Welcome to Thought Experiments, an immersive AI-enabled world of philosophy and self-transformation. This is a paid subscriber series, with the first couple pages of each chapter provided as a free teaser. If you missed yesterday’s note, please check it out here for additional context and onboarding. Paid subscribers, be sure to scroll all the way down to access TOD, your AI companion for this journey.
PROLOGUE
In what follows, the word “you” refers quite literally to you, Experimenter. You are the scientist and the subject. When questions are asked, or choices offered, please respond as your authentic self. There will be moments of confusion, but TOD is always here to help.
ONE: A CHOICE
“You can choose,” he says, “up to three wishes. Or you can walk away.”
“You have questions, of course!” He smiles. “Let’s discuss them, one by one. But only for half an hour, because conversations longer than that are never honest. Did you know female mayflies only live for five minutes, including the time they spend mating? Wouldn’t that be an odd existence?”
You received a strange email several days ago, from an undisclosed sender: Dear friend, this Tuesday at 3pm, please go to a place that is special to you, convenient and safe (I intend you no harm, obviously.) I have an idea I would like to share.
You showed up because…you don’t know exactly why. When you did, he was there waiting, calling out to you by name.
“Do I know you?” you asked this middle-aged man with long gray hair, a well-trimmed beard, and a necklace of brown beads draped over his collared, pumpkin-colored shirt. “And how did you know I’d come here?”
“My name is Pete. Where else would you go?” And that’s all he said before offering three wishes.
You laugh, not knowing how to respond.
He looks around. “I like it here. You must, too?”
You nod.
“Happy memories?”
“A few,” you smile, sincerely or politely. You can’t really tell.
“The best memories aren’t just about what happened in the moment. It’s also the possibilities you sensed back then of where life might take you.”
“I can see that.”
“What do you think it’s all about?”
“It, as in…”
“Everything. Life, reality, the sun and the stars, the mayflies.”
“I don’t really know.”
“Yeah, I don’t either. But are you having a good time with it?”
“I…think so.”
“I’m really glad to hear that.”
He nods, as if about to depart, but doesn’t move. He looks at you silently, warmly, just happy to be here in your presence, as if you are deeply important to the universe in a way that only he understands.
“So this wish thing is...serious?” you ask.
“Serious as...no, not cancer, clearly. What’s a good thing that something can be as serious as? Is there one?”
“But you said I could opt out.”
“I carry no gun.”
“Would there be limits to these wishes?” And look at me, you think, suspending disbelief and rolling with the magical genie subplot!
“Oh yes. Wishes have to be realistic, but the outer boundary of realism is very far away.”
He laughs. He has a habit of laughing after he speaks.
“And how would I know where the boundary is?” The question comes out with a little of that tone you might use with a preciously creative child.
“Can you picture a million of something, anything you want? That’s a 1 with 6 zeros.”
“I know what a million is, thank you.”
“From the perspective of human history, that’s actually weird, right? For most of our time on Earth, we couldn’t get past ten. There weren’t even words. Anyway, what if you lived over and over, a million times? Think about that.”
“There would be common threads,” he says, “because you are you. But also variance, randomness, different choices. Picture them side by side, all those different results of you being in the world. That is your Life Space. I can only give you what you already have, somewhere in your Life Space.”
“Kind of….”
“Opaque, I know. We need a rocket.”
“What?”
“Just a small one, floating in your Life Space. And on your starboard side, behind tinted windows, there is this utterly gigantic glowing red orb. Do you see it?”
You find yourself making a reasonable effort to visualize his big red orb. There’s something about this guy. He has a certain smell, a good smell, not the smell of a scammer, a cult leader, or an escaped mental patient.
“That is your current life. Impressive, isn’t it?”
You agree.
“It can’t be that bad. You know what Camus said.”
“What did he say?”
“The only serious philosophical question is…whether or not to kill yourself. You clearly haven’t, so that’s something!” He laughs. “Your life really is impressive, just as it is. You know that, right? Any decent author could write a masterpiece about you, without even embellishing the story.”
You don’t think he’s being ironic, because everything about him seems to conveys complete sincerity.
“On the other hand, you did come here, didn’t you? What were you expecting?”