the models better at coding. OpenAI has made building an automated AI researcher an explicit goal, and Anthropic identifies self-improving AI as the industry’s next milestone. 

“If there is investment and then conscious effort toward this direction, I feel like there would be interesting progress, even if it’s failing currently,” says Najoung Kim, a professor of linguistics and computer science at Boston University who researches how AI agents can automate AI research but did not work on the study. On the other hand, it’s possible that AI progress may be bifurcated. AI systems might race ahead on narrow tasks—the kind that can be scored—while advancing slowly on open-ended research. 

The big open question, then, is how crucial open-ended research is to recursive self-improvement—whether AI systems can grind their way there without it, simply by improving on the narrower tasks. “If we look back to the biggest advances in the field, the invention of transformers or the invention of big new architectures that allowed us to make a lot of AI progress—all of those did require creative leaps,” says Kapoor. 

“That said, others have this hypothesis that all of what we need for transformative AI, in particular for recursive self-improvement, is already there.” That would include making a model train faster and boosting its benchmark scores.

“That’s frankly the trillion-dollar question right now,” he says.

Lee, an engineer at Samsung’s semiconductor division, clocks out when his shift ends. He used to work longer hours, going the extra mile to excel at his projects. But lately, he’s been coming straight home to work on his job application for the chipmaker’s South Korean rival SK Hynix, sharing tips with his coworkers on how to draft a stellar personal statement. Even his boss encourages him to make the move.

“My team lead tells us all to jump ship to SK Hynix,” says Lee. He and his coworkers are feeling demoralized by the $476,000 bonus that SK Hynix is set to pay its employees, flush with record profits from making the high-bandwidth memory (HBM) chips that power Nvidia’s AI accelerators. The figure dwarfs what chip workers at Samsung are set to receive and is sparking an exodus.

As the AI boom heats up, the semiconductor titans are waging a fierce talent war with flashy bonuses, aggressive recruiting, and even a courtroom injunction. Who wins could tilt the race to dominate the next generation of the HBM chips at the heart of the AI boom.

“Except for our two team leads, my entire team [of 30 people] just applied to SK Hynix,” Lee says, referring to a job posting the company published in July. Lee, who has worked at Samsung for three years, even applied for an entry-level position at its rival. A coworker, who has worked at Samsung for eight years, applied for the same one. They both got rejected. But they’re hopeful that they’ll get a callback for a posting seeking a more experienced engineer.

All employees at Samsung and SK Hynix that MIT Technology Review spoke with asked to be identified by just their last name or a pseudonym because they feared retaliation from their employer. Samsung declined to comment, and SK Hynix did not respond to requests for comment.

After prolonged negotiations with its labor union, Samsung struck a deal in May to pay out 10.5% of the semiconductor division’s operating profits to employees as bonuses annually for 10 years, mostly in company stock that vests over three years. The move came after SK Hynix agreed last year to pay out 10% of operating profits to employees, which translates to $476,000 per employee this year—mostly in cash.  

But at Samsung, each division’s bonus is tied to its own bottom line. Chip workers in its memory division, which is also reaping a windfall from making HBM chips, are getting paid a bonus of roughly $400,000 per employee this year. But those who, like Lee, work in Samsung’s foundry division, which manufactures logic chips that companies like Tesla and Google design and has been operating at a loss, are getting a bonus of roughly $135,000. 

Employees told MIT Technology Review that Samsung said it can’t give as many bonuses to divisions that aren’t performing well. Lee, after watching the labor union wrestle with the company for months, says he has felt disappointed by what he ended up with: “Even if Samsung does well in the future, I don’t think any of it will trickle down to me.” 

The workers’ lagging bonuses are making SK Hynix suddenly look appealing. According to a survey by the Samsung labor union in June, 81.5% of employees in the company’s foundry division, and nearly half of employees in the semiconductor division as a whole, said they wanted to go to another company in the next two years. In April, Samsung labor union chief Choi Seung-ho said more than 200 members of the union had left for SK Hynix over the past four months. On Blind, an anonymous workplace forum, a chorus of disgruntled engineers at Samsung confess that they want to defect to SK Hynix for the bigger bonuses. 

For decades, SK Hynix lived in Samsung’s shadow. It was the smaller, scrappier memory maker that elite engineering students at universities looked past when applying for jobs. But in 2019, Samsung downsized its HBM team, betting the market would stay niche, while SK Hynix doubled down on the technology. Then the AI boom supercharged the demand for HBMs, which feed AI chips the enormous amounts of data they need at ultra-high speed, driving prices to unprecedented levels. SK Hynix now leads the global market for HBMs, while Samsung is playing catch-up. Both companies topped $1 trillion in market value in May, and SK Hynix briefly dethroned Samsung as South Korea’s most valuable company in June.

Predicting that demand for memory chips will continue to surge, the semiconductor titans are making aggressive investments to expand their business. Last month, the companies unveiled plans to invest more than $2 trillion by 2040, including a semiconductor “mega-cluster” in Yongin, a city south of Seoul. To staff the expansion, SK Hynix added 2,152 employees in the first half of 2026 alone and aims to double its manufacturing capacity in five years. Samsung plans to hire 60,000 employees over the next five years, especially for its semiconductor division. Even so, the pipeline will fall short: South Korea’s semiconductor industry will need about 304,000 workers by 2031 and faces a shortage of roughly 54,000, according to the Korea Semiconductor Industry Association.

Now the longtime rivals are showering workers with big bonuses to keep—and poach—talent. “[SK Hynix] seems to target Samsung engineers when hiring because it’s a rival,” says Baek, a manager at SK Hynix. “From what I heard internally, the big performance bonuses we got were aimed at luring away talent from our competitor.”

Courts are starting to weigh in. In July, Samsung won an injunction barring two former chip workers from working at SK Hynix for 18 months, on the grounds that chips are a national core technology deserving protection. “With competition in the semiconductor industry fierce, it’s necessary to establish a fair market order,” the court ruled.

The talent exodus threatens a crucial advantage that Samsung still holds in the HBM race. “Samsung is the only memory maker in the world that owns a foundry business,” says Park Jun-young, a semiconductor expert at the Industrial Anthropology Laboratory, a research institute, who worked at Samsung for a decade. 

With the latest generation of the technology, known as HBM4, the logic chip at the base of each memory stack must be manufactured with the kind of advanced process that only foundries run. Samsung can do this in-house, while SK Hynix outsources it to the Taiwanese foundry giant TSMC. “If Samsung keeps losing engineers in the foundry … the collaboration between memory division and foundry division could become difficult,” says Park. “SK Hynix, which used to have only a memory team and is now hiring foundry engineers, could do better research on HBMs.”

Choi, an engineer who has worked at Samsung for seven years, says he was once a star on his team, getting glowing performance reviews from his managers. But lately, he and his coworkers have been busy applying for every SK Hynix job posting they see. “We tell each other when the next SK Hynix job posting is up,” he says. “There’s always more work to do beyond our basic duties. But there’s no point in doing it.”