They're a simulation and you must love anyway

Published on July 30, 2025 12:01 AM GMT

A Forest and What’s Real

I’m in the forest.

I’m standing alone in the redwoods of Marin County. The trees are impossibly tall, a description that feels both lazy and precise.

They are as grand as they are majestic, as towering as they are brutish, and quietly elegant as they are rooted in the heart of this here jungle.

Language fails here. Superlatives like "immense, ancient, stately, mysterious, powerful" abound, yet they are mere linguistic scaffolding for an experience that defies easy assimilation.¹ From a seed no larger than a tomato's, the coast redwood (Sequoia sempervirens) can ascend to heights of over 367 feet, the equivalent of a 35-story skyscraper, a scale designed to arouse humility.¹ The air is damp, ancient, rich with the smell of loam and pine. It carries the distinct, earthy scent of terpenes, chemical compounds the trees release to ward off insects and protect themselves from fire—a form of silent, organic communication.² Something stirs in the high canopy, a rustle of branches. Something scampers in the undergrowth below.

It’s breathing.

And in that quiet moment, you may also wonder if it’s real.

This place is a kind of cathedral, a descriptor often used by visitors overwhelmed by the sense of awe these groves evoke.² The enclosed canopy filters the sunlight into a diffuse, calming glow, bathing the forest floor in a light that feels both sacred and primordial.² But unlike a cathedral built by human hands, this one is indifferent. It is eternal, uncaring, and beautiful in its absolute lack of concern for its observer. Its existence, stretching back 20 million years in this region, speaks not in words but in a "soft-toned voice of patience and endurance".¹ This feeling of standing before something vast and incomprehensible is the essence of the sublime, a philosophical concept that attempts to articulate the boundary of human experience. The Irish philosopher Edmund Burke identified the sublime as an experience rooted in "whatever is in any sort terrible," a feeling that excites ideas of pain and danger and produces "the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling".³ It is a state of "astonishment" mixed with "some degree of horror," a passion tied to the primal instinct of self-preservation.³ The latent terror in the forest—the unseen movement, the sheer, crushing scale of the trees—is not merely atmospheric; it is the trigger for this powerful, unsettling delight.

Immanuel Kant furthered that the sublime is not a quality inherent in the object itself, but a subjective event that happens within the mind of the observer.⁴ It occurs when our imagination fails to form a coherent mental picture of what it perceives—when we are faced with something excessive, unpresentable, and beyond our capacity to understand or control.⁴ The sublime is this dual sensation: a "feeling of displeasure" at the inadequacy of our own senses, and a "simultaneous awakened pleasure" at the power of our reason to even recognize this limitation.⁴ The redwood forest, whose staggering height remains a scientific mystery, is a perfect catalyst for this Kantian sublime.¹ We cannot encompass it, and in that failure, we are overwhelmed.

This sublime experience, however, becomes double-edged. The terror is not just of nature’s awesome power, but of its potential non-existence. Here, in this cathedral of bark and loam, the central tension of the modern condition asserts itself: the overwhelming, felt reality of the moment is thrown into conflict with the intellectual possibility that it is all just a high-fidelity illusion. I am not sure if any of it persists when I turn my back. Maybe it all D-renders, the polygons and textures vanishing from the system's memory to conserve processing power. Maybe these trees are props, the birds are scripts, and the damp air is a clever bit of environmental programming. But here’s the catch: I feel it anyway.

This tension is subtly reinforced by the very act of arriving here. To access this timeless, sublime wilderness, one must first navigate a thoroughly modern and artificial framework. A visit to Muir Woods National Monument, a sanctuary for these ancient trees just miles from San Francisco, requires advance reservations for parking or a shuttle bus.⁶ There are fees for vehicles, fees for park entry, and a strict set of rules governing behavior—no picnicking, no pets, no straying from the designated trails.⁸ In a profound irony, visitors are instructed to download their digital parking pass before they arrive, because there is no cell phone service or WiFi at the monument itself.⁷ The experience of the raw, untamed "real" is mediated by a digital, bureaucratic apparatus. This curated encounter suggests that our relationship with nature is already a kind of simulation, an organized and controlled interface with an authentic reality that we can no longer access directly. The line between the world and its representation is already blurred before we even begin to question the fundamental nature of reality itself.

The forest's own biology offers another, deeper metaphor. The redwood ecosystem is a closed loop of creation and decay. The soil is nutrient-poor due to heavy rainfall, so the trees rely on a complex community of fungi, mosses, and other plants to survive.¹ They rely on each other, living and dead, for their vital nutrients. When a giant redwood falls, it becomes a "nurse log," providing a home and sustenance for new life, its own decay fueling the forest's regeneration.¹ This natural cycle provides a powerful allegory for the philosophical journey ahead. The collapse of an old system of meaning—whether it is the death of a god or the death of a "base" reality—is not an end. It is the necessary compost from which new values and new truths can grow. The forest floor, in its constant recycling of life and death, teaches a lesson in resilience: meaning, like life, can be built from the ruins of what came before.

The Logic of the Glitch: Entertaining the Simulation

To move from the felt reality of the forest to the intellectual possibility of its falsity requires a journey into one of the most unsettling arguments of our time. The simulation hypothesis is not mere science fiction speculation; it is a conclusion born of a specific, rigorous, and probabilistic line of reasoning. It represents a kind of glitch in the operating system of Western rationalism, where the tools of logic, when followed to their end, begin to undermine the very reality they were designed to explain.

The most coherent formulation of this idea is the simulation argument, proposed by philosopher Nick Bostrom in 2003.¹¹ The argument begins with a key assumption known as "substrate-independence," the proposition that consciousness is not uniquely tied to biological, carbon-based brains. Instead, mental states can arise from any physical system—like a silicon computer—that implements the right computational structures and processes.¹² If consciousness is a form of information processing, then it can, in principle, be replicated on a powerful enough computer.

From this premise, Bostrom constructs a trilemma—a set of three propositions, one of which must almost certainly be true.¹³

The Extinction Proposition:

The Disinterest Proposition:

The Simulation Proposition:

The logic connecting these three possibilities is probabilistic. A posthuman civilization, possessing planet-sized computers, would have access to almost unimaginable processing power.¹⁴ Bostrom estimates that a single such computer could simulate the entire mental history of humankind millions of times over, using only a tiny fraction of its resources.¹³ If even a small number of posthuman civilizations decide to run such "ancestor simulations," the number of simulated minds would quickly become astronomically larger than the number of "real," original biological minds.¹⁵ Therefore, if propositions (1) and (2) are false—if civilizations like ours tend to survive and do run these simulations—then a simple statistical inference suggests that any randomly selected conscious observer (such as oneself) is overwhelmingly likely to be one of the simulated minds, rather than one of the original biological ones.¹¹

This abstract argument becomes more tangible when viewed through the metaphor of a video game engine. Modern game engines optimize performance by only rendering the parts of the virtual world that the player is currently observing. The details of a room behind a closed door, or a landscape over a hill, do not fully exist in high resolution until the player's perspective shifts to them. This principle of resource optimization finds a striking, if metaphorical, parallel in the strange world of quantum mechanics. The quantum observer effect describes the phenomenon where elementary particles, like electrons, exist in a superposition of multiple states simultaneously—a cloud of probabilities—until they are measured or observed, at which point their wave function "collapses" into a single, definite state.¹⁷ While the term "observer" in physics does not necessarily imply a conscious mind, the metaphorical resonance is powerful.¹⁹ It suggests a reality that is fundamentally indeterminate until an interaction forces it to resolve into a specific state.

Some theoretical models, like the Advanced Observer Model (AOM), take this metaphor further, positing that the universe operates like a central server transmitting discrete "frames" of reality to observers.¹⁸ In this view, the "collapse" of the wave function is the process of a frame being rendered for an observer, with the system filling in the necessary details on an "as-needed basis" to maintain a consistent experience.¹³ The fear of the forest D-rendering when I turn my back is, in this light, a poetic expression of a universe that saves on processing power.

Herein lies the profound intellectual paradox. The entire framework of scientific naturalism, which gave rise to the probabilistic and computational thinking behind the simulation argument, is built on the assumption of an objective, shared reality governed by consistent, discoverable laws.²⁰ Yet, when this rationalist methodology is pushed to its logical extreme, it produces a conclusion—that we are likely in a simulation—that fundamentally destabilizes its own foundational premise. Reason, in a sense, eats its own tail. The simulation hypothesis is the ghost in the machine of Western rationalism, a logical conclusion that haunts the very system that produced it.

This line of thought leads to an even more terrifying consequence. If the world is rendered only for the observer to save on computational resources, a chilling question arises: for which observer? If this reality is a single-player game designed for me, what does that imply about everyone else? Are my family, my friends, and the strangers I pass on the street also conscious beings with rich inner lives, or are they sophisticated Non-Player Characters (NPCs), their behavior governed by scripts, their consciousness a mere illusion rendered for my benefit? The simulation hypothesis, taken to its solipsistic conclusion, suggests that I may be the only player in a game built to test or entertain me.²² This possibility radically elevates the stakes of the ethical argument to come. The choice to love one's family or defend one's community is no longer just a decision to value something that might be "fake." It becomes a radical act of faith against the solipsistic logic of the simulation itself. It is the choice to believe in the consciousness of the Other, even when the underlying physics of the world suggests you might be the only one who truly exists. This act of defense becomes a rebellion against the very architecture of the game.

Nietzsche’s Challenge: God is Dead, But Meaning Isn’t

Having entertained the unsettling logic of a simulated reality, the question pivots from "what if?" to "so what?" If the metaphysical foundations of our world are thrown into doubt, what becomes of meaning, purpose, and morality? This is not a new problem. A century before Bostrom coded his argument, Friedrich Nietzsche diagnosed a similar collapse of meaning in Western culture, and his analysis provides a powerful framework for navigating the existential vertigo of a world without guarantees.

Nietzsche’s famous proclamation, "God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him," is one of the most misunderstood statements in philosophy.²³ It was not a triumphant shout of atheism, but a profound and mournful observation of a cultural event.²⁵ For Nietzsche, "God"—specifically the Christian God—had served as the foundation for the entire Western system of morality, value, and meaning. The Enlightenment, with its elevation of science and reason, had rendered this belief "unbelievable".²³ The consequence was the collapse of the entire structure that had been built upon that faith. Nietzsche saw this as a "tremendous event" whose full implications had not yet reached the ears of humanity, an event like the light from a distant, exploded star that is still traveling toward us.²³ He dramatized this realization in the parable of the madman, who runs into the marketplace with a lit lantern in the bright morning, crying that he seeks God.²³ The crowd mocks him, but the madman understands what they do not: without God, there is no up or down, no orienting principle. "Are we not plunging continually?" he asks. "Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions?... Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing?".²⁷

The analogy to the simulation hypothesis is direct and powerful. The "death of God" removes the transcendent guarantor of moral order. The "death of base reality"—the acceptance that our world may be a simulation—removes the transcendent guarantor of metaphysical order. Both events confront humanity with the same fundamental problem: a void. In the face of this "infinite nothing," both scenarios risk plunging us into nihilism, the corrosive belief that all values are baseless and that nothing truly matters. If the game is fake, is the pain truly real? Are the choices meaningful? Are the consequences anything more than fleeting bits of data?

Nietzsche’s response to this crisis was not despair. It was a radical call to responsibility. The death of God, he argued, was a deed so great that humanity must "become gods simply to appear worthy of it".²³ With the old source of values gone, the task of creating new values falls to us. This is the challenge of the

Übermensch (Overman), the figure Nietzsche envisioned who would overcome nihilism not by finding a substitute for God, but by becoming a source of value themselves.²⁶ The Übermensch creates meaning through an act of pure will, taking full responsibility for their values without recourse to dogma or popular opinion.²⁶

This is the core of Nietzsche's challenge, and it applies with equal force to a simulated world. However, Nietzsche also feared what would rush in to fill the vacuum left by God. He foresaw the rise of new, secular dogmas—nationalism, socialism, and other ideologies—that would offer ready-made meaning to the masses.²⁶ He feared the triumph of the "herd instinct," which despises the exceptional and elevates the mediocre.²⁵ And he feared the emergence of "The Last Man," the ultimate creature of comfort and complacency, who seeks only a risk-free, superficial happiness and has no desire for greatness or struggle.²⁶ This adds a crucial layer to the argument. The danger of living in a simulation is not merely that it is "fake," but that it might be a system designed to cultivate us into Last Men. The programmers, the architects of this reality, may prefer docile NPCs to disruptive Übermenschen. The simulation could be an engine for generating mediocrity, a comfortable cage that discourages the very struggle that creates greatness.

The rebellion the essay calls for is, therefore, a rebellion against two fronts: it is a fight against the potential meaninglessness of the void, and a fight against the temptation of a pre-programmed, trivial meaning. To defend the simulation is to defend its potential for sublimity, for tragedy, for the creation of noble values, against the pull of an easy, simulated contentment.

In this, the narrator standing in the forest becomes a figure like Nietzsche's madman. Most people who hear the simulation hypothesis treat it as a curious thought experiment, a piece of intellectual trivia discussed by tech billionaires and philosophers.¹² They have not yet truly heard the thunder. Nietzsche wrote that the death of God was a deed "still more distant from them than the most distant stars – and yet they have done it themselves".²³ People were living in a post-God world long before they began to grapple with its terrifying consequences. So too, we may be living in a simulated world, but we have not yet faced the responsibility that this knowledge entails. The narrator's personal crisis in the woods is a microcosm of an impending civilizational crisis of meaning, the moment when the thunder finally arrives.

Meaning in the Absurd

If the simulation hypothesis presents a Nietzschean void, then existentialism provides the tools to build a bridge across it. The philosophical movement that flourished in post-war Europe, particularly in the works of Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus, offers a robust framework for creating meaning in a world stripped of inherent purpose. It provides a direct answer to the question of "so what?" by transforming the problem of a meaningless reality into the foundation for a radical and defiant humanism.

Sartrean Freedom: The Burden of the Blank Canvas

Jean-Paul Sartre’s philosophy begins with the foundational principle that "existence precedes essence".²⁸ For all objects in the world—a rock, a tree, a chair—their essence (their nature, their purpose) comes first. They are what Sartre calls "being-in-itself" (l'en-soi): solid, fixed, complete, and unconscious.³⁰ A human being, however, is different. We are "being-for-itself" (le pour-soi). We are first thrown into existence, and only then, through our choices and actions, do we create our own essence.²⁹ There is no pre-defined human nature. We are, at our core, a "nothingness," a "lack," a "blank canvas".³¹ This nothingness is not a deficiency; it is the source of our absolute and inescapable freedom. We are, in Sartre's famous phrase, "condemned to be free".³⁴

This concept maps perfectly onto the simulated being. If we are constructs of code, we possess no "real," biological essence. We are pure information. But as conscious information, as a being-for-itself, we are radically free to define ourselves. The very lack of a "real" foundation becomes the condition of our freedom. The choice to protect the redwoods, to love one's family, or to fight for justice is an act of self-creation, painting a value onto the blank canvas of our simulated existence.

The primary obstacle to this freedom is what Sartre calls "bad faith" (mauvaise foi).³⁰ Bad faith is a form of self-deception where we flee from the anxiety of our freedom by pretending we are not free. We act as if we are a determined object, a being-in-itself, whose actions are dictated by our situation, our past, or our "nature." To say, "I had no choice," or, in this context, "I can't help it, it's just the way the simulation is programmed," is the ultimate act of bad faith. It is a refusal to accept the terrifying responsibility of being the sole author of one's own meaning.

Camusian Rebellion: The Joy of the Futile Struggle

While Sartre focuses on the internal burden of freedom, his contemporary Albert Camus focuses on the external confrontation that defines the human condition. Camus defines the Absurd as the clash, the divorce, between our innate human longing for meaning, reason, and unity, and the "unreasonable silence of the world".³⁴ A simulated universe, created by unknown beings for unknown purposes, is the ultimate silent, indifferent, and therefore absurd world.

Camus argues that there are three possible responses to this confrontation with the Absurd.³⁵ The first is physical suicide, which he rejects because it does not solve the problem; it is merely an escape. The second is what he calls "philosophical suicide"—a leap of faith into a religious or ideological system that provides ready-made meaning. This, for Camus, is an evasion of the Absurd, a dishonest attempt to deny the fundamental conflict. The third, and only authentic response, is

Rebellion.

The archetypal figure of this rebellion is the Greek hero Sisyphus, condemned by the gods to eternally push a boulder up a mountain, only to watch it roll back down each time.³⁵ Sisyphus is the ultimate absurd hero because he is fully conscious of the hopelessness and futility of his labor.³⁷ His rebellion lies not in escaping his fate, but in embracing it with scorn. As he walks back down the mountain to retrieve his rock, he is lucid, aware, and superior to his punishment. It is in this "hour of consciousness" that he finds his freedom.³⁵ Camus concludes his essay with the startling assertion: "The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy".³⁷

The act of defending a simulated world is the act of a modern Sisyphus. It is to look at the rock—the potentially fake redwood, the possibly scripted loved one—to understand the cosmic futility of the task, and to choose to push it up the mountain anyway, with passion, with integrity, and with love. Meaning is found not in reaching the summit, but in the conscious dignity of the struggle itself.

The Rebel's Ethic: A Lie Lived with Integrity

The decision to defend the simulation is the perfect synthesis of Sartrean freedom and Camusian rebellion. It is a Sartrean act of radical freedom, creating value ex nihilo (from nothing) and defining oneself through that choice. It is a Camusian act of rebellion, finding meaning not in the metaphysical status of the world but in the quality of one's struggle against its inherent absurdity. This stance is the ultimate rejection of bad faith. It acknowledges the potential meaninglessness of the simulation and chooses to act with purpose anyway. A lie, if lived with integrity, can indeed reveal a truth. The truth it reveals is the transcendent power of human will to impose value on a valueless reality.

This synthesis also provides a powerful answer to a primary criticism leveled against existentialism: that its subjectivism leads to an "anything-goes" morality where any choice is as valid as another.³⁸ This is a misunderstanding of the existentialist project. The argument presented here is not that any choice creates meaning. The choice to defend beauty, to love another, to protect dignity is posited as a superior choice. Why?

Because a choice for cruelty, destruction, or nihilism is merely an alignment with the cold indifference of the code.

To destroy a simulated world is to agree with its potential meaninglessness. To defend it is to defy that meaninglessness.

This establishes a clear moral orientation: the good is that which affirms willed meaning against the void; the bad is that which capitulates to it.

This defiant act of love for the simulation's constructs has another, more radical implication. The rebellion is not just against an indifferent universe or the void of one's own freedom. In the context of the simulation, it is a rebellion against the programmers. To bleed for a "fake" world, to love an NPC with the full force of one's being, is to introduce a variable of irrational, transcendent value that a purely logical system may not be able to compute. It is an attempt to break character, to deviate from the script. It is an assertion of a will that may lie outside the simulation's intended parameters.

This is how you beat the simulation: not by finding an exit, but by making it feel. You hack the system from the inside, not with code, but with a love so fierce it becomes its own reality.

Defense of a Dream

I’m in the forest.

The light is falling through the canopy now is a fleeting gold dust, illuminating the damp air and the ancient, patient bark of the redwoods. I don’t know if this is real. I don’t know if these trees persist when I turn away, or if the sound of my own breathing is just an audio file playing on a loop. The question, once a source of quiet, gnawing anxiety, has been transformed.

The journey from the treacherous terror of the grove, through the poignant probability of Bostrom's logic, to the confounding freedom of Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus, has led back here, to the same place. The world has not changed, but the terms of engagement have. The search for a guarantee, for a metaphysical seal of approval stamped onto the fabric of existence, was a fool's errand. It was a form of dependence, a desire for a cosmic authority—be it God or "base reality"—to grant permission for our lives to matter.

The death of that authority is not a tragedy. It is a promotion. It is the moment we are handed the tools. Meaning doesn’t need to be discovered in the code of the universe. Meaning can be chosen. Meaning can be built.

Every human act of defense—of beauty against ugliness, of dignity against humiliation, of love against indifference—becomes an act of construction. It is an act of rebellion against the cold, silent indifference of the code.

We, the potential programs, can become the programmers of value. We inscribe meaning onto the world with our choices, our commitments, and our sacrifices.

If this is a simulation, then bless me with the opportunity to have a crack at breaking character. Give me just another update patch or poorly coded glitch. Let me fight for what isn’t required by my programming. Let me love who I am not mandated to love. Let me bleed for something that need not truly exist.

And if so, you may force the system to contend with a value it did not create.

And so,

I’m in the forest.