The Simulation Game

 

 

The following document recently fell into my hands:

 

“Report to the Commissioner of Games: We recently met to discuss, plan and implement a new game, to be called the Simulation Game (hereafter SG). For this purpose we have created a small group (about 6 billion) of individual centers of consciousness, each with finite and quite restricted intelligence. These are to be the pieces in the game and they are currently stored in warehouse 7,000,042, suitably hooked up to the simulation machine SM 5000. The system is now fully operational, with each individual experiencing a fully simulated world. Our technicians have verified that there are no glitches.

Each individual believes that he or she is living in a world that really exists. The point of SG is to provide clues to the pieces that this is not so and see when they realize they are in a simulation. We considered inserting some obvious clues into their stream of experience, such as sky writing that says “This all a simulation—you are being fooled”, but that was deemed a bit too obvious, even taking into account the limited intelligence of the pieces. To make the game more interesting, and to net the greatest gambling revenues, we decided to make the clues subtler, though of course any of our species would recognize them immediately. We have therefore arranged it so that the world they experience is incoherent and unintelligible—quite literally impossible. This is not so clear on the surface, but in the game it is meant to be gradually revealed, as they apply their limited intelligence to the appearances.

The bets are on who will get there first, if anyone. Without going into unnecessary detail, we have built into the simulation a few telltale incoherencies—such as the idea that consciousness depends upon the brain, some logical paradoxes, and the measurement problem (etc) surrounding quantum physics. In SG the pieces are allowed to discover and reflect upon their “world” and to ask themselves whether it really makes any sense. Once they realize it doesn’t, the question is when they will hit on the correct explanation of their predicament: that they are pieces in a simulation game. So far the vast majority are clueless but a few have begun to suspect that all is not well—they are starting to feel that they live in an impossible world (or “world”). At later stages of the game the point of interest will be whether they can persuade others of the truth.

SG promises to be quite fun and completely harmless (unlike that game Galaxy Busters dreamt up recently by some irresponsible gamers). We ask merely that you, as commissioner, list the new game in your records and grant us the appropriate patent. Thanking you for your attention, we are the Grand Society for Responsible Gaming, Section 345, Plasma System 68,000,333.”

 

What should we make of this peculiar document? First, if it is genuine, then these super-gamers are by no means infallible, since the document gives the game away completely. But perhaps they are just being clever, since the existence of such a document by means proves the truth of what it contains. So let us put that aside. The story seems perfectly intelligible: it is logically possible to create a simulated world that contains hidden incoherencies—as with many works of fiction or even dreams. Thus there can be internal evidence that a narrative is a form of fiction not fact. A simulation might undermine itself in this way, either by design or through incompetence. We might think that the authors’ breezy assumption of incoherence in the simulated world they have created is questionable. Admittedly, the puzzles of mind and body, of the logical paradoxes, and of the quantum realm are serious and hitherto resistant to intelligible solution, but maybe this is a just a matter of temporary perplexity, or perhaps of permanent cognitive limitations on our part. Why should we think that a world in which these problems arise is impossible? Well, that depends on how seriously unintelligible you think the world is—whether such a world would be genuinely impossible. Of course, a world cannot be impossible if it exists to be lived in; but it may be that our “world” is unintelligible simply because it does not exist. That is, there are no bodies and brains and objects of the kind that we suppose, governed by the laws we think we have discovered. It is an impossible fictional world—a perfectly intelligible notion. This is the view of the designers of the simulation game: such a world is literally impossible and the question is whether we will come to realize this and draw the obvious (to them) conclusion, namely that we are pieces in a game of simulation. The form of the argument is straightforward: unintelligible worlds cannot exist; our (apparent) world is unintelligible; therefore our world does not exist. Given that we experience an apparent world, the best explanation is that we are living in a simulation contrived by superior aliens.

Question: does this story raise the probability that we are subjects in a simulation game? Suppose that we are: do we now have clues that this is our situation, if only we interpret them rightly? If our true situation is revealed tomorrow, will we be right to say, “Yes, it was clear all along, if only we had heeded the signs”. I just wish the document had contained information about what would happen if we arrive at the correct view of our condition. What happens to us at the end of the game? Will it be a case of “game-over” with all the pieces disposed of, or will we be put out to pasture in some undreamt of paradise?

 

 

I was glad Serena Williams decided to return to Indian Wells after that shameful incident 14 years ago. Her return made the point with great force and clarity. But I also am glad that Venus and their father did not return this year, because that mob behavior can never be forgotten or forgiven. It was pure racism, plain and simple. It was ugly, barbaric, and a blot on the people who live there. I wish Serena had won this year, as she did before, but the leg injury made that impossible. Still, she won the moral battle, with a decisive victory. Now Simona Halep, my favorite female player, will be in the final, and has every chance of winning. But I imagine everyone will see Serena on the court in spirit.

For those who would like to read a really positive review by me, have a look at my review of the collected writings of Jonathan Miller in the latest New York Review of Books. Now that was a pleasure to write. I must have written about a hundred reviews by now, some more positive than others. I think you will find a normal distribution of positives and negatives.

Here’s a birthday tale: who says philosophers don’t have adventures? Any parallels and life lessons I leave to my readers to draw.

 

 

 

A Great Escape

 

 

Last week I went to meet a friend of mine, Greg, for a nice evening boat ride. I drove over to Monty’s restaurant in Coconut Grove, parked, and went to join him on a nearby dock. He picked me up in his boat and we went for the planned boat ride, stopping off in a restaurant for dinner. It all went very smoothly and pleasantly, despite some initial logistical issues. At the end of the evening he took me back to the dock at Monty’s and then sped off. As I turned to regain solid ground (it was a floating dock) I observed that the gate through which I had entered earlier had been locked. It was 11.15 and there was no one around. I was trapped. It was dark. The gate was very high and there was no apparent way off the dock. I quickly realized that my only chance of getting back to dry land would be to get into the water and wade or swim to some rocks that led up to the road, and even then escape was not guaranteed, as the rocks were adjacent to a vertical face several feet below level land. I did not like the idea of getting into the water at all, fully clothed, and arriving drenched at valet parking in Monty’s (why was I so wet?). A pleasant evening had suddenly changed to a looming nightmare.

I noticed a small plastic boat moored to the dock and situated between the dock and some rocks. It was not long enough to span the stretch of water that needed to be traversed. If I could get into it I might be able to move it across a bit, within jumping distance of the rocks. It seemed like a long shot and quite perilous—it would be easy to fall in the water. I gripped the side of the dock with my hands and extended my leg in the direction of the narrow bow of the boat, placing it at the tip. It dipped alarmingly. It would be hard to get back now, so I swung my other foot over, placing both feet on the end of the boat, while trying to hold as much of my weight as possible with my hands. I managed to keep my balance and transferred my weight over to the tiny boat, which was clearly not designed for standing up in (I would have toppled over if it weren’t that I kept my grip on the dock). I edged up the boat crabwise and reached the stern, but it was still about five feet from the rocks, which looked slippery and inclined steeply down to the water. The question was whether the boat’s ropes would allow me to move it over a few feet. They did, but it was still a couple of feet between the boat and the rock.

Still gripping the side of the dock with my hands I aimed one foot at the rock, ready to brace for the slip. My foot stayed in place, so I brought the other one over, with most of my weight held by hands (I had to be thankful for them). I was now on the good side of the water, but still marooned on the rocks, in an even worse position than before. The trouble was that ground level was about five feet above me with nothing to pull myself up with. So the prospect of a night on the rocks was still with me. Then I saw a plant growing up from the rocks on the side of the dock—could I use that? It didn’t look very promising. I edged over to it, still being careful not to slip down the rocks into the water, causing both injury and saturation. One of the stalks had been cut: it was about an inch in diameter and very wet looking. My only hope was put my foot on it, push up while grabbing the dock, and try to pull myself onto land. It looked pretty risky: if my foot slipped as I pushed up, I would come down hard on the rock and tumble into the water. But I had little choice. Very gingerly I pushed up with the left foot, as squarely as possible, and it didn’t slip sideways. I was now balancing on one foot on a one-inch diameter stalk, the other foot lightly resting on the rest of the plant. Now I needed to hoist myself up by my arms and heave my body onto the flat land. I called upon all my earlier training as a gymnast and yanked myself up as hard as possible, scrambling to get my body over the rim of the dock. It worked: I was now lying face down on the ground, with legs dangling. I got to my feet (that was no trouble, comparatively).

I wandered over to valet parking, not wet at all, paid my fee to the valet guy, and drove silently home.