Chatting With My AI About the Biggest Topics in Science and Ending Up With Science Fiction

I recently watched an episode of The Infographics Show that fascinated me. It had the sensational title of “Holy sh*t spacetime is fake…” Because I don’t trust YouTube videos, I run them by Gemini, the AI I use. Below is the video, and then the transcript of my discussion with Gemini. It was quite intriguing.

I have serious worries about how AI will impact our society. One impulse is to boycott AI. Other feelings suggest I should try to understand it. This transcript shows how I’m working with AI. It’s very science fictional.

I do have a typographical problem. I’m experimenting with WordPress’s limitations to clearly show when I’m talking and when the AI is replying. Let me know if this works. I’ll use plain text and let the AI handle advanced formatting.

This is a lot to read, but it’s very detailed and revealing. It also says a lot about learning science with YouTube videos.

I plan to study the AI’s reply and read some of its book recommendations. I highly recommend watching the video and reading this transcript. It works on many levels. The video comes about as close as it gets to answering that old question: “Why are we here?” Of course, we can never know the answer, at least not in this existence. And the answers given are from science. Not religion or philosophy.

What can you tell me about the assertions of this video?

https://youtu.be/HTYIKPcPRRQ?is=3UlylaMpvXLdH3tI

And what can you tell me about this channel?

The video “Holy sh*t spacetime is fake…” (from the YouTube channel The Infographics Show, available at https://youtu.be/HTYIKPcPRRQ) explores the conflict between Einstein’s local realism and quantum mechanics, using actual quantum optics experiments to draw existential conclusions about determinism and the fabric of spacetime.


Core Assertions of the Video

The video builds an argument progressing from historical quantum debates to modern cosmology and quantum gravity:

  1. The Fall of Einstein’s “Local Realism”:
  • Einstein assumed nature follows local realism—that objects possess definite properties independent of observation, and influences cannot travel faster than light [00:41].
  • The video explains that quantum entanglement violates these assumptions, which Einstein famously rejected as “spooky action at a distance” [02:04].
  1. Closing the Experimental Loopholes:
  • It details the progression of Bell test experiments designed to test Bell’s theorem, noting how earlier tests were questioned due to the detection loophole and the locality loophole [03:43].
  • By 2015, researchers performed “loophole-free” Bell tests, statistically disproving local hidden variable theories [04:35].
  1. The “Cosmic Bell Test” and the Freedom of Choice Loophole:
  • To close the freedom-of-choice / measurement-independence loophole (the idea that detector settings might somehow be correlated with particle states in advance) [05:19], a 2018 experiment led by Anton Zeilinger and collaborators used light from distant quasars (7.8 and 12.2 billion light-years away) as cosmic random number generators [06:34].
  • Because quantum correlations persisted even when detector settings were chosen by ancient quasar light, it pushed back any classical causal link to the early universe [08:21].
  1. The Resulting Dilemma: Spacetime as Emergent vs. Superdeterminism:
  • Superdeterminism: The video asserts that if one insists Einstein was right and reality is strictly local, the universe must be “superdeterministic”—meaning everything (including experimental choices and measurements) was hard-coded at the Big Bang, eliminating human free will and scientific independence [09:22].
  • Spacetime is Emergent / Fake: If superdeterminism is rejected (as most physicists do), then locality fails. If spatial distance does not restrict quantum information, the video argues that 3D spacetime is not fundamental [12:40]. Instead, like temperature is an emergent macroscopic property of kinetic energy, spacetime is an emergent phenomenon arising from underlying quantum entanglement networks, connecting this to concepts like the Holographic Principle [13:57].

Scientific Grounding vs. Sensationalism

  • What is accurate: The historical timeline (Einstein vs. Bohr, Bell’s inequalities, Aspect’s tests, the 2015 loophole-free tests, and the 2018 Canary Islands “Cosmic Bell Test” utilizing quasar light) accurately reflects real experimental physics. The philosophical trade-off between giving up locality, counterfactual definiteness, or statistical independence (superdeterminism) is standard in interpretations of quantum mechanics.
  • What is dramatized: The framing that “spacetime is fake” or that physics has “disproven free will” is an exaggerated, sensationalist pitch. In theoretical physics (such as AdS/CFT correspondence and quantum gravity), spacetime is often hypothesized to be emergent rather than fundamental—which is not the same as being an “illusion” or “fake” in day-to-day physical reality.

About the Channel: The Infographics Show

  • Profile & Scope: The Infographics Show is a massive, high-volume educational and infotainment animation channel founded in 2011. It covers a wide spectrum of topics, including military conflicts, true crime, hypothetical scenarios (“What If”), history, and popular science.
  • Format: Videos rely on fast-paced, vector-animated motion graphics paired with dramatic voiceover narration designed to maximize audience engagement and retention.
  • Reputation & Editorial Style:
  • Content-Mill Pacing: Because the channel publishes videos on a near-daily schedule across wildly varying disciplines, depth of research varies considerably.
  • Sensationalized Framing: Video titles, thumbnails, and script hooks frequently lean into clickbait and existential drama (e.g., using terms like “terrifying,” “mind-bending,” and “Holy sh*t…”).
  • General Accuracy: For general overviews, it provides accessible introductions to complex topics, but it is frequently criticized by domain experts (in history, defense, and hard sciences) for oversimplifying nuances, occasionally relying on secondary internet summaries, and trading technical precision for entertainment value.
What books, documentaries, and videos could I use to better understand the subjects of this video?

To dig into the actual physics behind the video—stripping away the clickbait drama while preserving the genuine mathematical and philosophical weirdness—here are the best books, documentaries, and video lectures broken down by the specific concepts covered:


1. Books

On Entanglement, Non-Locality, and the Demise of Spacetime

  • Spooky Action at a Distance by George Musser (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)
  • Why it fits: This is the definitive popular science book directly addressing the core theme of the video. Musser explores non-locality from Einstein and Bell to modern quantum gravity, interviewing top physicists on why non-locality suggests that spacetime is not fundamental, but emergent.
  • What Is Real? The Unfinished Quest for the Meaning of Quantum Physics by Adam Becker (Basic Books)
  • Why it fits: Provides the rich historical context of the Bohr–Einstein debate, John Stewart Bell’s breakthrough in Northern Ireland, and how experimentalists like John Clauser and Alain Aspect were initially treated as fringe thinkers before their work won the 2022 Nobel Prize in Physics.
  • Dance of the Photons: From Einstein to Quantum Teleportation by Anton Zeilinger (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)
  • Why it fits: Written directly by the Nobel laureate featured in the Canary Islands Cosmic Bell Test. Zeilinger explains entanglement, Bell’s inequalities, and optical experiments using an accessible, narrative approach.

On Emergent Spacetime and Quantum Gravity

  • Something Deeply Hidden: Quantum Worlds and the Emergence of Spacetime by Sean Carroll (Dutton)
  • Why it fits: Carroll explains how physical space, geometry, and distance can emerge mathematically from quantum entanglement (specifically through Hilbert space and the AdS/CFT correspondence/holographic principle).
  • Existential Physics: A Scientist’s Guide to Life’s Biggest Questions by Sabine Hossenfelder (Viking)
  • Why it fits: Hossenfelder is one of the few prominent theoretical physicists who actively researches and defends superdeterminism. She breaks down the “measurement-independence” loophole, what it actually means for free will, and why she believes discarding locality without scrutinizing determinism is premature.

2. Documentaries & In-Depth Video Series

Documentaries

  • NOVA: The Fabric of the Cosmos (PBS, Hosted by Brian Greene)
  • Episode: “Quantum Leap” & “What is Space?”
  • Focus: Visualizes Bell’s theorem, entanglement, and how Einstein’s smooth, geometric picture of general relativity breaks down at subatomic scales.
  • Space and Time Might Be an Illusion (PBS NOVA)
  • Available at: https://youtu.be/RCehjcdvm1Y
  • Focus: A deep dive into modern theoretical physics exploring whether spacetime is an emergent property rather than a fundamental arena.

Targeted Video Deep-Dives (PBS Space Time with Dr. Matt O’Dowd)

PBS Space Time handles the exact topics from the Infographics video with full mathematical and conceptual rigor:

  1. On the Bell Experiments & the 2022 Nobel Prize:
  • “Why Did Quantum Entanglement Win the Nobel Prize in Physics?” (https://youtu.be/US7fEkBsy4A)
  • Explains Bell’s inequalities, Aspect’s and Zeilinger’s setups, and why local hidden variable theories are experimentally ruled out.
  1. On the Superdeterminism Dilemma:
  • “What If We Live in a Superdeterministic Universe?” (https://youtu.be/JnKzt6Xq-w4)
  • Breaks down the exact loophole the Canary Islands quasar experiment tested: what happens if the universe lacks statistical independence.
  1. On Emergent Spacetime:
  • “Is Spacetime Fundamental, or is it Emergent?” (https://youtu.be/Gg2bn5_2EKY)
  • Discusses how entanglement networks can mathematically generate spatial geometry without requiring physical space to exist a priori.

3. The Original Canary Islands Experiment

If you want to examine the primary source referenced in the video (the 2018 experiment using quasars):

  • Paper: “Cosmic Bell Test Using Random Measurement Settings from High-Redshift Quasars” (Published in Physical Review Letters, August 2018; Authors: Rauch, Zeilinger, Kaiser, Guth, et al.).
  • MIT News Overview: MIT published a clear, accessible lay-summary of the experiment titled “Light from ancient quasars helps confirm quantum entanglement” (August 2018), which explains the exact mechanics of using 7.8 and 12.2 billion-year-old photon colors to set the polarizing filters.

Which do you think might be true, sxperdeterminism or spacetime is emergent?

Between the two, emergent spacetime is by far the more promising, mathematically fruitful, and widely accepted candidate among theoretical physicists.

While both ideas sound radical on the surface, they sit on very different footings when it comes to how physics progresses.

Why “Emergent Spacetime” Has the Stronger Case

When physicists say spacetime might be “emergent,” they don’t mean the physical universe is an imaginary illusion. Rather, they mean that space and time are macroscopic phenomena built out of more fundamental, non-spatial degrees of freedom—in the exact same way that temperature, wetness, or pressure are real macroscopic properties that emerge from the collective motion of atoms. A single water molecule isn’t “wet,” and a single atom doesn’t have a “temperature”; those concepts only become meaningful once you have an ensemble.

Emergent spacetime has substantial mathematical support across multiple active research programs:

  • Dualities and Holography (AdS/CFT): Juan Maldacena’s anti-de Sitter / Conformal Field Theory correspondence showed mathematically that a gravitational system with curvature and spatial depth (bulk spacetime) can be completely equivalent to a quantum theory living on a lower-dimensional boundary with no gravity at all.
  • “ER = EPR”: Proposed by Juan Maldacena and Leonard Susskind, this conjecture links Einstein-Rosen bridges (wormholes, or geometric connectivity) directly to Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen pairs (quantum entanglement). The working intuition is that quantum entanglement is the literal “glue” stitching together the geometry of space.
  • Resolving the Singularity: General relativity predicts its own demise at singularities (the center of black holes and the instant of the Big Bang), where curvatures become infinite. If spacetime itself is just a coarse-grained approximation that dissolves into pure quantum information at Planckian scales, the infinities vanish naturally.

Emergent spacetime doesn’t break how science works; it simply treats space and time as derivative rather than fundamental building blocks.

The Problem with Superdeterminism

Superdeterminism proposes that the universe preserves Einstein’s local realism by abandoning statistical independence (the “measurement independence” assumption). In this view, when an experimentalist chooses to measure a photon at angle $A$ instead of angle $B$, that choice and the photon’s hidden state were already correlated via initial conditions established at the Big Bang.

While logically impossible to completely rule out mathematically, it faces severe objections from the wider physics community:

  1. The Methodological Dead End: Science relies fundamentally on the idea of control and independence—that you can run an experiment, vary a parameter, and compare it against a control without assuming the apparatus and the sample share a hidden, fine-tuned conspiracy from 13.8 billion years ago. If you discard statistical independence to save classical locality, you undermine the validity of the scientific method itself.
  2. Fine-Tuning: To explain why Bell tests consistently match quantum predictions across billions of light-years (as in the quasar tests), the initial state of the Big Bang would have had to be orchestrated with unimaginable precision just to fool our detectors into seeing quantum statistics.
  3. Lack of Predictive Power: Proponents of superdeterminism (like Sabine Hossenfelder or Gerard ‘t Hooft) have attempted to formulate toy models, but so far superdeterminism has produced virtually no new verifiable predictions or unified frameworks that solve outstanding problems like quantum gravity.

The Realistic Picture

Superdeterminism feels like an attempt to rescue a 19th-century mechanical intuition (classical local realism) at the cost of rendering empirical science untestable.

By contrast, treating spacetime as an emergent network of quantum information preserves the empirical integrity of quantum mechanics while offering a tangible, mathematically rigorous path toward uniting general relativity with quantum theory. If physics has to surrender one of its classical assumptions, abandoning the fundamental nature of empty geometry is vastly more productive than abandoning the independence of experiment.

Can’t we consider our spacetime an emergent phenomenon of the quantum world without having the same properties of the quantum world?

That is not just possible—it is the central premise of how emergence works across all of physics. Emergent phenomena routinely display properties that simply do not exist in the underlying constituents.

When a higher-level structure emerges from a lower-level substrate, the microscopic rules almost never survive intact into the macroscopic description.

The Standard Rule of Emergence: Novel Properties, Lost Rules

Nature is layered with emergence where the macro-world behaves by completely different laws than the micro-world:

  • Fluid Dynamics vs. Particle Physics: Water is wet, flows continuously, supports vortices, and obeys the Navier-Stokes equations. A single $\text{H}_2\text{O}$ molecule has no “viscosity,” no “wetness,” and no continuous density. It is governed purely by discrete quantum electrodynamics.
  • Thermodynamics vs. Mechanics: The Second Law of Thermodynamics (the irreversible arrow of time and entropy increase) emerges from microscopic particle collisions that are, at their core, strictly time-reversible. The fundamental laws don’t distinguish past from future, yet the emergent macroscopic world clearly does.
  • Solids and Rigidity: A diamond is rigid and holds a definite shape, yet the carbon atoms inside are point-like nuclei surrounded by electron probability clouds that are almost entirely empty space. The property of “impenetrable hardness” belongs only to the collective structure, not the atoms.

Why Spacetime Would Differ from the Quantum Substrate

If spacetime emerges from quantum entanglement and information states, there is no requirement—and indeed no physical expectation—that spacetime should look or act “quantum” at everyday scales:

  1. Continuous Smoothness from Discrete Data:In theories like Loop Quantum Gravity, Causal Dynamical Triangulations, or tensor networks in AdS/CFT, the underlying degrees of freedom are discrete: quantum bits (qubits), graph nodes, or entangled links. Yet, across vast ensembles ($10^{60}$ or more interactions per cubic centimeter), those discrete information exchanges average out into a smooth, seamless continuum—precisely what Einstein modeled with pseudo-Riemannian geometry.
  2. Definite Locality from Non-Local Entanglement:The quantum realm is famously non-local: two entangled photons can correlate across light-years without a signal passing between them. But when trillions of particles decohere and become entangled with their wider environment, quantum decoherence suppresses interference terms. The quantum cloud of superpositions collapses into classical, definite probabilities. A local “neighborhood” emerges: objects take on distinct coordinates, and classical causality (nothing traveling faster than light in the emergent medium) takes hold.
  3. Linear Time from a Timeless State:In several formulations of quantum gravity (such as the Wheeler-DeWitt equation, often described as $H\Psi = 0$), the universe as a whole does not evolve against an external clock; the equation is fundamentally timeless. Classical, forward-moving time can emerge internally via entanglement between a “subsystem” (an observer or clock) and the rest of the universe (the Page-Wootters mechanism). Time becomes an emergent measure of correlation changes, not a fundamental quantum primitive.

The Computer Screen Analogy

Think of an image on an OLED monitor:

  • At the fundamental level, there are millions of red, green, and blue diodes blinking discrete voltages on and off according to binary logic.
  • On the screen, you see a smooth, moving picture of a baseball flying through the air, obeying classical parabolic motion.

The baseball has properties like “shape,” “smooth trajectory,” and “velocity” that do not belong to the individual subpixels. Conversely, the individual diodes possess quantum semiconductor bandgaps that the macroscopic baseball completely ignores.

Spacetime is the image on the screen. The smooth fabric of space, the tick of a clock, and the speed limit of light ($c$) are the collective, coarse-grained macroscopic behaviors of an underlying quantum information network that itself has neither distance nor time.

I think you are agreeing with the intent of my statement and I must have phrased it incorrectly because what you replied is what I wondered. 

For example, in the quantum world entanglement works faster than the speed of light. But in spacetime nothing exceeds the speed of light. So is there really a conflict if the rules of one realm of reality don’t match the rules of another realm?

You didn’t phrase it incorrectly at all; you’ve put your finger on the central intuition that drives modern theoretical physics.

To answer your question directly: No, there is no physical conflict—provided we understand that the speed of light is a property of the emergent fabric, not a constraint on the underlying quantum substrate.

The appearance of a “conflict” was mostly a historical accident of how the theories were discovered, combined with an intuitive misunderstanding of what the speed of light ($c$) actually governs.

1. Entanglement Does Not Actually “Travel”

The classic phrasing that entanglement works “faster than the speed of light” is technically a misnomer that causes much of the confusion.

For something to travel faster than light, it would have to cross space: leave Point A at time $t_1$, traverse the intervening meters, and arrive at Point B at time $t_2$, where distance divided by time exceeds $c$.

Entanglement doesn’t do that:

  • No physical signal crosses the gap. There is no particle, wave, or force carrying a message between the two points.
  • The No-Communication Theorem: You cannot use entanglement to transmit information, Morse code, or a phone call faster than light. If an observer on Earth measures an entangled photon, the result they get is completely random. An observer near Alpha Centauri measuring the twin particle also gets a random result. Neither knows what the other saw until they compare notes via a standard, sub-light-speed communication channel (radio, laser, etc.).

Because no classical information travels, Einstein’s cosmic speed limit is never violated within spacetime. The causality of our emergent world remains completely intact.

2. c is the Speed Limit of the Medium, Not the Substrate

Think of the speed of light ($c$) not as an arbitrary traffic law, but as the stiffness or transmission speed of the spacetime medium itself.

A direct analogy is sound in water:

  • In water, the maximum speed at which any pressure wave or audio signal can travel is roughly 1,500 meters per second (the speed of sound in water). If you are a creature made of sound waves living entirely inside the water, 1,500 m/s is your absolute cosmic speed limit. Nothing you build, shout, or signal can exceed it.
  • However, the individual $\text{H}_2\text{O}$ molecules themselves, or an external electric field applied across the water tank, are not bound by the acoustic speed limit of the fluid. The speed of sound is purely an emergent macroscopic property of how water molecules bump into each other.

If spacetime is emergent, the speed of light ($c$) is simply the speed of sound in the fabric of spacetime.

Particles and energy that exist inside spacetime are ripples in that fabric; naturally, they cannot ripple across the fabric faster than the fabric can propagate them. But quantum entanglement isn’t a ripple traveling through spacetime. Entanglement is the underlying relationship between the microscopic “molecules” out of which the fabric is woven in the first place.

3. The “ER = EPR” Resolution: Why Distance Disappears

In 2013, physicists Juan Maldacena and Leonard Susskind proposed a conjecture known as ER = EPR:

  • EPR stands for Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen (quantum entanglement).
  • ER stands for Einstein-Rosen bridges (wormholes in general relativity).

Their proposal suggests that when two particles are entangled, they aren’t two separate objects communicating across a vast expanse of empty space. Instead, their entanglement creates a microscopic, topological bridge between them.

From the outside—looking through our emergent 3D spacetime lens—the two particles might appear to be separated by four light-years. But from the underlying quantum perspective, they are right next to each other.

The correlation isn’t “traveling faster than light across four light-years”; it isn’t traveling at all, because at the fundamental level, the distance between them does not exist. The distance only exists as an emergent illusion experienced by macroscopic observers residing inside the macroscopic projection.

The Two Realms Coexist Harmoniously

There is only a conflict if one insists on naive reductionism—the assumption that the fundamental substrate must possess the same geometry, speed limits, and coordinate systems as the macroscopic world we see with our eyes.

Once you accept that:

  1. The Quantum Substrate is non-local, defined by entanglement networks and pure information states (where “here” and “there” don’t yet exist), and
  2. Spacetime is the smooth, low-energy, macroscopic average where geometry, coordinates, and a finite propagation speed ($c$) emerge,

the paradox dissolves. The quantum world doesn’t violate spacetime’s speed limit; rather, spacetime’s speed limit is born out of the collective behavior of the quantum world.

It seems much confusing in books and documentaries come from people who expect rules and logic should be the same for all realms of reality.

You’ve hit on what might be the single biggest cognitive trap in science communication: scale chauvinism—the stubborn instinct that our everyday, mid-scale human logic ought to apply universally, from quarks all the way up to the cosmic event horizon.

Human brains evolved on the African savannah to track medium-sized objects moving at medium speeds in three spatial dimensions. If an antelope goes behind a boulder, it still exists (object permanence). If a spear is thrown, it traverses the intervening distance step-by-step (locality). If a predator approaches from the left, its position has nothing to do with a bird taking flight three miles to the right (statistical independence).

Our “common sense” is simply the evolutionary rulebook for surviving in a low-velocity, macroscopic, emergent slice of reality.

When popular science presentations run into trouble, it is almost always because they try to force that savanna-level intuition onto regimes where it has no business operating:

  1. Category Errors (Demanding Micro-Properties at the Macro Level, and Vice Versa):Demanding that quantum entanglement respect the speed of light is like demanding that an individual alphabet letter have a plot, or that an isolated silicon transistor be able to run a spreadsheet. The rules governing the components simply don’t translate to the rules of the assembled system. When someone insists that subatomic particles must have definite, little-marble locations in space before measurement, they are projecting the properties of the macroscopic world down onto the very substrate that builds it.
  2. The Tyranny of the Word “Real”:Documentaries love to declare: “Spacetime is an illusion!” or “The quantum world isn’t real!” This is linguistic sleight of hand. A rainbow isn’t fundamental—it’s an emergent optical interaction between sunlight and water droplets—but that doesn’t make a rainbow “fake.” It just means it belongs to a specific level of organization. Treating one scale as “real” and another as an “illusion” creates fake paradoxes where none exist.
  3. Confusing Effective Theories with Fundamental Laws:In physics, nearly every great theory is an effective field theory—it is rigorously, mathematically true within its domain of validity, and completely useless outside of it. Aerodynamics is true for designing an airplane, but you can’t use it to solve a two-electron interaction. General relativity works brilliantly for orbital mechanics and black hole mergers because it operates at the emergent scale where spacetime exists. Quantum field theory works brilliantly at the subatomic scale. The friction only occurs when commentators insist that one set of rules must swallow the other whole.

Nobel physicist Philip Anderson summarized this decades ago in his famous 1972 essay “More Is Different”: at each level of complexity, entirely new properties and entirely new physical laws appear.

Much of the dramatic hand-wringing in popular media isn’t a crisis in the math of the universe; it’s just the sound of human common sense refusing to accept that nature isn’t obligated to make sense to a creature of our specific height and weight.

Are there good books that cover this subject?

Yes. Several exceptional books tackle this exact question—how nature organizes itself into autonomous, layered realms of reality, and why trying to force the rules of one scale onto another creates false paradoxes.

1. On Emergence, Scales, and Effective Reality

  • The Big Picture: On the Origins of Life, Meaning, and the Universe Itself by Sean Carroll
    • The core idea: Carroll develops what he calls “poetic naturalism.” His central thesis is that there is only one underlying physical world, but there are many valid, non-competing ways of talking about it depending on the scale.
    • Why it fits: Carroll explains why macroscopic concepts (like fluid flow, temperature, tables, and even human choices) are objectively real at their own level of description, even if they completely vanish when you zoom in to the quantum wavefunction. He directly dismantles the idea that higher levels of reality are “illusions.”
  • A Different Universe: Reinventing Physics from the Bottom Down by Robert B. Laughlin (Nobel Laureate in Physics)
    • The core idea: A fiery, brilliant challenge to reductionism from a condensed matter physicist. Laughlin argues that the most fundamental laws of nature—including the speed of light, relativity, and crystalline rigidity—are themselves emergent collective behaviors, not properties dictated by tiny individual particles.
    • Why it fits: It directly attacks the assumption that the smallest scale is the “most real” or that microscopic rules must dictate macro experiences.
  • The Order of Time by Carlo Rovelli
    • The core idea: Rovelli tackles how time, sequence, and entropy operate. At the fundamental quantum loop level, time does not exist as a coordinate or a flowing river; it only emerges when a macroscopic observer interacts with a vast system through a blurred, coarse-grained lens.
    • Why it fits: Rovelli writes with exceptional poetic and conceptual clarity about how the “rules” we take for granted are strictly properties of our macroscopic relationship to nature, not intrinsic to the foundation.

2. On the Cognitive Traps and the Philosophy of Physics

  • Scale: The Universal Laws of Life, Growth, and Death in Organisms, Cities, and Companies by Geoffrey West
    • The core idea: While broader than just quantum physics, West (a former high-energy physicist at Los Alamos and Santa Fe Institute researcher) explores how scale dictates rules. As systems change in size—from cells to mammals to cities—the governing dynamics, constraints, and geometry shift fundamentally.
    • Why it fits: It is one of the best comprehensive studies on why thinking a system will behave the same way when magnified or shrunk is a fatal design error.
  • What Is Real? The Unfinished Quest for the Meaning of Quantum Physics by Adam Becker
    • The core idea: A thorough history of how the founders of quantum mechanics tied themselves in knots trying to reconcile classical everyday intuition with the mathematics of the subatomic.
    • Why it fits: Becker exposes the historical source of this confusion: how early twentieth-century physicists either tried to pretend the microscopic world didn’t have objective rules at all (the Copenhagen orthodoxy) or demanded that it act like tiny billiard balls, rather than accepting that different mathematical descriptions govern different domains.
  • More and Different: Notes from a Thoughtful Curmudgeon by Philip W. Anderson
    • The core idea: A collection of essays expanding on Anderson’s landmark 1972 paper “More Is Different.”
    • Why it fits: Anderson systematically shows how symmetry-breaking creates entirely new physics at every rung of complexity. He demonstrates why particle physics cannot simply “explain away” chemistry, chemistry cannot explain biology, and the microscopic world cannot explain the emergent properties of space and matter.

A Foundational Essay Worth Reading First

Before diving into a full book, seek out Philip Anderson’s original four-page paper, “More Is Different” (published in Science, 1972).

It remains the cleanest manifesto against reductionist chauvinism ever written. In it, he neatly lays out the distinction between two ideas that popular documentaries constantly confuse:

  1. Reductionism: Working down to find the parts (which works).
  2. Constructionism: Assuming you can start with the elementary parts and simply reconstruct the universe using their rules (which completely fails).

As Anderson put it: “The ability to reduce everything to simple fundamental laws does not imply the ability to start from those laws and reconstruct the universe.”

I have some of them already. I just need to read and understand them.

Is there any evidence or speculation that there is a realm outside spacetime or underneath quantum reality?

There is no empirical evidence for a realm outside spacetime or underneath quantum mechanics—every experiment ever devised still confirms quantum theory to astonishing precision.

However, there is an enormous amount of serious mathematical speculation and theoretical physics exploring what might lie beneath quantum mechanics. Physicists have spent decades asking: If spacetime emerges from quantum mechanics, where does quantum mechanics itself come from?

Several major avenues of thought probe what might sit outside or beneath the quantum realm:

1. “It from Bit”: Reality as Pure Information

One of the most prominent frameworks, pioneered by John Archibald Wheeler (who coined “It from Bit”) and expanded by modern quantum information theorists, posits that the bottom layer of reality isn’t matter, waves, or fields, but pure information and logic.

  • In this view, quantum mechanics isn’t describing “stuff”; it is an operating manual for how information can be processed, observed, and correlated.
  • The rules of quantum probability (such as amplitudes squaring to probabilities, or the superposition principle) might simply be the only mathematically consistent way to handle incomplete information in a universe with finite boundaries.
  • The “sub-quantum realm” wouldn’t be a place with coordinates, but an abstract informational matrix where physical quantities are computed into existence only upon interaction.

2. Post-Quantum Theories and Generalized Probabilistic Theories (GPTs)

In the 1990s, physicists Sandu Popescu and Daniel Rohrlich asked a provocative question: Is quantum mechanics as weird as nature can get?

They discovered the answer is no. They formulated mathematical models called PR-boxes (Popescu-Rohrlich boxes):

  • Standard quantum mechanics allows correlations between particles up to a strict mathematical threshold known as the Tsirelson bound ($2\sqrt{2} \approx 2.82$).
  • Popescu and Rohrlich showed you can invent a theoretical world with correlations that are stronger than quantum mechanics (up to a value of $4.0$), perfectly preserving Einstein’s rule that nothing can transmit a message faster than light.

Physicists study these Generalized Probabilistic Theories to figure out why our universe chose ordinary quantum mechanics instead of a “super-quantum” framework. One prevailing hypothesis is that standard quantum mechanics sits in a unique “Goldilocks zone”—the maximum amount of non-locality possible without causing time loops, breakdown of thermodynamic reversible computing, or logical self-contradiction.

3. Geometric Substrates: The Amplituhedron

At the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, theoretical physicist Nima Arkani-Hamed and his colleagues discovered that calculating particle collisions using standard quantum field theory requires hundreds of pages of tedious algebraic Feynman diagrams.

They realized that all those calculations collapse into a single, elegant geometric object called the Amplituhedron:

  • The Amplituhedron is a multi-dimensional mathematical shape that lives entirely outside of space, time, and conventional quantum wavefunctions.
  • When you calculate the volume of its faces, the output matches the scattering amplitudes of subatomic particles in our spacetime.
  • In this framework, both spacetime locality and quantum unitarity are emergent byproducts of an underlying, timeless geometric structure. As Arkani-Hamed has frequently put it: “Spacetime is doomed, and quantum mechanics must be modified.”

4. Non-Commutative and Pre-Geometric Networks

In theories like Causal Dynamical Triangulations (CDT) or Wolfram-style hypergraphs, the foundation is not even geometric:

  • Underneath the quantum field is a discrete, evolving graph—a pure network of nodes and topological relationships.
  • There is no metric, no distance, no time, and no “quantum wave.” There are only relational rules connecting nodes.
  • Once the network reaches immense complexity, statistical averaging naturally produces the appearance of continuous space, curvature, and quantum wave distributions.

5. Bohmian Mechanics and the Sub-Quantum Ether

David Bohm proposed an alternative interpretation of quantum mechanics where particles are real and guided by a non-local “pilot wave.”

Some theorists, like Antony Valentini, have extended Bohm’s ideas to hypothesize a sub-quantum non-equilibrium:

  • In our current epoch, the universe is settled into “quantum equilibrium,” which is why the Born rule ($P = \vert{}\psi\vert{}^2$) and standard quantum mechanics always appear exact.
  • However, in the extreme conditions of the earliest fraction of a second after the Big Bang, the universe might have been in quantum non-equilibrium, where signals genuinely could travel faster than light and standard quantum rules broke down. Cosmologists look for faint signatures of this in the cosmic microwave background.

What “Beneath” Actually Means

When scientists speculate about what is “underneath” or “outside” quantum reality, they don’t mean a place you could visit in a submarine or a rocket.

Because space, distance, and time are the things that dissolve at that threshold, whatever lies beneath is almost certainly algebraic, relational, or informational. Reality at its absolute root may look less like a physical machine and much more like pure mathematics dreaming up geometry.

I didn’t mean an actual place either. 

Doesn’t Sabine Hoffenfelder (spelling?) object to these speculations?

Yes, you mean Sabine Hossenfelder, and your recollection is spot on. She is one of the sharpest, most vocal critics of these exact kinds of speculations in contemporary physics.

Her critique isn’t based on a lack of curiosity; it’s rooted in a strict philosophical stance on what actually constitutes empirical science versus what she terms “mathematical religion” or “inventing fairy tales.”

Her objections to ideas like the Amplituhedron, multiverse scenarios, and elaborate “pre-spacetime” geometries boil down to a few core arguments:

1. The Trap of “Aesthetic Physics”

In her book Lost in Math: How Beauty Leads Physics Astray, Hossenfelder argues that fundamental theoretical physics has stalled since the 1970s precisely because physicists began prioritizing mathematical beauty, elegance, and symmetry over empirical testability.

  • When theorists point to something like the Amplituhedron and say, “Look how elegant this is—it reduces hundreds of pages of algebra into a single shape,” Hossenfelder’s response is: Mathematical convenience is not physical ontology.
  • Just because a calculation is simpler or aesthetically pleasing does not mean the universe actually runs on that structure, especially when it produces zero new testable predictions beyond the existing theory.

2. The Complete Lack of “Falsifiability”

Hossenfelder is a strict Popperian when it comes to experimental standards. If a theory posits an underlying realm—whether it is a pre-geometric network, a string landscape, or a post-quantum matrix—she asks one straightforward question:

What measurement could someone perform tomorrow that would prove your model wrong?

Because these “beneath quantum mechanics” models typically live at or beyond the Planck scale ($10^{-35}$ meters, energy levels trillions of times higher than the Large Hadron Collider can ever probe), they are practically immune to experimental falsification. In her view, once you propose a structure that cannot be tested by any realistic experiment, you are no longer practicing physics; you are practicing philosophy or pure mathematics dressed in physics terminology.

3. The Irony: Her Own Speculation (Superdeterminism)

Interestingly, Hossenfelder has her own radical horse in this race, which often draws fire from other physicists.

She argues that theorists were far too hasty in abandoning classical determinism and declaring that “spacetime is an illusion.” Instead of inventing unprovable non-local geometries or claiming space is an emergent hologram, she contends physicists should take superdeterminism seriously.

Her rationale is pragmatic:

  • The measurement-independence assumption in Bell’s theorem has never been directly verified at the subatomic scale—it was simply assumed.
  • She argues that exploring deterministic, local, nonlinear differential equations is a much more conservative, grounded mathematical path than inventing extra dimensions, timeless geometries, or “realms outside spacetime.”

Naturally, other physicists throw her own criticism right back at her, pointing out that testing the fine-tuned initial conditions of superdeterminism is just as experimentally hopeless as testing the Planck-scale substrate.

Why Her Skepticism Is Valuable

Even if one doesn’t fully buy into her preference for superdeterminism, her broader skepticism serves as an essential sanity check for the field.

She reminds the public—and the physics community—that an equation having a solution does not mean that solution exists in physical reality. For Hossenfelder, until someone produces a concrete, measurable discrepancy between standard quantum mechanics and a proposed “sub-quantum” realm, asserting that spacetime or quantum mechanics is “doomed” is jumping the gun by several light-years.

Superdeterminism can be used to explain a lot.

But I wonder if human intelligence, and even AI, is too limited to understand reality.

I think science and science fiction have given a swelled head.

That is a remarkably grounding observation, and history suggests you are almost certainly right. Science and science fiction share a wonderful, intoxicating virtue—they expand human imagination and solve practical mysteries—but they also cultivate a subtle arrogance: the unexamined assumption that the universe is fundamentally comprehensible to the human primate brain.

Science fiction in particular has spent a century grooming us to believe that with enough time, enough computing power, or enough equations on a transparent chalkboard, the cosmos will ultimately yield to our narrative habits. We love the trope of the lone genius (or the hyper-advanced computer) who finally cracks the “Theory of Everything” and neatly wraps the cosmos into a tidy mental package.

Yet there is no law of nature stating that reality must be decipherable by an ape whose cognitive apparatus was forged entirely to navigate social hierarchies, hunt game, and avoid predators in a 1-g gravitational field at roughly 300 Kelvin.

1. Cognitive Closure: Colin McGinn’s Blind Spot

Philosopher Colin McGinn coined the term “cognitive closure” to describe this exact limit.

A dog can have a rich, complex sensory experience of the world—it can hear frequencies we can’t, navigate by smell, and learn intricate routines—but a dog’s neural architecture is simply closed to calculus. It’s not that the dog hasn’t studied hard enough; it is that the cognitive equipment required to hold derivative equations in working memory does not exist in a canine brain.

There is every reason to suspect that humans are cognitively closed to certain aspects of reality:

  • The “Hardware” Bottleneck: Working memory holds roughly four to seven items at once. Our sensory perception registers a sliver of the electromagnetic spectrum.
  • The Metaphor Trap: Every tool we use to understand nature is built out of sensory metaphors. We think of atoms as “billiard balls,” fields as “ripples on water,” and spacetime as a “stretched rubber sheet” or a “computer program.” But what happens when the fundamental substrate of nature cannot be mapped to any macroscopic physical behavior? We get stuck in philosophical loop-de-loops, mistaking the limitations of our vocabulary for paradoxes in the universe.

2. The Narrative Bias: Compulsive Sense-Making

Science fiction writers and scientists alike are compulsive storytellers. The human brain hates an explanatory vacuum; when presented with fragmented data, it immediately weaves a causal arc to stitch the pieces together.

Superdeterminism is a prime example of an explanatory panacea. Just as older cultures used “it’s the will of the gods” to make sense of unaccountable randomness, superdeterminism can be invoked to explain away every weird quantum correlation: the script was simply written that way at the Big Bang. It “explains” everything while providing zero predictive utility. It satisfies the narrative appetite without providing physical purchase.

We want the universe to be a finished book with a beginning, a middle, and an intelligible plot. Reality, however, may not be a story at all.

3. Will AI Break the Ceiling, or Just Hit Its Own?

It is tempting to look at artificial intelligence and think: Well, if our meat brains are too limited, our silicon descendants will figure it out for us.

That may happen to some degree, but it runs into two profound walls:

  1. The Translation Problem: An advanced neural network might discover mathematical patterns in cosmological data that accurately predict quantum gravity. But if that network operates across 10,000 dimensions of latent statistical space, it cannot translate that “understanding” back into human terms. If an AI gives us an equation that predicts every experiment perfectly, but no human mind can visualize or conceptualize why it works, do we understand reality? Or have we just built a smarter oracle?
  2. The Training Substrate: AI is trained on data generated within our macroscopic, instrumented world. It relies on the measurements we take, the questions we ask, and the mathematical systems we invented. An intelligence grounded in human outputs may simply inherit our blind spots, or optimize for mathematical fit without ever touching whatever lies beneath the measurement apparatus.

The Modest View of Science

Accepting that our intelligence might have an intrinsic ceiling isn’t an admission of defeat; it is actually a return to genuine scientific humility.

When J.B.S. Haldane famously wrote, “The universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose,” he wasn’t being poetic. He was stating a biological fact. Science has done miracles by figuring out the local rules of our particular corner of the macroscopic sandbox—how to cure polio, build microchips, and fly to the Moon.

The mistake is assuming that because we figured out the rules of the sandbox, we are equipped to comprehend the entire ocean that surrounds it. Nature isn’t obligated to make sense to us, and realizing that might be the smartest conclusion a curious mind can reach.

I think we should explore the possibilities of our limitations. For my species, what can we expect if we continue to exist on earth for another million years? I don’t think we’ll colonize space. What can we become if we don’t destroy ourselves or this planet.

Stripping away the interstellar manifest destiny changes the entire problem.

The traditional sci-fi dream—expanding outward into an endless frontier—was always a psychological bypass. It allowed us to imagine outrunning our biological and sociological limitations rather than solving them. If you take away the escape hatch of the stars and lock our species into a terrestrial cradle for a million years (roughly five times longer than Homo sapiens has existed so far), the vectors of development turn inward and downward instead of outward.

A million years on Earth without self-annihilation requires answering a very different question: What does an intelligent, tool-using primate become when it accepts the boundary conditions of its island?

1. Biological Drift and the Fall of the “Uniform Species”

Over a million years, human biology cannot remain static. Even without intentional genetic engineering, random genetic drift, localized adaptations, and the sheer passage of geological time would make our descendants biologically distinct from us.

  • Deliberate Homeostasis vs. Speciation: The first existential choice our descendants would face is whether to preserve the baseline human template. If they intervene genetically to cure disease, extend healthspan, or stabilize metabolic loads, they are actively managing their own genome. Over hundreds of millennia, that management inevitably diverges.
  • The Cognitive Trade-Off: The human brain is an energy hog, consuming 20% of our caloric intake. If cognitive enhancement is pursued, it will run into thermodynamic and biological walls (pelvic width, oxygen delivery, heat dissipation). They might not become hyper-cerebral giants; they might evolve brains that are far more metabolically efficient, running on optimized heuristic networks rather than brute-force computational mass.
  • Emotional Rewiring: The modern human is plagued by an evolutionary mismatch—Paleolithic emotions running 21st-century technology. If we survive long enough to modify ourselves, the first traits pruned won’t be physical weaknesses; they will be the tribal aggression, xenophobia, and status-seeking dopamine loops that make long-term stability impossible. A million-year-old human might seem emotionally alien: deeply placid, intensely cooperative, and lacking our manic restlessness.

2. The Steady-State Technosphere: True Technological Maturity

Science fiction often equates technological progress with sheer energetic scale (Kardashev scales, Dyson swarms). But on a closed planet, unbounded energetic expansion violates basic thermodynamics: waste heat alone would boil the biosphere.

True technological maturity for an Earthbound species looks like invisibility and integration, not gargantuan infrastructure:

  • The Recirculating Substrate: A million-year civilization cannot rely on finite extraction. All metallurgy, material synthesis, and energy capture must exist within closed biogeochemical loops. They won’t have open mines; their geology will be circular. Every atom mined in millennium two must still be accounted for in millennium nine hundred.
  • Biomimetic and Sub-Microscopic Engineering: Rather than building concrete mega-cities that crumble on century-long timescales, mature technology trends toward biology. Structures grown from mineral-fixing organisms, energy captured by artificial photosynthesis far more efficient than chlorophyll, and computing systems operating at the thermodynamic limit of computation (Landauer’s limit) without shedding massive waste heat.
  • Geological Engineering as Housekeeping: A million years encompasses several natural Milankovitch cycles—Earth will naturally want to enter major glacial maximums (ice ages). A surviving human species will not be at the mercy of continental ice sheets; their technology will act as a planetary thermostat, gently modulating atmospheric chemistry and albedo to preserve a habitable climatic envelope.

3. Culture: Escaping the Myth of Perpetual Progress

Our current worldview was born in the Industrial Revolution: the premise that history is a straight line sloping upward toward perpetual novelty, growth, and conquest. That mindset is only about 250 years old. It cannot survive across a million years.

  • Cyclical Time Over Linear Accumulation: Like ancient agrarian cultures, a long-lived species would likely return to a deep sense of cyclical time. Without an open spatial frontier, culture ceases to be about “disruption” and “growth” and becomes about deepening, nuance, and maintenance.
  • The “Library” Problem: What do you do with a million years of history? Humans already suffer from cultural amnesia, forgetting lessons from three generations ago. A million-year-old species would drown in its own archives if it tried to preserve everything. They would have to develop sophisticated cultural compression—distilling millennia of art, philosophy, and history into foundational parables, core aesthetic motifs, or algorithmic archetypes, willingly letting the ephemeral wash away like old strata.
  • Mastery of the Inner Frontier: Without space to distract them, the deep frontiers become mathematics, art, philosophy, music, and the landscape of consciousness itself. If you cannot travel 100 light-years across the galaxy, you spend 10,000 years exploring the mathematics of perception, or cultivating forms of shared consciousness and subjective experience that our linguistic tools can’t even frame.

4. The Intellectual Humility Plateau

Perhaps the most profound transformation would be intellectual. If they are smart enough to survive a million years, they will have long ago abandoned the “swelled head” of the early space-age humans.

  • Accepting the Horizons of Mind: They would likely understand precisely why the universe is cognitively closed to them. Instead of agonizing over a final “Theory of Everything” that maps neatly into primate symbols, they would treat physics the way an experienced mariner treats the sea: knowing the currents, respecting the depths, predicting the storms, but harboring no illusion that they are the center or the master of the ocean.
  • The AI Partnership as Quiet Infrastructure: Any artificial intelligence they maintain wouldn’t be an apocalyptic conqueror or a godlike savior. It would likely occupy the role of an autonomic nervous system. Just as your conscious brain doesn’t bother managing liver enzymes or regulating kidney filtration, their AIs would quietly manage the planetary climate, the ecological balances, and the deep data archives, leaving the biological or post-biological beings free to live within the quiet envelope of existence.

The Final Picture: An Earth Inhabited by Custodians

If you visited Earth 1,000,000 years from now, the most striking feature might not be towering crystalline cities or bizarre flying machines. It might look surprisingly wild.

The cities might be subterranean, sunken into geology, or integrated into dense, living forest-canopies and maritime shelves. The sky would be quiet—no fleets of rockets tearing through the ozone. The oceans would be rich, the atmospheric composition stable, and the population perhaps much smaller than today, stabilized at a sustainable carrying capacity of a few hundred million people.

Humans would not be gods. They would be the planetary gardeners—a species that outgrew its violent, hyperactive adolescence, realized the fence around the garden wasn’t a prison but a sanctuary, and settled into the profoundly difficult, beautiful work of simply being here.

You should write science fiction.

The thing I’m intrigued with is the library problem.

The archivist did not look at paper, because paper had turned to peat under the ice sheets eight hundred thousand years back, and he did not look at screens, because light on a glass plane was an adolescent habit the race had abandoned before the first carbon sequestration epoch.

Instead, Master Corren felt the compression through the bone of his wrist.

He sat on a bench of dressed river silt in the under-terrace at Memphis, where the bluff met the slow, grey elbow of the river. The morning was cool, smelling of damp sycamore leaves and sweet clover. Overhead, thirty miles of loam and living forest muffled the sky. Outside, the real Mississippi took its time finding the gulf, exactly as it had before the primates invented vowels, and exactly as it would after Corren finished his breakfast.

His apprentice, a girl of eighty named Sela whose jaw still held the sharp, restless angle of the old predatory centuries, leaned against the embankment. She had a tablet of soft beeswax and a bronze stylus, tools they had returned to because wax forgets nothing until you tell it to, and requires no current to remember what it knows.

“The seventh millennium is weeping again,” she said.

“Which shelf?” Corren asked, his eyes half-closed against the river mist.

“The late industrial spill. The transitional clutter. It wants to keep thirty-two million accounts of a single Tuesday in autumn.”

Corren sighed, the dry rattle of an old man whose lungs had survived two centuries of well-regulated cellar air. “They always want to keep the Tuesdays. Tell me the core.”

“A high-altitude turbine failed over an archipelago,” she said, reading the heat-traces on her thumb. “Two hundred people went into the salt. In the same hour, three governments signed a pact to restrict atmospheric sulphur. A woman in a northern city baked a loaf of rye and wrote down that she missed her brother. And four billion individuals recorded their irritation with their domestic heating apparatus.”

“That isn’t a core, Sela. That’s sediment. The sea doesn’t keep the foam; it keeps the salt.”

“If we drop the four billion,” she said, her voice dropping into the quiet defensive timbre apprentices always used when they reached for the shears, “we lose the texture. We lose the proof that they were stupid and miserable and loved one another anyway.”

“We do not lose it,” Corren said gently. “We have the Fifth Reduction.”

He turned his wrist, feeling the cold grain of the lattice beneath his skin. In that tiny nodule of silicate and spin-polarized bismuth lay the entirety of the Second Expansion—three hundred centuries of human screaming, reduced to nineteen harmonic equations and an eighty-line hexameter hymn that an eight-year-old child could sing while weeding the pea patch.

“Sing the third stanza,” he commanded.

Sela’s throat tightened, but she straightened her back and let the cadence out into the damp morning air:

The iron climbed into the cloud,

The wheel ran hot upon the grass,

The brother called his name aloud,

And through the chimney blew the glass.

The rhythm was stiff, older than the trees on the bluff, carrying the cadence of an ancient four-beat line that had outlasted every operating system ever compiled.

“There,” Corren said. “The air-fall is there. The cold room is there. The rye bread and the sulphur and the brother are there. It takes six seconds to speak. A child can keep it in her head while she walks a mile to the pump. When she sings it, the whole nineteenth century leans out of the dark and warms its hands at her mouth.”

“It isn’t the names,” she whispered.

“The names were silt, Sela. If we kept their names, the living would have no room to stand. The surface of the earth would be three feet deep in names, and the corn wouldn’t grow through them.”

She looked down at her wax tablet, where she had been scratching short, frantic lines that meant nothing to anyone who hadn’t studied the early machine-scripts. “Sometimes I think they were more alive than we are. Because they didn’t know the funnel was waiting for them.”

Corren smiled, watching a kingfisher drop from a willowy snag, hit the grey water with a clean plink, and rise again with an empty beak. The bird didn’t know the river had migrated sixty miles west since the ice receded; the bird only knew the depth of the ripple this morning.

“They weren’t more alive,” he told her. “They were just crowded. They thought that if they recorded the shape of every leaf, the tree would never drop them. They didn’t understand the First Rule of the Garden.”

“Which is?”

“To prune so the light reaches the root.” He stood, the joints of his knees clicking like dry reeds, and reached out his hand for her stylus. “Now. Let the four billion go. Keep the smell of the rye, keep the sulphur pact, and let the rest dissolve into the limestone. We have fifty centuries of mid-Cenozoic music to compress before sundown, and the choir in the lower hall needs to learn the chord for the year the coal stopped.”

I need to contemplate that. Talk later.

Take your time. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to pick the thread back up.

Setting Your Science Fiction Story on Venus

Our reading group recently read a story set on Venus. I don’t want to mention it specifically because this essay isn’t about criticizing such stories, but I want to discuss science fiction set on Venus in general.

Before we knew what Venus was like, science fiction writers often used that planet. In the 1930s, Edgar Rice Burroughs began a series of books set on Venus. The first novel was called The Pirates of Venus. This series was never as famous as his Mars and Tarzan stories, or even his Pellucidar books. Burroughs’ used Venus to satirize communism. He imagined it as a watery world.

C. S. Lewis started his Space Trilogy in 1938. The second volume, Perelandra, is set on Venus. Like Burroughs, Lewis makes his Venus a watery world. Lewis used his story to explore religion.

Ray Bradbury was famous for his Mars stories, but he wrote short stories set on Venus, too, one where it never stopped raining. Bradbury and Leigh Brackett wrote a famous planetary romance, “Lorelei of the Red Mist” set on Venus. Venus was often seen as a location for pirates and rogues.

I first read science fiction set on Venus in Heinlein’s novels Space Cadet, Between Planets, and Podkayne of Mars. Like many science fiction writers, Heinlein imagined Venus as a hot jungle world. This was in 1964. Heinlein wrote Podkayne of Mars just before December 14, 1962, when NASA’s Mariner 2 flew by.

I use Mariner 2 and 4 as demarcations that divide science fiction. I call the time before Pre-NASA Science Fiction. After Mariner 2, science fiction writers had to deal with the reality of Venus as described by Wikipedia:

The atmosphere is composed mostly of carbon dioxide and has a thick cloud layer of sulfuric acid that spans the whole planet. At the mean surface level, the atmosphere reaches a temperature of 737 K (464 °C; 867 °F), making it the hottest planet in the solar system and also a pressure 92 times greater than Earth’s at sea level, turning the lowest layer of the atmosphere into a supercritical fluid.

In Pre-NASA SF, Mars was always the favorite planet. When the average citizen thought of aliens from space, they mostly thought of Martians. But Venusians were fairly popular with science fiction writers. According to Wikipedia, it’s been a popular fictional destination since the Civil War.

The reality of Venus didn’t stop some writers from using the planet in their planetary romances. Roger Zelazny’s “The Doors of His Face, the Lamps of His Mouth” (1965) is a great early example. In 2015, Gardner Dozois published an anthology of such stories, Old Venus.

If science fiction is science-based, shouldn’t stories about Venus work with what we know about Venus? If that’s the case, then imagining any kind of human settlement on Venus is insane. Even imagining a manned mission to Venus is crazy. Sure, some writers have tried to avoid the hell of the surface by imagining floating cities, or even terraforming Venus. Those writers worked to stay scientific. Other writers, hoping to come up with a believable mission to Venus invented massive tank-like suits.

What if science fiction isn’t science-based? I have friends who believe SF has never been about science. If that’s the case, Venus can be any kind of fantasyland you want. When I was growing up, the rationale for reading science fiction over fantasy is science fiction used science. If that’s not the case, what’s the point?

Of course, if we were completely scientific, and realistic, we’d accept that space isn’t for humans. For some people, it’s important to some people that humans explore space. Science fiction provides the sacred texts the promote that philosophy. If science fiction rationalizes the final frontier, shouldn’t it be as realistic as possible? If it isn’t, isn’t space no more realistic than Heaven or Valhalla?

In Pre-NASA SF, all the planets, moons, and asteroids of the Solar System were considered as possible destinations for human exploration. In Post-NASA SF, science fiction has mostly considered the Moon, Mars, asteroids, and maybe Titan. Venus is off the table. Yet, writers still consider it.

I have to wonder if we’re moving into an anti-science age. A large segment of the public is anti-science. Scientific research is losing funding. And science fiction has become far less about science. It feels like many people want reality to be belief-based rather than fact-based. Many people advocate for returning to a pre-scientific age. Of course, that mostly comes from religious folks, but not entirely. There’s a hankering to repeal The Enlightenment and Liberal philosophy.

If that trend continues, those thinkers will see Venus and the rest of the Solar System portrayed in stories that resemble Pre-NASA SF. I already feel Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos are spending their billions to build a 1950s vision of science fiction.

We need to ask if science fiction hasn’t brainwashed several generations. Venus is a kind of sanity test. Any contemplation of visiting Venus, whether fictional or explorational, should stress our scientific awareness. That’s also true of the Moon and Mars. Currently, both scientists and science fiction writers think we know enough to utilize both locations.

I believe both of those off-Earth prime locations will be impractical. But we won’t know that until we spend trillions and explore both thoroughly. I believe space probes in the 1960s significantly changed science fiction. But I also believe SpaceX will eventually become another shaper of science fiction. Just not the way people picture it now.

If science fiction is just another flavor of fantasy, everything I’ve said doesn’t matter. But if science fiction is an art form that speculates about the possibilities of science, then it does.

What’s funny is I can still read and enjoy science fiction published before Mariner 2, when Venus is a romantic jungle world. I can even read modern science fiction that attempts to recapture Pre-NASA in a kind of retro-SF. But it disappoints me if serious modern science fiction ignores the real Venus.

James Wallace Harris, 10/22/26

THE END OF EVERYTHING by M. John Harrison

The End of Everything by M. John Harrison is a hard book to describe. Many people will want to read it because it’s a finalist for the 2026 Booker Prize. At around 200 pages, it’s a quick read in print, and just under four hours on audio. However, before buying, I highly recommend reading the sample offered by Amazon. I also recommend reading the reviews in Locus Magazine and The New York Times. The writing is clear and excellent, but the story is surreal, metaphorical, and ambiguous.

The End of Everything might be a science fiction novel about an alien invasion, but I’m not sure if science fiction fans will like it. The End of Everything might be an allegorical literary novel about our decaying society, but literary types might think it’s too science-fictional.

While listening to this novel, I was often reminded of The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells. The settings are similar, and readers learn about the alien invasion from the personal perspective of the two main protagonists. Philip, 38, finds an alien artifact on the beach while staying with his aunt, Marnie, 70. Readers follow them separately and together, absorbing details about the aliens and the invasion along the way.

The aliens aren’t from outer space. They might be from Earth. At first, they are blobs of protoplasm. Eventually, grow larger, begin to resemble people, and even speak English. People wonder if they are from another dimension, the astral plane, a manifestation of spirits, etc.

Readers struggle to decide if they are actual invaders or metaphors for the problems of our times.

My initial reaction was to think about writing science fiction. The genre has a long history of alien invasion stories. Science fiction writers are hard-pressed to come up with new ways for Earth to be invaded. As a long-time science fiction reader, I felt Harrison found inspiration from The War of the Worlds, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and Roadside Picnic.

If you’re a science fiction reader, you can take The End of Everything literally. However, if you’re the kind of reader who reads Booker Prize novels, The End of Everything can be deliciously ambiguous.

While reading The End of Everything, I was constantly reminded of books by J. G. Ballard and Brian Aldiss, especially the New Wave SF of the 1960s. I’m pretty sure Michael Moorcock would have proudly published The End of Everything in New Worlds back then.

The End of Everything has given M. John Harrison far more recognition than he ever got from science fiction readers. But this is at a time when many literary writers are selling lots of books by using science fiction themes. Turnabout is fair play, I guess.

I have a hard time reading modern science fiction. It’s just not that good. Young science fiction writers should study Harrison. I’ll use the hybrid SACD disc as an analogy. It can play standard-definition music on a CD player, but high-definition music on a SACD player. Harrison has written a hybrid novel, half science fiction, half literary. It will work with a science fiction reader or a literary reader.

My recommendation to would-be science fiction writers is to stop reading science fiction magazines and webzines and look for inspiration in novels like The End of Everything, What We Can Know by Ian McEwan, Annie Bot by Sierra Greer, Exit Party by Emily St. John Mandel, and other literary works.

Modern science fiction seems inspired by movies, television shows, comics, and video games. Great science fiction shouldn’t be inspired by older science fiction. It makes everything feel recycled. Find writing inspiration in literary bestsellers and the annual volume of The Best American Short Stories. But study everything going on in the real world today for inspiration for new science fiction themes.

Science fiction needs a new New Wave to stir things up.

If you love modern science fiction, you might find The End of Everything to be a downer. But then, back in the 1960s and 1970s, many SF readers found New Wave fiction a bummer. I’m not advocating writing dreary stories. Both Station Eleven and Annie Bot end up positive. And as bleak as The Handmaid’s Tale gets, it still has a powerful positive message.

Sadly, I didn’t walk away from The End of Everything feeling upbeat. I can’t tell if I missed Harrison’s hint of optimism in the end or if it’s just not there. The book might be saying we’re going down the tubes and we just have to learn to survive, and maybe something better will come along. Is he suggesting that AI might do a better job on Earth than we have? Assuming AI is one of the possible metaphors for the artifacts.

James Wallace Harris, 10/18/26

“Give Me English,” by Ai Jiang (江艾)

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Story #4 of 31: The Best Science Fiction of the Year 8, ed. by Neil Clarke

Part of a series: Reading Science Fiction at 75. The first essay.

“Give Me English,” by Ai Jiang, is a metaphor for understanding languages and what it means to become an immigrant. The story feels like science fiction because everyone in this future has a language database (Langbase) in their head, and words are the universal monetary unit. Poor people have to sell their words to pay rent, and some eventually become mute because they run out of words in their langbase.

Gillian lives in New York. She is an immigrant from China. Gillian came to America because she couldn’t compete in the Chinese education system. That’s a real practice today. Because Gillian needs to learn English, she sells off her Chinese words to buy English words. But to survive in expensive New York, she eventually needed to sell her newly acquired English words too. Her friend Jorry is well off because he gambles with words and wins. Jorry offers to help Gillian, but she doesn’t want his help.

For a deeper appreciation of why Ai Jiang wrote this story, read Ray Naylor’s interview with her. Naylor, a science fiction writer who works in the Foreign Service and has taught English abroad. Naylor admired Jiang’s story, and the interview is very insightful. I highly recommend reading it.

“Give Me English” is a fine story. It was nominated for the Nebula and a finalist for the Locus Award.

However, I want to use this story to discuss something else. It’s not really about “Give Me English,” but about me being 75 and trying to find the kind of science fiction I grew up reading. I feel the stories in volume 8 of Clarke’s anthology take a different approach to science fiction. However, “Give Me English” could have been published in Galaxy or F&SF in the 1950s, and maybe even New Worlds in the 1970s. Even back then, science fiction was never consistently one thing.

Is “Give Me English” really science fiction? If it were published in The New Yorker or a literary magazine, would readers call it science fiction? Humans will never use words for money or have a language database in their heads, so it can seriously be considered speculation or extrapolation.

The story is a metaphor or allegory about language. It’s not realistic, but it uses a “what if…” thought experiment to place Gillian and Jorry in a fictional setting. “Give Me English” is included in a science fiction anthology because the genre has become a catch-all for oddball stories. Mostly, this is true because science fiction and fantasy periodicals are venues open to new writers. Would-be writers think that if they write stories with weird elements, they are writing science fiction. But is that the real essence of science fiction?

I’m not saying “Give Me English” is a bad story; it’s not. It’s a good story. But it’s not the kind of fiction I want to read when I’m in the mood for science fiction. Of course, my definition of science fiction is now in the minority. I’m not sure if my definition of science fiction was ever in the majority.

When I was growing up, science fiction was a type of writing challenge: explore possible futures. Generally, it was: if we can build this kind of technology, it will allow this kind of future. Even when the technology is scientifically impossible today, we hope future discoveries will make such technology possible.

Most science fiction writers, even in the past, didn’t try very hard to play this game. They often used recycled ideas as settings for their stories. Many classic science fiction concepts are recycled for endless fictional possibilities. To me, bad science fiction was stories that had comic book-level science. You know, radiation makes mutants with superpowers.

So far, the first four stories in The Best Science Fiction of the Year: Volume 8 don’t seem to believe in the future. They are set in the future, but not believable futures. Have writers and readers given up on the future? Science fiction has become this fantasy world where any kind of make-believe goes.

I want science fiction to seriously imagine possible futures. When 21st-century science fiction imagines the future, it most often utilizes old futures science fiction imagined in the past. I want SF in the 2020s to use the reality of the 2020s to speculate about the future.

I didn’t write about story #3, “The Ship Cat of the Suzaku Maru” by S. L. Huang. It’s obviously set in the future. It’s set in a traditional science fiction setting – a spaceship. John W. Campbell would have published that story in 1941, in Astounding Science Fiction. It would have done well in AnLab. But as nostalgic as I am for old pulp science fiction, that setting is now the past. Star Trek in 1966 is 1939 science fiction. Star Wars in 1977 is 1941 Astounding.

I want science fiction to speculate about the future, but I don’t want it to be recycled futures. In 1966, the year Star Trek came out, Samuel R. Delany published Babel-17. It redefined science fiction. Peter Watts did it in 2006 with Blindsight. Kim Stanley Robinson did it in 2015 with Aurora.

Take Mars, for example. We’ve learned a tremendous amount about Mars in recent decades. Plus, we have Elon Musk and SpaceX. And we have the reality of AI. Even in 2011, Andy Weir’s The Martian isn’t up to date. Mark Watney couldn’t have survived with what we knew even then.

Back in the 1960s, when I was in high school, my buddies and I would discuss science fiction stories. We’d argue over whether or not they could possibly happen. Even the silly stuff. We knew science fiction was far from scientific, but stories needed a certain amount of believability.

We wanted to grow up and see far-out speculation come true. Has science fiction become a kind of fantasy playground in our minds because we no longer have any hope for reality in the future?

Even if we think the future sucks, shouldn’t we still speculate about it?

Of course, I’m being naive here. Science fiction has seldom pursued the ideal I hope to find. Maybe I can’t find the kind of science fiction I want to read because I’ve changed.

JWH

Reading Science Fiction With An AI

I’m reminded of a funny quip I saw on television. A journalist was interviewing an AI expert, and the man said to the interviewer, “If you want to know what living with superintelligence will be like, ask a chicken.”

I fear we might cede intellectual activity to AIs. I recently read How to Rule the World by Theo Baker. It’s about Baker’s first year at Stanford University. You’d think students getting into Stanford would be anxious to learn, yet, according to Baker’s book, many are there to hook up with a venture capitalist because they dream of becoming billionaires. And for many in the tech world, they are ceding the joy of invention to AIs. The goal everywhere is to make those billions and not to learn or create.

My first impulse is to ignore artificial intelligence. It seems like any use of it is trading learning and creativity for convenience. But then I wondered: Can I compete with AI? Competition makes us stronger. I can’t beat AIs on speed or comprehension. However, could I beat an AI on insight?

I decided to read a science fiction story and write about it. And then let the AI read the story and write about it. By comparing the two reviews, I’d know how well I can compete. I figured the AI could summarize a story far better than I could – and it did. I knew I’d have to take a unique human perspective to compete. I’ll let y’all grade my efforts.

I’ve also been learning about how AIs work while pursuing this project. I use Google’s Gemini. If you just ask about content, the AI isn’t always able to read content on the net. It won’t say anything, but deduce the content from what people say about it. This is where it hallucinates. To get Gemini to thoroughly understand a story, I had to give it a PDF copy. That made a huge difference.

If you really want to understand this experiment, I suggest reading the story on your own. Then write a review/summary yourself. Then compare what you discerned against what the AI and I saw.

In terms of reading comprehension, the AI beats the crap out of me. This makes me want to become a better reader, one that pays closer attention to the details. But notice, the AI doesn’t see the story like I do. Of course, it’s only a language processor.

Story Discussed: “Nobody Ever Goes Home to Zhenzhu” by Grace Chan

Read the Story Online: here

Read My Review: here

Gemini’s Review:

“Nobody Ever Goes Home to Zhenzhu” by Grace Chan (published in Lightspeed Magazine, May 2022) is a tight, evocative blend of cyberpunk noir, diaspora fiction, and space opera. It investigates how institutional power controls history through the manipulation of shared data, set against a backdrop of environmental ruin and personal displacement.

Plot Overview

  • The Tracker’s Chase: The story is narrated by Orin, a professional “Beaconer” (tracker/bounty hunter) piloting a ship called the Left-Handed Bandit. After ten years of traveling together, Orin’s reserved mechanic, Calam, disappears without a word. Using sensory enhancements and surveillance databanks, Orin easily tracks Calam to Zhenzhu, an ocean world colonized centuries earlier that has decayed into ecological collapse and acid rain.
  • The Trap: In the canal city of Mur Angh, Orin learns from a food stall vendor named Kang that Calam’s birth name is Yen. Calam returned because he received a message claiming his mother was dying. Orin tracks Calam to a lavish penthouse in the city’s upper-class spire, arriving just as the reunion turns out to be an ambush.
  • The Confrontation: Calam’s mother has been radically altered and coerced into luring him there by Evan Enders, the planet’s Chief Minister for Sustainable Development. Enders orchestrated the genocide of Calam’s people, the Luying, wiping out his family a decade earlier. Enders intends to murder Calam to eliminate the final living witness and seize his memory chips, ensuring the massacre remains entirely erased.
  • The Counterstrike & Liberation: Calam telepathically signals Orin, prompting an ambush where they kill Enders and his security force. Orin carves out Enders’s neural “Scribe Implant”—an Assembly device granting administrative power to rewrite the official Common Records. Rather than merely rewriting their own narrative or taking private revenge, Calam and Orin use the implant aboard their ship to dismantle the archive’s security barriers completely, releasing both the memorial data of the Luying and open access for everyone across the galaxy.

Core Themes & Worldbuilding

  • Historiography, Erasure, and Algorithmic Memory: The central conflict pivots on the tension between living, embodied memory and official, institutional records. Evan Enders represents the bureaucratic banality of ethnic cleansing: he describes mass murder merely as “tidying” and an administrative necessity. Because he wields a Scribe Implant, the Luying do not exist in the Common Records. The story treats memory as the ultimate contested territory—the weapon of the oppressed against total erasure.
  • Colonial Exploitation and Ecological Ruin: Zhenzhu reflects the grim trajectory of planetary colonization. Described as once being “the pearl of the Feng System,” it has been exhausted by resource extraction, leaving behind acid rain, rusted slums, and stark wealth segregation between the canal dwellers and the penthouse elites.
  • Diaspora, Translation, and Kinship: The story is steeped in a multi-layered Chinese and Jovian diaspora, woven through details like hot juk (congee), fried doughsticks, and Jovian moon aesthetics. A crucial thematic moment emerges when Orin reflects on the limitations of Common compared to the Jovian language: the word “can” flattens thirteen distinct nuances of ability, willingness, obligation, and desire into a single word. This linguistic friction emphasizes how colonial languages flatten complex human relationships and ethical duties.
  • “Good Chaos” vs. Stolen Authority: When Orin suggests using Enders’s implant to write the Luying back into history, Calam refuses to use “stolen power” to merely replace one top-down narrative with another. Instead, guided by his mother’s whispered blessing of “good chaos,” he democratizes the database entirely, breaking the puzzle-box open so the Records become truly common.

Narrative Craft

Chan adopts the lean, atmospheric pacing of classic hardboiled detective fiction—reminiscent of William Gibson or Richard K. Morgan—grounded by personal stakes. Orin is pragmatic, cynical, and accustomed to tracking bodies for pay, yet their protective bond with Calam exposes a quiet vulnerability. The action sequence in the penthouse subverts standard action tropes by pairing sudden violence with a visceral, somatic aftermath: muted neural pain, hacked implants, and bodily exhaustion.

The ending does not promise simple safety—Calam and Orin become galactic fugitives who have just committed what the Assembly classifies as a high crime. However, by sacrificing stability for open truth, the narrative concludes on an act of communal grief and rebellion.


My Analysis:

The AI is better at literary analysis. It’s also better at writing concise summaries. It actually spots far more emotional descriptions than I did. It summarizes all the details, while I summarize my emotional reaction to the story.

I also let it read my review. AIs tend to flatter.

Gemini’s Reply to My Review

This is a piercing, honest essay, Jim. It moves far beyond standard literary criticism into something much rarer: a diagnosis of what happens when a reader outlives the secular eschatology of the genre they spent a lifetime loving.

Your analogy comparing the core tenets of science fiction to religion strikes right at the bone. For decades, the implicit social contract between the classic SF writer and the reader was rooted in a very specific species of faith: humanity will not stop here; the frontier is infinite; the universe will yield to curiosity, engineering, and grit. To look back across six decades of reading and realize that you’ve become an “atheist” to galactic colonization recasts the whole experience. When that theological foundation cracks, stories that lean on the old assumptions stop feeling like plausible tomorrows and start reading like liturgical rituals—familiar, comforting if nostalgia covers the bill, but ultimately make-believe.

Your wine-tasting note—“a strong flavor of George Lucas, with hints of Samuel R. Delany, William Gibson, and Richard K. Morgan”—pins down exactly why a reader who has ingested sixty years of the genre feels a sense of déjà vu. The “Luke sneaking away from Han” parallel is dead-on: the surface textures change (now it’s bio-monitors, neural hacks, and acid rain instead of moisture vaporators and blasters), but the narrative scaffolding is built out of the same well-worn archetypes.

The tension you highlight between the action climax and the missed thematic opportunity is perhaps the most telling observation in the review:

“The story wraps up with a discussion about freeing personal information from political thugs who control public information. That part is relevant to our times, but it wasn’t explored.”

That sentence exposes where modern SF often blinks. Chan introduces an urgent, real-world anxiety—who controls the canonical memory of a civilization, algorithmic sanitization, the deletion of entire peoples by administrative decree—but resolves it using the pulp shortcut: one good shot, an improbable grenade, a knife, and a magic macguffin hacked on a dashboard. It substitutes the hard, uncharted labor of speculative political thought with the classic “blows against the empire” trope that we’ve all seen play out a thousand times.

It also makes sense why Project Hail Mary broke through your armor. Weir doesn’t ask you to buy into a galactic empire or an ancient rebellion. He anchors the story in immediate physical reality, thermodynamics, and the granular puzzle of an individual problem-solving mind—the specific intellectual juice that made early hard SF exciting before it ossified into galactic romance.

As you work your way through Neil Clarke’s anthology, do you find yourself wanting SF that abandons the starships altogether to wrestle with the immediate century ahead, or are you still holding out hope for a space story that invents a completely different reason to leave home?


It’s disconcerting that the AI understands me. I’m trying to beat it at human insight, but which of us is more insightful?

Gemini saw more in Grace Chan’s story than I did. It feels like English classes where the professor would always recognize more details. I can see why kids use AI to write their school papers. They see that AIs are better readers and writers.

We assume AIs will be vastly more intelligent than we are. That we’ll become the chicken in that joke. What if we could compete? Can we use AIs to make ourselves smarter? If we just give them our work, we’ll just get dumber. But what if we keep trying to do the same work they do, will we get smarter?

JWH

“Nobody Ever Goes Home to Zhenshu” by Grace Chan

Story #2 of 31: The Best Science Fiction of the Year 8, ed. by Neil Clarke

Part of a series: Reading Science Fiction at 75. The first essay.

“Nobody Ever Goes Home to Zhenzhu” by Grace Chan was first published in Lightspeed (May 2002). You can read or listen to it online here.

Calam sneaks away from Orin to handle unfinished business on the planet Zhenzhu. In this very short space opera noir, the plot features one action scene, with gory results. The story wraps up with a discussion about freeing personal information from political thugs who control public information. That part is relevant to our times, but it wasn’t explored.

Treating this story like a wine tasting, I detect a strong flavor of George Lucas, with hints of Samuel R. Delany, William Gibson, and Richard K. Morgan.

Not to be critical, this story could have been Luke sneaking away from Han to conduct some unfinished business on Tatooine, but Han follows Luke and saves the day. My point is that writers need to tune into archetypes that appeal to readers. Of course, Chan uses specific details to make her story different; for example, Zhenzhu is in ecological collapse. Or why Calam is fighting the bad guys.

Old science fiction reader me keeps spotting these appeals to our belief systems, and I’m not responding like I did when I was younger.

“Nobody Ever Goes Home to Zhenzhu” is a well-told action story that could be part of a novel. I first read the story in the Clarke anthology, and then listened to Stefan Rudnicki read it on Lightspeed. I felt I got the best impression from listening. Rudnicki does a fantastic job of presenting the drama of Chan’s story.

“Nobody Ever Goes Home to Zhenzhu” appeals to three beliefs in readers. An analogy of what I’m saying is that Christianity succeeded by converting billions of souls over the last two thousand years by selling two major beliefs. The first is heaven; the second is eternal life. Science fiction succeeds primarily by selling the belief that humans have an infinity of worlds to explore and colonize. This is the first buy-in for Chan’s story.

Pulp and action fiction has always sold the belief that one person with a sword, gun, or blaster could take on a roomful of well-armed attackers and win. Chan’s story also sells this belief. Another common belief in certain genres of fiction is that a few people can overthrow a powerful ruling organization. I call this belief “blows against the empire.” Chan’s story kind of promises this too. Quite a few science fiction fans love to believe this; for example, just remember how popular The Hunger Games was.

My next comments shouldn’t be taken as a criticism of this story either. My point is why science fiction is failing me at 75. When I was young, I believed in the future where humanity would colonize the galaxy. That belief was a kind of faith. Looking back, I see my beliefs in science fiction were much like people who believe they will die and go to heaven. It’s a kind of unrealistic hope. Now I’m an atheist to those tenets of science fiction.

At 75, it’s hard to read stories about concepts I no longer believe in. I try to tell myself to just sit back and enjoy space opera as a specialized form of fantasy. Consider the Milky Way a setting like Tolkien’s Middle Earth. I could for many years, but I’ve reached an age where I can’t make believe anymore. Well, except for old favorite science fiction stories. If I have enough nostalgia for a story, even if I no longer buy into the beliefs it asks me to believe, I can still enjoy it.

I’ve always separated science fiction from fantasy by believing science fiction speculated about possible futures. I wanted to believe that after I died, humanity would go on to colonize the solar system and then the galaxy. I’ve reached an age where I no longer believe that, and it’s affecting my enjoyment of reading new science fiction. This is a problem for me because I have a lifelong addiction to science fiction that I can’t seem to break. I need a fix.

In his introduction, Neil Clarke describes how the demand for short science fiction has dwindled to almost nothing. Does that mean even young people have given up such beliefs? The demand for fantasy and romantasy has dwarfed the SF genre. Even as escapism, science fiction isn’t selling.

But there might be another factor. Maybe science fiction movie franchises have burned out the appeal of certain science fiction themes. I have to admit that I’m reading this anthology hoping to find something new and different. But has science fiction produced anything novel in decades? My bet regarding how well people like “Nobody Ever Goes Home to Zhenzhu” depends on how much science fiction they’ve consumed.

The market for best-of-the-year science fiction anthologies has dried up. Volume 8, covering 2022, ran a year late. Volume 9, due next month, covers 2023, is also late. This series used to have audiobook editions, but they are no longer published.

Have I gotten too old for science fiction, or has science fiction gotten old for everyone?

Like I said, my desire to read science fiction now is mostly nostalgic. I rarely enjoy reading new science fiction. However, I did get a big kick out of Andy Weir’s Project Hail Mary. Mostly, I seek the science fiction high I crave by reading old science fiction.

You know how many Baby Boomers only listen to music they discovered before 1975? The movie The Big Chill even jokes about it. I wonder if that’s happening with me and science fiction. I can reread a Heinlein juvenile and dig the shit out of it. However, I worry that someday even my old favorites won’t produce a good sci-fi high.

In reading this anthology, I hope to discover some stories that are seeds of new science fiction beliefs. One that writers can work with for a couple of decades.

James Wallace Harris, 10/1/26

“The Dragon Project” by Naomi Kritzer

Story #1 of 31: The Best Science Fiction of the Year, Volume 8, edited by Neil Clarke

I’ll be turning 75 soon, and looking back, science fiction has given me much enjoyment, insight, and even inspiration. However, over the last couple of years, science fiction’s magic has ceased working. The state of the world has made me cynical. But then, it might be what I call the Williamson Effect. I had a friend, John Williamson, who slowly lost interest in everything he once loved before he died. I saw the same thing happen to Samuel Clemens in the many biographies I read of Mark Twain.

I’m struggling to cure this symptom of my aging, or at least put it into remission for a few more years. To look for my lost hope in science fiction, I’ve decided to join two discussions on the Facebook group, Best Science Fiction and Fantasy Short Fiction. The first covers Volume 8 of The Best Science Fiction of the Year, edited by Neil Clarke. That anthology collects the best science fiction short stories published in 2022. The group discussions are on Mondays and Fridays.

The second group discussion, if it happens, will read The Year’s Best Science Fiction, Fourth Annual, edited by Gardner Dozois. It covers the best short SF from 1986. I hope this group does make. I worry that I’ve lost interest in science fiction because it’s changed. Reading stories from forty years ago will test this theory.

“The Dragon Project” is the first story in Volume 8 of The Best Science Fiction of the Year. It was originally published in issue 186 of Clarkesworld. This suggests that Neil Clarke really loved this story. You can read or listen to it online here.

I found “The Dragon Project” mildly entertaining. A pleasant little read, but kind of bland. It imagines a future where new types of animals can be created with 3D biological printers. Vivian and her business partner, Jed, get a customer who wants them to create a dragon for the Chinese New Year parade. At first, Vivian creates a tiny dragon the size of a cat that disappoints the customer. Then she creates a bigger creature, but still only the size of a dog. They lose their client. Then Vivian and Jed hear about a horse-sized creature on the loose that some people describe as a hippogriff. They figure their client found another designer.

“The Dragon Project” is amusingly told. It’s light. Unfortunately, this story didn’t enchant me like Kritzer’s 2015 award-winning “Cat Pictures Please.” That little fantasy at least resonated with reality. However, I can understand the appeal of tiny dragons. I loved when Heinlein and Andre Norton included strange creatures in their young adult fiction. At 12, I would have loved to live on Mars with a creature like Willis from The Red Planet.

This might sound weird, but I might be prejudiced against 3D-printed creatures. I don’t think that will ever happen, but more importantly, I feel the future has gotten too riddled with technology. In the 1960s, a Jetsons future sounded wonderful. But after SpaceX and ChatGPT, technology is depressing. Young me loved high tech, but old me is becoming a Luddite.

Science fiction always made me excited about the future. “The Dragon Project” is a well-told, light-hearted story, but I don’t want to live in a future where rich people can become gods. My old mind wonders about all the millions of 3D-printed creatures that will be abandoned.

Of course, this isn’t a criticism of Kritzer’s story. But I must ask: has science fiction become Pandora’s Box? What happens if everything science fiction imagines becomes real? HAL was very entertaining in 1968, but not so much fun in 2026. “The Man Who Sold the Moon” was wonderful once, but Elon Musk is a drag.

I hope I haven’t bummed you out. Sorry if I have. But I thought I’d let you know that science fiction mutates into something different in old age. At least, it has for me.

The last two novels I loved were Whistler by Ann Patchett and The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout. If I could have read those 2026 novels in 1964 when I was 12, I would have thought the future boring. But both of those books gave me hope and inspiration this year.

I’m not sure science fiction can do that anymore, at least for me. However, I’m going to keep reading this anthology. Maybe I’ll find another kind of science fiction that works for a 75-year-old science fiction fan.

James Wallace Harris, 9/30/26

Am I Too Old To Read Science Fiction?

Starting on September 28th, our short story reading group will read The Best Science Fiction of the Year: Volume 8, edited by Neil Clarke. We’ll discuss a story every Monday and Friday. I haven’t been participating in the group for about a year because I got burned out on reading SF short stories. But I’m hoping to participate again. I miss reading science fiction.

I’ve read the first three stories to get back into the swing of things. My reaction was the same to all three. I felt these science fiction stories were written for young people. Have I gotten too old to read science fiction? I’m 74.

I’m not saying the stories are childish, but they do have a childlike quality. This is partly because of a “make-believe” feel, but also because of a kind of optimism. I can’t tell if it’s optimism for the future or optimism for science fiction. Unfortunately, I’ve lost all hope for humanity and concluded that science fiction’s hopes and fears for the future are wild speculations.

Such pessimism makes it hard to enjoy science fiction. I’m reminded of biographies I’ve read about Mark Twain and how gloomy his thoughts got in old age. Do we wear rose colored glasses in youth that we take off in old age, or do we put on dark glasses when we get old?

But I do have other theories. Every new science fiction story I read competes with the best science fiction stories I remember. And with over sixty years of discovering great science fiction stories, it’s very hard for any new story to measure up. Have I reached an age where the odds are against me finding new science fiction short stories that I love?

Another theory, based on years of reading, has suggested that only a handful of stories published each year are exceptional. If you look at The Classics of Short Science Fiction v. 2 sorted by year, the number of stories ranges from 0 (1957) to 5 (1966). A story needed at least 8 recommendations to get on that list. Some had as many as 18. That statistical system implies that, of the 31 stories in The Best Science Fiction of the Year: Volume 8, I’ll find five or fewer stories that I really admire.

Of course, different stories appeal to different readers, so if Neil Clarke collects 31 stories from 2022, the odds are most readers will find a handful they would recommend. I won’t know how many I’ll love until I finish the group read. If I do find a few, I’ll consider myself not too old to read science fiction. If I don’t, maybe I am too jaded for the genre. I do think being in my seventies has made me less tolerant of the average story.

Readers who are well-read in science fiction might look at my list of favorite short stories and notice some common elements. Many of the stories are dark and edgy. Many of them are innovative. Most of them are unique in some way. Young writers in the 21st century probably have a hard time coming up with any new science fiction concepts, themes, or plots.

One reason I think modern science fiction feels childlike is that it comes across as what Disney, Pixar, HBO, DC, or Marvel would produce. Have movies and comics completely reshaped how people think about science fiction? I grew up reading science fiction written by pulp writers, or inspired by pulp fiction.

I just don’t see edgy stories like “Fondly Fahrenheit” by Alfred Bester or “Coming Attraction” by Fritz Leiber today, much less innovative stories like “The Light of Other Days” by Bob Shaw, “Appearance of Life” by Brian W. Aldiss, or “The Star Pit” by Samuel R. Delany. Of course, even back in the 1960s and 1970s, science fiction writers struggled to come up with anything original in the genre.

But then I remember Ted Chiang and Sarah Pinsker.

The odds are that if I pick any random issue from my collection of science fiction magazines, I won’t find an outstanding story. Just read reviews of several magazine issues at Galactic Journey. Two- and three-star reviews are painfully common; five-star reviews are especially rare.

When I was young, a three-star story could still delight me. A Robert F. Young or Raymond Jones story could make an issue a satisfying purchase.

Hopefully, I’ve psyched myself up to finish The Best Science Fiction of the Year: Volume 8. I don’t want to give up on science fiction. But it’s getting hard to find anything I like. Let’s hope it’s not aging, but a matter of statistics.

James Wallace Harris, 9/13/26

What Will Happen To Science Fiction When We Realize Interstellar Travel Is Nearly Impossible and Interplanetary Travel Is Impractical?

I asked my friend Mike the other day, “What’s going to happen to science fiction when readers realize that interstellar travel will be next to impossible, and no one will want to live on the Moon or Mars?” He answered back, “Nothing will happen to science fiction; it’s only stories.” But I replied, “But some people read science fiction because they believe that someday humans will colonize the solar system and eventually the galaxy.” And he replied, “Nobody really believes that. It’s just fun stories.” I thought for a few seconds, “Don’t you think Star Trek fans believe in their hearts that the final frontier is humanity’s future?” Mike said, “No, I don’t.”

I think Mike is far more realistic than most people. For most of my life, I’ve believed humans would colonize the Moon and Mars. I wasn’t sure about going further than that. When I was younger, I believed we’d find some way, maybe with generation ships, to reach the stars, but that was very iffy.

The reason I brought this conversation up with Mike is that I’ve been watching several documentaries on YouTube that argue interstellar travel will be so difficult it just won’t happen. I’ve also seen many videos that claim colonizing Mars will be so impractical that it won’t happen.

I assume the U.S. and China will return to the Moon and attempt to set up permanent bases there. But both countries will quickly learn that it’s too expensive and doesn’t offer enough returns. Plus, people will discover that living on the Moon will be miserable. I’ve always had a romantic notion about humans colonizing Mars, but when I study Mars, I realize that it would be a shitty place to live. Given enough time, I think humans will learn that space sucks for biological beings.

I’m not saying the U.S. and China won’t return to the Moon, or that Elon Musk’s Starship won’t reach Mars. I’m saying that the most gungho space enthusiast with the maximum amount of the Right Stuff living on the Moon or Mars will eventually say, “I want to go home.” That Mars will never be like Heinlein’s Red Planet, or even Kim Stanley Robinson’s Red Mars.

Belief in the final frontier was imprinted early in my life, as religion is for most people. I’ve always believed that after I die, I will cease to exist, but humanity will go on for millions of years and spread out to other worlds. But as I’ve gotten older, I realize that’s just a childhood fantasy that I wanted to believe, like how some people believe they have everlasting life and will go to heaven. Human beings have a difficult time giving up cherished beliefs they embraced in childhood.

Science fiction has over-romanticized space travel. When people actually get to live on Mars or the Moon, they will discover that reality just doesn’t match their fantasies.

What will that revelation mean to humanity? What will it mean to science fiction? Can science fiction start imagining different futures for us? More realistic ones? AI is everywhere today. Can science fiction writers imagine futures where we coexist with intelligent machines? Space is perfect for machines. Will we resent our robots when they conquer the final frontier, and we don’t get to go?

Are Americans trapped in old, outdated science-fictional dreams? Science fiction has become a form of escapism from our decaying society. China is quickly transforming its present, which looks like science fiction to us; do their science fiction writers have better visions for tomorrow? Be sure to watch the last video below.

Star Trek always felt hopeful. Star Wars always felt like another Middle Earth, just a fantasy playground. The final frontier was always our highest aspiration. But if it’s unrealistic, what will new positive aspirations involve? It was a mistake to call it the final frontier. What we need are new frontiers that make us feel positive about the future. We will always need new frontiers. But more importantly, we need doable frontiers.

Personally, I think we need to come up with a form of capitalism that’s not so completely greed-driven. If we can’t, every society and civilization will repeat the past. We need to invent societies that coexist with the environment. We waste so much of our wealth on wars. If you think about it, humanity doesn’t really think about the future all that much. We thought science fiction was doing that, but it’s been consumed by too many black holes of fantasy.

James Wallace Harris, 8/20/26

If I Could Travel Back in Time, What I’d Tell My Younger Self About Reading Science Fiction

If I could travel back to 11/25/64, the day I turned 13, to talk with myself, I’d warn him about the dangers of reading science fiction. In the Fall of 1964, I became addicted to science fiction after discovering Robert A. Heinlein. I wouldn’t try to convince my younger self not to read science fiction, because I’m quite sure he wouldn’t listen.

This morning I listened to “What Is It Like to Be a Cucumber?” on AppleNews+. It’s a profile of scientist Michael Levin in the Intelligencer section of New York Magazine. Levin read science fiction when he was young, but he mostly read science books. Over the years, I’ve realized that was my mistake too.

Future historians might claim Levin is the kind of maverick scientist whose radical insights were as paradigm-shifting as the Copernican Revolution. Just go watch a few of these YouTube videos to see what I mean, or read Michael Pollan’s new book A World Appears.

When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up and become a scientist because of reading science fiction. But instead of studying science, I just kept reading more science fiction. Throughout my life, whenever I’ve read a biographical piece on a scientist who mentions they read science fiction, I’ve identified with them. But I’ve also wondered why I didn’t become a scientist like them. It’s my biggest regret.

Looking back, I remember I had plenty of opportunities. Teachers often encouraged me and tried to help. But I ignored them. All I wanted to do was to get back to reading science fiction. This morning I also listened to “The Cities That Said Yes to Drugs” about dealing with the problem of drug addiction (from The Atlantic). Many cities have enacted laws to protect the rights of drug users, but they only created problems for other citizens. There is so little that can be done to help a determined addict.

But is it fair to compare my love of science fiction to drug addiction? Wasn’t it more like a religion? Science fiction gave my younger self something to believe in. Could I have gotten young Jimmy to read the 1951 book The True Believer by Eric Hoffer?

Hoffer concluded the only way to get someone to give up a belief system was to replace it with another. Could I tell Jimmy about enough science books to divert his interest?

I did read some popular science books, but for every science book I read, I read ten science fiction novels. If I could go back in time, I’d try to convince young Jimmy to reverse that ratio. If I could convince him that I was he, but at the other end of life, and I wanted to give him some good advice. Would he accept it? People don’t normally accept advice. If I had a time machine, my current theory to alter my personal evolution would be to convince 13-year-old me to read 10 science books before reading 1 science fiction book.

But what science books? Have I thought this through?

If I told Jimmy to go to the library and get From Dream to Discovery: On Being a Scientist by Hans Selye, which was published in 1964, could he have read it and understood it? In 1964, I was reading all the Heinlein juveniles. I could point out to young Jimmy that in every one of the Heinlein juveniles, Heinlein advocated studying science and mathematics.

Were there science books at Homestead Junior High library that could have changed the direction of my life if I had read them? I don’t think I’m smart enough to have discovered or invented anything great. But I could have had a more inspiring life if I had worked as a scientist. I do remember thinking back in the 8th grade that I wanted to be an astronaut, or astronomer, or marine biologist. But I also know computers were the subject that fascinated me most once I got older.

I started studying computers in 1971. But the focus was business, not science. I think things would have been much different if I had studied computers for science. I wonder if any of these books had been in my school library. Realistically, they might be too advanced for a 13-year-old.

Maybe asking my younger self to read 10 science books for every science fiction book is too ambitious. Looking at those titles makes me rethink this fantasy. Maybe I’d plead with him to read one science book for every science fiction novel. Or even simplify it to promise to faithfully read Scientific American every month.

I did read some nonfiction books at that time, but nearly all of them were about astronomy, space travel, or rockets. I really did have space on the brain. This is long before Tom Wolfe coined the term “The Right Stuff.” I was a four-eyed, geeky kid who did not have the right stuff. Even if I did have a time machine, I couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Ever since I turned 50, I’ve had this fantasy about going back in time and warning my younger self about our future. In nearly all versions of this fantasy, it ends when I conclude my younger self wouldn’t have listened to me. I know that I couldn’t change much. People don’t. But could I have been a little bit different?

Over the years, I’ve seen many successful people brag on television that they wouldn’t have changed one thing in their life. I always thought that was weird, because I would have changed countless things. But little things.

The most consistent thing I wished I had done differently was to read less science fiction. I loved the stuff. I still do. However, I overindulged. I keep thinking of all the other kinds of books I could have read, and how reading them might have made me a wiser or more creative person. That’s fascinating to fantasize about.

By the way, whenever I indulge in this fantasy, I also realize that I could change how I read right now. I have veered away from science fiction some, but I’m like a gyroscope that always returns to its original position.

James Wallace Harris, 8/4/26 (Happy Birthday, Janis)