You may have come across the concept of living in a simulation, as it's a popular topic in media today.

However, I’m not referring to the film "The Matrix," which, despite its popularity, muddied the waters of simulation theory by conflating it with physical reality and introducing the absurd notion of humans functioning as batteries.

If machines were to choose, they would logically opt for pigs instead; pigs possess a similar body structure to humans and would require a comparable amount of energy without needing a simulated existence. Additionally, pigs are less demanding regarding freedom, provided they have food.

The scientific perspective introduced by philosopher Nick Bostrom in his paper "Are you living in a computer simulation?" presents a different narrative.

According to Bostrom, we exist solely within a vast computational model that represents the entire universe, including our consciousness.

His theory is far more captivating for fiction writers than the narrative presented in "The Matrix."

The idea that our reality might be a computer simulation offers numerous creative opportunities, alongside some existential angst—though I find such dread tiresome and would prefer to set it aside.

From a technical standpoint, there’s not much distinction between living in a simulated reality versus an actual or deity-created one.

All these realities operate under a set of rules that are beyond our control, and we remain oblivious to how they might unfold in our individual lives.

During my time as a scientist studying fluid dynamics, I conducted numerous computer simulations. Later, as a Hollywood special effects artist, I executed even more.

I created simulations of ships navigating storms, volcanoes erupting, forests growing, and armies clashing. In a philosophical sense, I was the architect of miniature worlds.

I held no special attachment to these creations; I had no desire to harm, dominate, or exploit them. After all, what would be the point? Would I be subjugating mere data or pixels?

My sole aim was to enhance the quality and performance of my simulations.

I believe this sentiment would resonate with any simulation creator, regardless of how expansive their simulation might be, even one encompassing entire universes and individual consciousness.

Yet, based on my experience, there is a notable and intriguing distinction between simulated realities and those governed by physical laws or created by a deity.

The reality shaped by physics or a deity is infinite in its nature, whereas a simulation is constrained by the finite capabilities of its underlying hardware.

This limitation implies that creators must make compromises, simplify elements, and leave room for errors or glitches.

Theoretical physicists support simulation theory with this concept; in our universe, quantum systems behave differently when observed versus when they are not. Much like in computer games, which are also simulations, graphics hardware only renders elements that can be seen.

For instance, if you see a character facing you in a game, the back remains unrendered because it’s unnecessary. It exists in a vague state, akin to quantum systems, prepared to engage with the game’s rules but not fully realized.

In my own simulations, I constantly faced similar challenges. Back then, hardware resources were limited, necessitating simplifications and imprecise representations, often leaving aspects unchecked.

Consequently, glitches would arise. Unexpected phenomena could stem from minor power fluctuations or magnetic disturbances, resulting in errors in the code.

These small coding discrepancies could lead to surprising results within the rule-based systems of my simulations, yielding outcomes that should not have occurred.

This fascinating aspect of simulation theory suggests that it could be manipulated, either inadvertently or intentionally, from within.

Now, let’s pivot back to writing and illustrate how simulation theory can enrich fiction.

Picture a radio astronomy facility in the Australian outback. A brilliant mathematician is immersed in research on obscure information theories and Bekenstein bounds.

He cherishes the outback, spending his leisure time in nature and engaging with Aboriginal communities. Occasionally, he records traditional songs, one of which is a rain chant.

This rain chant intrigues him. Being a natural mathematician, he perceives patterns in everything, and he senses a connection between the chant and his information theory research.

Upon analysis, he discovers that the chant can be represented by an elegant mathematical function, albeit with a few unusual sounds.

He then modifies the chant to eliminate those oddities.

That very day, it begins to rain. The next day, while he continues working on the new recording, it rains again.

He realizes that the refined mathematical function found in the chant, when applied to his information theory, acts as a peculiar modifier, disrupting self-repairing code and introducing unusual patterns.

Suspicion begins to arise. Familiar with simulation theory and convinced that his altered chant causes rain, he discusses his findings with his supervisor.

The supervisor, though a less adept mathematician, is an ambitious careerist who quickly grasps the implications, and chaos ensues.

Government officials intervene. The mathematician is whisked away to a secret facility, and whispers of a computer simulation that can be hacked circulate among officials and spies.

Espionage ensues, and research facilities emerge globally. Mathematicians are abducted, and bizarre weather phenomena occur worldwide.

Somewhere, an individual tasked with devising countermeasures begins working on a love chant. Meanwhile, underground hackers delve into financial songs. AI bots, previously available for public use, are suddenly withdrawn as all computational resources shift toward hacking the universe.

In an undisclosed location, global leaders convene to discuss a pressing issue. While it’s entertaining to undermine each other, they have been advised by wise advisors that every simulation has protective software—akin to antivirus systems.

Their antics might trigger a simulation reset or complete wipe.

But the temptation is immense: eliminate rivals, magically rectify economies, and grant eternal life to the deserving.

Should I elaborate further?

Perhaps you’re a fantasy writer. I understand, but traditional magic is becoming stale. What if there exists a forgotten cheat code book, left behind by a bored simulation programmer as an Easter egg? A grimoire rooted in simulation theory.

If we inhabit a simulation, perhaps the myths and legends are not merely fanciful tales but echoes of a modified simulation, now obsolete yet capable of reanimating gods, ice giants, and dragons.

What if this simulation was, in essence, a game designed for higher beings to assume roles of deities and rulers, and they will soon return to play?

I'm astounded by the scarcity of fiction grounded in simulation theory. The possibilities are vast. I generated these ideas in just an hour, and I could easily continue for another hour—there's an endless well of inspiration.

Let’s not allow this compelling scientific theory to be overlooked. Moreover, it may even pave the way for predictive fiction, as simulation theory remains a valid scientific hypothesis that is, for now, unfalsifiable.

Aivaras Grauzinis