All good sci-fi is religious



Atheism is a really boring ideology for storytelling.

There’s no God, no morality, and no meaning. Everything is an accident, and we can take only the most superficial material interpretations possible. This kills all storytelling except the most nihilistic genres.

And this presents a problem because nihilism is well ... boring. It can’t sustain a narrative. People seek meaning. People seek purpose. It’s not just instinctual. It’s necessary. So what do atheists do? They take old religious meanings and filter them through an atheist lens.

We can talk about humanity’s grand destiny all day, but the future of humanity is not something particularly inspiring to the guy working nine to five.

So what are we going to do? Look at Ridley Scott's 2012 "Alien" prequel, "Prometheus." God is real but he’s an alien. Creation has a purpose, but it’s evolution.

The redemption of mankind is through our IQ and eventual ascension into godhood. It’s all the same beats except through atheistic and materialistic virtues (or subversions). The story is just as religious, but it’s now bent for a really shallow religion.

No atheists on starships

These tropes are so ubiquitous that we take them as given assumptions for the sci-fi genre, but they’re just recycled ideas (mostly from Christianity). And so atheists steal their depth from truth that rightfully belongs to religion. They just pretend it’s more “scientific.”

Deliberate design is a completely pseudo-scientific concept (according to atheists). There’s no evidence for it, and the mainstream consensus is that life was a cosmic accident. But you can’t say anything about a cosmic accident. You can only shrug your shoulders at it.

Nearly every sci-fi story has some form of deliberate design, they just replace the Christian God with aliens or whatever. Even though it is often atheists writing the stories, they reinsert this completely pseudo-scientific concept. Why? Because atheism is really boring.

Here’s a fun drinking game: Take a shot whenever you see a story treating evolution as a series of progressing stages. This is a completely nonsense read of evolution. There’s no moral component to evolution. It’s just adaption to environment. There’s no end goal.

But nearly every sci-fi story treats it as such. It gets to the point where it’s straight disinformation. Every time the story is about mankind’s rise from apes to the stars when that’s utterly irrelevant from an atheist perspective. Why? Because atheism is really boring.

Mankind's end goal is something like "Star Trek’s" Federation. But why is that a good thing? Why is space liberalism the default? What is morality based on? Where are we going? Who’s to say the Klingons don’t have it right? Why are there good guys and bad guys?

“But it’s all just fiction!” I hear you say. “It doesn’t matter.” But fiction isn’t nonsense. It’s an outlining of ideals, principles. Writers don’t just write random chaos. They write an extension of their worldview. Why then don’t we have properly atheist stories?

A properly atheist story would be completely materialistic, accidental, with absolutely no meaning or morality that has whatever intrigue being completely incidental to the plot. Now I have to ask: Doesn’t that sound like a really boring story?

How, then, did professed atheists like Arthur C. Clarke, Isaac Asimov, and Gene Roddenberry create the the archetypal myths that define the modern world?

The mystics of progressivism

By the 1960s, progressivism had reached a new ascendancy. Fueled by the unparalleled wealth that came with a modern economy, millions were lifted into new, luxurious lifestyles. Now was the time to put aside the ignorance of religion and finally embrace the freedoms offered by a world liberated from Christianity.

It isn’t hard to understand how so many fell for the deception. Things were getting better and better. Technology was improving, and more importantly, accelerating. The Soviet Union was an existential threat, yes. However, too many had already seen the miracle of science, and it seemed a better horse to back than spiritually weakened priests who were quickly conceding to the liberalism’s demands.

But with any new religion, there has to be a story, and the story science told wasn’t so flattering. Men had gone from sons of God to sons of apes. Salvation was a lie, and death was the end. There was no justice in the world, and mercy was just the delusion of fools. Man was a small being in a cold universe. The only thing modern men could be comforted by was his own increasing material comfort.

That’s not a story anyone wants to hear. And it’s certainly not a story anyone wants to tell. While abject nihilism has always had its place in literature, it rightfully has a small audience. Nihilism has nothing that could sustain a city, much less a nation.

Reason and science needed romance. It needed adventure and a destiny. Without these things, it was a boring, uninspiring philosophy. Writers (good ones anyway) instinctively shy away from boring. Better to be dead than boring. If there is a victory, it has to be a glorious triumph. If it is a defeat, it has to be a last stand. And if it is banal, then it has to be the most shuddering and teeth-clenching banality of all.

But the sci-fi writers of the 1960s and later were capable of far more than banality. They knew how to tell stories, and they (unconsciously or otherwise) slipped that dreaded irrationality and religious ignorance back into their fiction.

'2001: A Space Odyssey'

We’ll start with what I consider to be the quintessential story of progressivism. "2001: A Space Odyssey" was written in 1968 by Arthur C. Clarke (one of the Big Three sci-fi authors).

The original novel frames evolution not as random mutation guided by arbitrary natural selection but rather as a series of stages, with each improving and progressing from the last. Guided by the hands of an intelligence, men are the products of a consciousness far beyond our comprehension.

From a purely scientific standpoint, this is complete hogwash. But from a storyteller’s perspective, this is gold. Men are no longer an accident of cosmic forces. Suddenly, we have a destiny again.

There’s a conflict of tug and pull. We are going somewhere and we (at least to this incomprehensible intelligence) matter. We may be apes, but we have the potential to be something more. Can we realize this destiny?

Robert Nickelsberg/Getty Images

You’ll notice that God is back in the equation. Except this god is a surprisingly hollow one compared to the Christian God. This one makes no demands or moral rules upon humanity. This one does not care about the suffering of the life it created. This one wants little to do with humanity except when it achieves a sufficient stage of intelligence.

Make no mistake, this is a despotic and cruel god. But, it is also a god fit for rationalism. Could we be the products of unimaginable forces? Maybe. Nobody wants to believe this was all an accident. And while this god is empty, it is sufficient food for the poets and artists. So long as nobody makes any moral demands beyond the current zeitgeist, it is a harmless idea for scholars to speculate and pine about.

This idea of incorporating evolution into the narrative of progress and a distant, indistinct entity in God’s place is a common thread throughout all of sci-fi. And it doesn’t even have to be an indistinct entity.

In the movie "Contact," this role is occupied by a galactic community that judges humanity worthy to join them after a set time has passed. But do you know the kicker? Humanity is considered at all because we sent out some radio signals. That’s ... depressing.

But there is another problem. What of the individual’s place in all of this? We can talk about humanity’s grand destiny all day, but the future of humanity is not something particularly inspiring to the guy working nine to five. Yay, we’re in the transitionary period where everything is still kinda awful, but our descendants will get to enjoy space utopia.

Flawed 'Foundation'

This question is not answered but sidestepped paradoxically. Another of the Big Three, Isaac Asimov, showcases this bait and switch quite well in his magnum opus, "Foundation." This epic spans the collapse of a galactic empire. Hari Seldon has devised a new science called psychohistory, which charts the course of societies. He goes to set up Foundation, which will be a light of science and knowledge in the coming Dark Ages and eventually bring back the empire.

Rita Barros/Getty Images

This is a story that spans centuries. Its whole premise is charting the course of history. And psychohistory is not a science that is kind to individuals. It says what determines the course of history are large-scale incentives and institutional rot. We are but numbers on a spreadsheet encompassing billions of worlds, and the greater part of humanity is accounted for in the margins.

But how did Isaac Asimov write this story? Well, he didn’t, at least not in the way he thought. A third of the first book follows a shrewd politician named Salvor Hardin as he outmaneuvers factions within Foundation. He eventually consolidates the society and neighboring kingdoms into a religious theocracy. Particularly, he accomplishes this through a clever ruse by outfitting enemy fleets with a kill-switch and faking it as divine power.

14-year-old me put down the book at the moment and asked, “OK, but what if there wasn’t Salvor Hardin?” There is some argument for the Second Foundation and Seldon predicting the rise of great men, but individuals are precisely the antithesis of psychohistory.

You’ll find in each section of Isaac Asimov’s magnum opus there are great men of history. There are people who rise above the paradigm and set the trends of the coming future. And it is not just captains of industry or conniving warlords. Even small people have a huge impact on galactic affairs. The Mule (a mutant with telepathic powers) lost because he fell in love with a normal woman.

Sci-fi is full of these characters. One moment they are but insignificant specks, the next they are upending everything. In this, you see a paradox which is played whenever the narrative is convenient for it. Humanity is vast and the individual has no power or the individual leads the revolution and remakes society.

I’m not saying this is done deliberately (though it probably certainly happened at some stage). However, progress needed a place for the individual, if only because storytellers demanded it so. You cannot tell a good story without people whose actions matter.

Stories need heroes and villains, otherwise, you have no story at all. It may go completely against the rational point of view, which says people are utterly insignificant, but can’t we just pretend that we are?

The final component of this narrative is a vision of what is trying to be achieved. The stage is set. We have our gods and demons, heroes and villains. For what shall be the contest? Well, the answer varies depending upon who you ask.

The final frontier?

Gene Roddenberry’s vision in "Star Trek" is of a space-traveling humanity for which all material wants were satisfied. Thankfully, the galaxy was filled with different peoples and aliens to meet. Otherwise, his stories would be fairly boring. Of course, that is the least of his world-building troubles. "Star Trek" does not stand up to even the most cursory scrutiny.

Ron Galella, Ltd./Getty Images

However, I don’t think progress was promising material utopia. At least, that wasn’t what people wanted. Utopia is a nice political aim, but I suspect what really captivated the audience was the prospect of an endless adventure.

What is mankind now fighting for? Ironically, the soldiers of progress want the world to go back as it once was, where the horizon was an unexplored frontier. In the 16th century, men put themselves on little boats and crossed oceans for adventure.

But space is too vast an ocean and our boats too tiny to cross. I have seen many futurists on the internet, and the dream of space travel is admittedly an intoxicating one. It tends to fill your thoughts as you work retail. I know it did for me.

In the imagination of many, humanity was just at its short adolescent stage. Once it stepped into the stars, the fun would begin again. Again, this goes against all science. The galaxy so far has been silent, and I think it’s time we begin to accept that alien life, if it does exist, is so far away as to be inaccessible.

Digital heaven

Space is out. But what about computers? "Neuromancer" by William Gibson was released in 1984. A little later than the 1960s, but it’s still a foundational text. Perhaps the future we’re fighting for is a simulation? Of course, I wouldn’t want to live in the world of "Neuromancer," but the dream of uploading your mind is an enticing one. What if your life could be a video game?

Suppose you could do it. Suppose I could turn you into a program and put you in a simulation. Would your life be better than what you have now? For those advocating for this future, most seem to skip that step.

Let’s take a look at the modern day. Are our lives really better with what digitization has already accomplished? Everyone agrees social media is a plague on humanity, yet why are so many pushing to trap themselves on what would be the ultimate social media platform?

You’ll again notice we’ve ditched reason yet again for a digital version of heaven. And our future is so much more enlightened than religious notions of an afterlife. We’ve taken salvation and commercialized it. Your eternal soul will be bought with the U.S. dollar.

But putting all that aside, why do these stories matter? These stories are all fiction. They are nothing to be taken seriously. I can already hear the cry that this all has nothing to do with the actual expectations people had for the future. Had I brought "2001: A Space Odyssey" into an academic debate on industrialization, I would’ve been laughed out of the room.

However, people do not tell stories just for mindless amusement. In them are the beliefs of a people. More than just hopes and dreams, stories are a reflection of the world as we see it. And in these stories I have listed, you see the beliefs of the people writing them.

You see their gods and devils, their heroes and villains, and the reality they want to make happen. Stories are a look at where we are and where we are going. And most importantly, stories are a confession of faith.

Did Arthur C. Clarke believe in monoliths that uplifted humanity? No. But he certainly believed in the god that made them.

A version of this essay originally appeared on the "Trantor Publishing" Substack

Can the right wing save sci-fi?



It’s an open secret that sci-fi is the genre of the left. Pick out any landmark title, and you’ll likely find the author fits into one or more of these three descriptors: progressivist, rationalist, and atheist. And while there are standout exceptions, for every Heinlein, there’s an Asimov and a Clarke. For every religious Walter M. Miller, there’s a dozen other sci-fi authors espousing various iterations of the revolution.

While I wouldn’t say science fiction is necessarily defined by this strain of leftist thought, it’s undeniable that the genre has served as a hotbed for progressive ideas since the early days of H.G. Wells and Jules Verne. Gene Roddenberry’s "Star Trek" wasn’t a step into a bold new frontier so much as it was advancing ideas that had long been coalescing among these writers. Ideas that, upon hitting the mainstream, calcified into the tropes that we now consider part and parcel of the genre. Uploading minds into computers, human evolution guided by a higher intelligence, the idea that the world can unify under a global government — they are all expressions of leftist ideas.

Are faster-than-light technologies truly a boon for humanity, or would their use unleash absolute chaos? What are the consequences of a genuinely abstracted consciousness? Is there a point where we say no to certain technologies because their costs are too great?

Take the first, for example: The left presumes that humans are nothing more than blank, abstract consciousnesses piloting meat sacks. Leftists see the mind as completely separate from the body and the body as irrelevant to the self-expression and identity of the mind. In today’s political terms, this is the “trans” movement. In sci-fi, this is taken to the nth degree, where the mind itself is often separated from the body into a computer to become an abstract self-identity.

But of course, this assumes the essence of a human mind is the electrical firing of neurons and not emergent in the physical reality of those neurons. The left believes the problem of sapience is one of sheer processing power, that self-awareness is merely translating neurons into ones and zeroes. But how many people would agree that a neuron and a computer program written to model a neuron are ontologically the same thing? Or to put it more simply, how many people would say Gary and the little black box running a computer model of Gary are indistinguishable in every way, shape, and form?

Science fiction is riddled with these often unquestioned assumptions. Or, when they are brought under scrutiny, they are shuffled off-camera to avoid the harder implications. As much as I love "Star Trek," I always groan in frustration when they bring up an interesting concept because I know it will only last as long as the episode. A duplicate of your entire crew created from a learning metallic liquid? A virus that rapidly ages its victims? A nonphysical entity mentally interrogating your officers? Welp, these things happen, I suppose. Nothing a vacation on the Holodeck wouldn’t fix.

It all raises the question of what, if so much of sci-fi is left-wing, might right-wing sci-fi look like? Anything more than a predictably ideological counter-spin on the conventions of the genre? Or might we find, somewhere, visionaries and luminaries capable of more? Might we create an artistic scene where new Frank Herberts are more a rule than an exception?

Well, the first problem we have before us is what even defines right-wing sci-fi. We need a definition or a set of criteria before we can say something is left-wing vs. right-wing. And I don’t mean right-wing in that cringe-inducing manner where conservatives are just dunking on the left. I mean genuine art that seeks after the true, the good, and the beautiful.

Live long and prosper

CBS Photo Archive/Getty

What I propose here is not the be-all and end-all. It’s more like the start of a conversation, a set of principles that can helpfully distinguish what is genuinely right-wing from what is subversive. I myself will probably modify these rules as time goes on. But definitionally speaking, I think these three criteria are essential. So, here are Isaac’s three laws of right-wing science fiction:

  1. Technology as a social force is viewed skeptically, not optimistically
  2. Human nature is unchangeable, not malleable
  3. The creation of utopia is not the purpose of mankind

Let’s break down what I mean with each point. The first rule speaks to the beating heart of sci-fi, which is man’s relationship with technology. The left sees progress as an inherently good thing. All problems of the human condition are of information processing. If there is a problem facing society, it is either that we lack the required knowledge to solve it or there are inefficiencies in our processing speed.

Progress and technology are increasing both, so they must be fundamentally good. We can solve the famines in the third world with advanced agriculture and infrastructure. We can fix our economy with sound policy decisions from think tanks and academic experts. We can end all human suffering if we just automate everything and turn existence over to machines to do everything for us.

It never occurs to the left that technology often creates as many problems as it solves. Advanced infrastructure in the third world brings questions of how to maintain such infrastructure. Complex systems require ever more complex maintenance. And if the will and human resources aren’t there to do it, then it won’t be done.

Sound economic policy decisions assume objective actors who will act for the ultimate good. But no one is outside the system. Bureaucracy inevitably breeds more bureaucracy because bureaucrats need to make a livelihood. And no matter how much you try to optimize self-interest for the better of all, corruption is always more profitable.

None of this is to say that technology or advanced systems are inherently bad. I mean that technology should be viewed as it actually is — a series of trade-offs. Modern plumbing is undoubtedly a godsend, but there are still costs that come with it. We don’t think of its maintenance as costs because we are so inundated with its use, but those costs remain. A significant amount of time, money, and investment from someone are required to keep your plumbing functional.

And if you try to automate those things, the automation itself will require even more maintenance. The best solution isn’t always to double down on ever more complex systems until you eventually run out of energy to maintain them all.

The first rule posits a very simple ask of sci-fi authors — that technology isn’t necessarily a force for good in and of itself. If science fiction explores the realities of mankind’s relationship with technology, and if it is to undertake this task honestly, it must understand that more is not always better. Right-wing sci-fi must take a fuller approach to technology, dissecting a given technology from all angles, understanding its full implications, and weighing its use. And, if necessary, to reject its use outright when the trade-offs are not worth it.

Frank Herbert’s "Dune" is a landmark title partly because the author posits a world where certain technologies have been considered seriously and rejected. And then it dares to imagine the consequences of such a world.

How many plots of "Star Trek" are the exact opposite? How many episodes are spent in which the solution is some clever use of technology or some new knowledge to solve the problem? How many of the problems facing the characters are the lack of information and not the harder choices men are often called to make?

Moving on, the second rule is an extension of the first. If technology is not to uplift humanity, then it is merely an additive to humanity — a humanity that remains constant in its condition.

There’s no one serious in the world who contests that technology changes human behavior and the human experience. It obviously does so. But does technology change what it is to be human itself? Has technology changed the overall nature of mankind? Are we fundamentally different as a species than where we were 2,000 years ago? If you were to compare the two, would you find something essential in modern man that is not present in his earlier incarnation?

And if you were to strip modern man of his creature comforts, would he be any different than what he was 2,000 years ago? Would his children be any different? Would their grandchildren? If the answer is no, then we must conclude that it is the environment that has changed in the modern world, not the man himself. In this case, if our impossibly sophisticated world has not already made a measurable impact on human nature, why do we expect it to do so in the future?

It is easy to dream of machine life integrating with the organic as it often does in sci-fi. But has anyone ever stopped and asked what would happen if such a future were impossible? We assume that science will progress forever and forever, but what happens if we were to come across hard limits to our reality that could not be overcome? What if — dare I say — that more knowledge was not the solution to our problems?

What if reality itself has its limitations? And what if one of those limitations was the human condition?

The left has placed its bets on AI and trans-humanism, the latter concept being an oxymoron. To transcend the human means no longer being human, which means we’re talking about something completely different than humanity. Trans-humanism means the rejection of humanity in favor of something else — which is assuredly not human. If we were to put it in actual, real terms, trans-humanism is the abolition — or outright extinction — of the human race.

So, we are effectively placing all our bets on some unproven, utterly unknown entity, and we’re hoping that this entity is magically better than humanity itself. And if we were to create a self-learning AI somehow, there is no guarantee that such an AI would somehow be superior to mankind. Mere intelligence does not equate to morality, and I hope that’s obvious to anyone who’s seen his fair share of cheesy machine uprisings.

To be right-wing in science fiction is to make the simple observation that human nature seems to be sticking around for the long haul, and tampering with it does not guarantee a better world. If there is one single thing that conservatives have succeeded in conserving, it is human nature. And given the absolute failure of conservatives against the left, I think this is direct evidence that human nature is the one thing the left cannot abolish.

The third rule concludes the first two. If progress does not bring us to a better world and human nature is not malleable, then utopia is firmly out of our reach. So many of the left’s stories rely upon the implicit assumption that man is destined to achieve a perfect state of being in this universe, a post-scarcity society where all problems of existence are solved.

Spirituality and the stars

Bob Penn/getty

But what if mankind’s ultimate purpose is not to strive for infinite material gain? What is mankind if we are not a mere appetite that needs to be satiated, and what if existence entailed more than a constant string of dopamine hits?

This final point encapsulates a topic, the often-discussed but not properly explored religious aspect of sci-fi. In so many stories, the narrative’s true religion is some version of leftist progress, and all other faiths are an obstacle or interesting nuisance in the way of this goal. But imagine, for a moment, if another religion was true? What if different metaphysical claims underpinned a narrative?

This is a woefully unexplored part of sci-fi, and I think here is a fertile ground for new artists to break out of genre-defining clichés and exhausted plot lines. Warhammer 40k is interesting not because it reuses a bunch of sci-fi tropes but because it puts a new spin on them. In the setting, the dream of "Star Trek" is inverted. Instead of peace and prosperity, the galaxy is thrown into endless war and strife. Everything is collapsing, and the idea of a secular utopia has been thoroughly snuffed out.

The best parts of 40k are when the authors try to salvage meaning and hope out of this bleak situation. And what do those authors find themselves turning to time and again for new answers? Religion.

The message I want people to take away from this essay is not me crossing out tropes with a red marker and saying you cannot use them or else you are a leftist. But rather, questioning old tropes that seem exhausted and finding new spins or interpretations on them. Are faster-than-light technologies truly a boon for humanity, or would their use unleash absolute chaos? What are the consequences of a genuinely abstracted consciousness? Is there a point where we say no to certain technologies because their costs are too great?

This is not an exercise in condemning past authors or their works, only trying to understand the progression of ideas in the genre and where those ideas are leading. And finally, to leave it up for future artists to decide if they want to venture somewhere else in the bold new frontiers of their own sci-fi stories.

The technology of 'Star Trek'​​



“A good science fiction story should be able to predict not the automobile but the traffic jam.” —Frederik Pohl

It is very easy to imagine a future full of laser beams, force fields, and faster-than-light travel. It is much more difficult to imagine a realistic world in which those technologies exist.

A spaceship traveling faster than light seems an unprecedented boon for interstellar travel. But what happens when one wacko decides to aim a rocket (of now infinite kinetic energy) toward Earth? With each technological advance comes a number of second-order effects that are increasingly difficult to predict. The job of science fiction is to extrapolate these previously unforeseeable possibilities and then explore them for all their implications.

There may be a breaking point — a moment when humanity decides technology has outgrown its usefulness.

Sci-fi author Frederik Pohl was visionary in his observation of the genre, but I think a better way to restate his insight would be this: “A good science fiction story should be able to predict not only a way a technology will be used but how it will be abused.” Whatever ingenious development mankind comes up with next will inevitably one day fall into the wrong hands. And, of course, that presumes human hands were ever responsible enough for the tools we have created.

In the 21st century, aren’t these concerns at least a little warranted? We have the tools and the talent to deepfake Adam Sandler into Quentin Tarantino’s "Inglourious Basterds," and that video came out four years ago. Remember, this was before AI generators such as Dall-E and Midjourney were released. If these powerful image and video editors were available, then is it not probable that someone somewhere has already taken advantage?

It seems shocking that there has not been a major political scandal of some sort — unless, of course, they have gotten away with it. With the power of image alteration comes the implicit inevitability that someone will alter an image — the truth — for their own gain. With the power of an FTL drive, there is the certainty that someone will turn that same ship upon a planet. And with the power of the holodeck, there is the implicit certainty that someone will take it too far.

The holodeck is a recurring plot device within the long-running "Star Trek" franchise. It is a room that can manifest tactile holograms that are indistinguishable from reality. In fact, these holograms are so lifelike that there is an episode in "Star Trek: The Next Generation" in which a hologram gains full sentience as a human. The plot resolves itself the way the show often solves such complex moral quandaries: by shuffling the problem off-stage. The sentient hologram is deactivated and promptly forgotten for much of the show.

Admittedly, "Star Trek: The Next Generation" did explore part of the holodeck’s ramifications in season three’s episode "Hollow Pursuits." In this episode, Reginald Barclay becomes obsessed with the holodeck’s more exotic opportunities. I’m sure one with reasonable internet experience can see where this plot leads next.

Unfortunately, or perhaps thankfully, "Star Trek" doesn’t feel the need to answer the full societal ramifications of merging simulacra with reality. Barclay’s social anxieties are resolved, and the problem is treated as a singular incident rather than the monumental catastrophe of human psychology it represents. After all, if there were such a place where the internet could become as manifestly real as you or me, I’m sure it wouldn’t greatly upset the human race.

But assuming for a moment that it would, what would the ramifications be? If there were a room where all of mankind’s imagination could come true in a single thought, I do have to ask one single question:

Why would anyone ever leave?

Real science fiction

CBS Photo Archive

Of course, this is hand-waved away with energy requirements or some other sci-fi jargon in the show. Perhaps spending too much time in the room exposes you to dangerous radiation. Whatever the case, "Star Trek" can have its excuses because it’s a fun sci-fi show meant to create thought-provoking commentary on improbable issues. It presents interesting hypotheticals intended to tease the mind and open up moral dilemmas.

However, in exploring this particular issue more seriously, a difficult question remains to be answered. What if the holodeck were real? What if we could create all the meaningful simulacra of human existence and then plug a person into it? What if we could build that room? And more importantly, why would we not center our civilization around building every such room for every such person?

If the internet — if all human desire — could be made tangible, is that not the ultimate consumer product? Would this not be sold to the entire human populace, and would our energies not be spent on making this as widely available as commercially possible? If we have at our fingertips a digital heaven, who wouldn’t reach for it?

Some would argue that portions of humanity would reject this technology out of hand. After all, Hollywood tells us that the luddites will rise against Skynet and re-establish human dominance over the planet. But has this been the case in the real world? Has the long march of progress been halted by its skeptics? Or has the majority of humanity gone along quietly with innovation — whatever the cost?

There may be a breaking point — a moment when humanity decides technology has outgrown its usefulness. Perhaps not. But it is doubtless that if this technology should ever come — and it should be adopted liberally — that would be the end of humanity as we know it.

Each person would be trapped in a digital simulacrum, living the best lives they could imagine. To put it more accurately, the best lives could be simulated for them. We’ve already seen the effect of the digital on the human psyche. No one disputes that fertility rates are declining across the board in developed countries. The results are in. Those who embrace the material benefits of the Industrial Revolution quickly fall below replacement levels. The cold, hard truth is that we no longer possess the will to create children fast enough to replace us. And while high immigration might seem like a short-term solution (albeit with many drawbacks), it certainly doesn’t solve the longer march of progress.

When we replace the real with the digital, humans become isolated from one another, eventually preferring simulacra to uncomfortable reality. For many youths today, it is easier to scroll on X or TikTok than to have a real conversation. It is easier to go to Pornhub instead of asking a girl out on a date. It is easier to swim in the internet's currents than live your real life.

The questions of the digital replacing reality are not far-flung science fiction. While the holodeck might seem a pipe dream of a distant future, such technology is actively being pursued today. The holodeck is nothing more than a gimmick to merge the simulated with the real, which has been the goal of Western elites since the invention of the computer. With the recent news of Neuralink opening human tests, we are assuredly taking another small step toward that future.

I am not worried about the medical breakthroughs that Neuralink or other such technologies offer. I lose no sleep at night over the lives that will be made better by such innovations and ones still to come. What else might these technologies be used for? What are the unintended and often isolating consequences? And how can — and will — these technologies be abused?

George Takei beclowns himself playing victim after illegal alien charged with brutally murdering nursing student Laken Riley



Far-left social media warrior George Takei is still fighting the woke fight — and this time the 86-year-old "Star Trek" alum utterly failed to lock his phasers on target and actually played the victim in the wake of an illegal alien getting charged with murdering nursing student Laken Riley.

Say what?

It all started with Republican House Speaker Mike Johnson's post on X over the weekend saying Riley's murder suspect is "one of the millions of illegal aliens that the Biden Administration simply released and unleashed upon our country" and demanding that the president close the border with Mexico.

Instead of taking the "L" and just scrolling on, Takei — not known for keeping his opinions to himself — decided to try fighting Johnson on X.

Takei, who played Sulu on the Starship Enterprise, would have been better off staying in sick bay. Here's how he responded to Johnson:

— (@)

"I know your type of politician. Men like you smeared my community during World War II by preying upon people’s fears of others who didn’t look like them. It led to the internment and 125,000 shattered lives," Takei wrote to Johnson. "Never again."

Umm ... huh?

First off, Takei's statement doesn't at all address Riley's murder and that an illegal alien has been charged with it. Second — and perhaps most astonishing — Takei somehow managed to liken Johnson's demand that Biden close the border so illegal aliens can't enter the U.S. to what progressive Democrat President Franklin D. Roosevelt did to American citizens who happened to be of Japanese descent in World War II.

The latter was not lost on commenters, who rightly gave Takei a piece of their minds. Here's a smattering of them:

Image source: X

Image source: X

Image source: X

Anything else?

This was far from the first time Takei stepped on a rake in his quest to own his political adversaries:

  • In December he suggested that Republican efforts to protect children from irreversible genital mutilation and hormone treatments are akin to — here we go again — the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II and the "dark forces ... that led to the horrors of the Holocaust in Europe."
  • Last June he defended fellow LGBT activists who exposed their genitals to children at a Seattle pride parade.
  • Back in 2020, he hoped that Sen. Marco Rubio (R-Fla.) would suffer an adverse reaction from a COVID-19 vaccine.

Anyway, if ol' George is reading this, he can educate himself by checking out this recent news video covering Riley's murder:

Laken Riley murder: Georgia suspect was arrested in NYC last year youtu.be

(H/T: The Western Journal)

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