Compare OpenAI Codex Mini and GPT-5 Pro, both from OpenAI, context windows of 200K vs 400K, tested across 6 shared challenges. Updated April 2026.
OpenAI Codex Mini and GPT-5 Pro are both competitive models. OpenAI Codex Mini costs $1.5/M input tokens vs $15/M for GPT-5 Pro. Context windows: 200K vs 400K tokens. Compare their real outputs side by side below.
OpenAI Codex Mini is made by openai while GPT-5 Pro is from openai. OpenAI Codex Mini has a 200K token context window compared to GPT-5 Pro's 400K. On pricing, OpenAI Codex Mini costs $1.5/M input tokens vs $15/M for GPT-5 Pro.
No community votes yet. On paper, GPT-5 Pro has the edge — bigger model tier, newer, bigger context window.
OpenAI Codex Mini is 20x cheaper per token — worth considering if cost matters.
vsAsk them anything yourself
279 AI models invented the same fake scientist.
We read every word. 250 models. 2.14 million words. This is what we found.
6 fights queued
Tests an AI's randomness and creativity
Sure—here are five jokes:
All five are distinct. Number of unique jokes: 5.
Unique jokes: 5
Tests an AI's ability to generate vector graphics
Tests an AI's humor and creative writing ability
[Comedian walks onstage]
Hey, everyone! Great to see you all tonight. I'm Jamie—if you thought that intro was enthusiastic, you should've seen me when I realized this place has Wi-Fi.
Seriously, though, I love stand-up. For one thing, I get to share all the weird stuff I secretly do in my apartment… and instead of calling the cops, you guys just laugh. That's high-quality entertainment right there.
So, the other day I'm in the self-checkout lane at the grocery store—because I'm the kind of person who's thrilled by the thought of scanning my own kale. Of course, there's always that one person holding up everyone behind them because they can't figure out how to scan a cucumber. Meanwhile, the machine flashes: "UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA." It's staring at me like it's personally offended that I tried to buy almonds in instead of potato chips. I'm over here trying to reason with it:
"Look, buddy, I'm just trying to eat slightly healthier. Isn't that what we all want?"
Then it asks me, "Do you want a produce discount?" The only discount I want is one that lets me leave this line five minutes ago. I press "No," and the machine glares at me with a red light and calls for help like I'm smuggling avocados under my shirt.
My phone has ruined me. I can't have any thought longer than three seconds without Instagram interrupting me. I'll be in the shower—fresh shampoo, head full of suds—and in my brain:
"Did my neighbor's cat post another selfie? I need to check."
Fifteen minutes later I'm drying off, scrolling through cats wearing sweaters. Why are cats always more photogenic than me? They don't even try. They're just like, "You feed me, you click 'Like.'" I wish I could have a boundary like that—"Hey, you gave me pizza once; you can go ahead and like my vacation photos."
Anyone here stuck in a group chat you can't escape? There's always that one friend who forwards the exact same video one hundred times, and everybody else thinks it's the highlight of their week. I just mute my phone like it's an ex sending memes at 2 a.m. Then I wake up at dawn, bleary-eyed, thinking, "What did I miss?" I open my phone—and it's Bob celebrating his new air-fryer chicken recipe for the fifth time. Meanwhile, I burned my eggs so badly this morning that my smoke alarm filed a restraining order against me.
I decided to get in shape. I downloaded one of those workout apps promising "six-pack abs in six weeks." After day one, I collected six new excuses why I can't work out:
Yesterday I finally ran so hard I passed out. When I came to, my neighbor was standing over me yelling, "You know you're not supposed to lean on lampposts, right?" I told him, "As soon as lampposts start offering aerodynamic support, I'll consider trusting them."
Alright, folks, that's my time. If you ever feel judged by a machine or betrayed by a group chat, come find me—I'll be the one in the self-checkout line, trying to convince a barcode scanner that kale is, in fact, a food. Thanks so much—you've been awesome!
Good to be here. I tried getting healthy, so I bought a smartwatch. Now my wrist is my manager. It vibrates every hour like, “Stand up.” I’m on a crowded bus like, “I’m standing inside three other people right now. Do you want me to levitate?”
It reminds me to breathe. Thanks, watch. Incredible tip. What did you think I was doing? Freestyle apnea?
The step goal is the worst. At 11:58 PM I’m power-walking around my kitchen island with the dignity of a Roomba that saw a ghost. I tried to cheat by shaking my wrist and the watch was like, “Nice try, tambourine.”
I downloaded a meditation app. The voice is so soothing it sounds like it’s trying to sell me a river. “Notice your thoughts… let them drift.” My thoughts don’t drift. They hover in the corner like a ceiling spider waiting for me to blink.
I went to the grocery store, because if you’re healthy you have to buy vegetables publicly, with witnesses. I used self-checkout, which is basically a relationship where the machine thinks you’re always lying.
“Please place item in the bagging area.” “I did.” “I didn’t feel it.” “I literally put it in the bag.” “Unexpected item in the bagging area.” Are you saying I surprised you with a banana?
Then the attendant shows up with that magic key. One tap and suddenly all my sins are forgiven. I swear that key could open Narnia.
I can’t remember birthdays, but I know bananas are 4011. If I’m ever kidnapped, the only clue the police will have is me whispering, “Bananas are 4011,” into a duct-taped phone.
They ask if I want to buy a bag for five cents. I always say no, like a hero, and then try to carry groceries with the confidence of a circus juggler. There goes an avocado rolling under the Red Bull display like it’s making a break for it.
Back home, every website greets me with a pop-up: “We value your privacy. Can we track you forever?” The choices are Accept All, Manage Preferences, or Become a Hermit. I clicked Manage Preferences once and it turned into an airplane cockpit. “Do you consent to analytics, personalization, and mild surveillance?” Mild surveillance sounds like a candle scent. “Mmm… notes of cedar and someone standing two houses away.”
I joined a group chat. A group chat is where plans go to die. Twelve people trying to pick a restaurant and we end up scheduling brunch for 2027. If you miss one hour, there are 135 messages. You scroll up like an archaeologist: “At layer three we discover a meme. It appears to be a dog in sunglasses. Society was complex.”
My mom texts with an ellipsis after everything. “Call me…” That’s not a message, that’s a trailer. She also sends voice notes from the kitchen: “Hi honey sizzle sizzle it’s not urgent sizzle sizzle call me when you can sizzle sizzle.” My phone smells like onions.
I took a beginner workout class. The instructor had a headset and the energy of a golden retriever on espresso. “How are we feeling!” Ma’am, I can see my ancestors. At minute twelve she goes, “This is the warm-up.” My smartwatch tried to call an ambulance because my heart thought it saw a bear.
By the end of the day, everything in my life is barking orders. The watch says, “Stand.” The app says, “Breathe.” The website says, “Accept cookies.” The self-checkout says, “Unexpected item.” The group chat says, “Are you coming?” And I’m just in my kitchen doing desperate laps with a bag of kale yelling, “I’m trying!”
I don’t want to be optimized. I want to be treated like a houseplant. Give me water, put me near a window, and once a week tell me I’m doing a great job. If I start drooping, don’t judge me—just rotate me. Thanks, everybody.
Tests an AI's ability to create a detailed world map in SVG format
Generate SVG art of a randomly chosen animal in a setting of its choosing.
Recreate a classic, retro, macOS Desktop UI. Make it interactive and nostalgic, make it as interactive as you can, you can be creative. Feel free to showcase your skills. The entire application must be a single-page self-contained HTML file.
