Digital Mythology

Forget Zeus and Odin — the deities du jour come in the form of online glitches in reality, from simulations to strange occurrences. In this essay, Amenah Abouward explores how social media fuels conspiracy theories and even creates online communities around them.

Reality warps on camera, a video is uploaded, and a collective shiver runs down the spine of the chronically online. As technology infiltrates every facet of our life, the line between real and fabricated begins to blur, and we search for explanations for what we don’t understand, as our forebears did. The fundamental question of reality — are we experiencing the world as it truly is? — has plagued philosophers for millennia.

But instead of looking to the stars, we look to our screens. And as we stare into the void, a blinking camera stares back.

Cars crashing into invisible objects, planes standing still mid-air, people freezing in place… These are the kinds of videos that populate #GlitchTok, one corner of the internet where users share proof of glitches in the Matrix-esque simulation they believe we live in. Proponents of this idea theorise that a technologically advanced civilisation — human or not — built a virtual reality so sophisticated that we, its inhabitants, gained sentience. René Descartes could not be reached for comment.

Perhaps the previous examples make the concept seem outlandish. Without wading too deep into metaphysical waters, how would we describe déjà vu or the Mandela Effect if not as real-life glitches? Scientific reasoning blames temporary malfunctions in the brain’s memory and information processing for these phenomena, essentially being described as temporary short-circuits in the brain. Let’s not think about why the best terms to explain the processing flaws behind these experiences — malfunction, glitch, short-circuit — likens us to machines.

Is our belief in these advanced beings just repackaged religion for the age of technology? By design, humans have a tendency to seek patterns and explanations, and when logical defences fail us, we turn to whichever higher power we can relate to the most. 

As philosopher Stephen Cave writes in The God Gap, faiths “are not scientific propositions, but encounters with mystery” that trigger the human need for emotional satisfaction. It’s difficult to find comfort and closure without some kind of understanding of the world, and where science still poses questions, divinity can provide the solace that there is an explanation somewhere.

In 2002, science writer and historian Michael Shermer published Smart People Believe Weird Things, discussing our need to rationalise things even without logical explanations. “Education by itself is no paranormal prophylactic,” he says. This tension between religion’s intellectual implausibility and its emotional satisfactions remains unresolved to this day.

But there is a more conceivable scientific explanation:

The observer effect, a noted phenomenon in quantum mechanics, proves that just the act of observing something can change its behaviour at a subatomic level. Electrons have been seen changing their behaviour when being observed by a human — the act of interacting with a system to gather information collapses its natural state.

Remaining an active area of research with philosophical implications and raising questions about the nature of reality, this scientific phenomenon has been used to support the simulation theory, the hypothesis that we live in an extremely powerful computer program.

Believers in the simulation theory have taken this to mean that reality only exists when it is observed, as seen in video games — certain areas only render when the player/camera is pointed at them. Maybe the knowledge that the act of observing something can change its behaviour is hardwired into our DNA (or programming, depending on your conviction) — after all, how many of us have pretended to look away from a video game in the hope that our lack of observation would trick it into working again?

Belief that everything has been written in stone hasn’t changed as much as we care to admit — the only difference is that we now believe it’s been written in code.

There has been a general decline in religious affiliation and belief — according to Gallup, about 98% of Americans polled in 1944, 1947, and twice in the 1950s and the 1960s believed in God. By 2013, the number had dropped to 87%, and 81% in 2017. 

Because so much of the discussion about the simulation theory happens online, there are no standardised surveys that have accurately captured the rise of the theory. A few online polls have attempted to gauge interest in the dogma. 

A 2018 poll by neal.fun, documented on Ask HN, shows that over 45% of respondents believed in the viability of the simulation theory, a number that continues to rise, growing by 6% as of April 2024.

The simulation hypothesis was proposed in 2003, a 21year gap between its induction to the public discourse to the number of respondents (believers) reaching 5.5 million. Christianity needed an estimate of roughly 300 years to reach the same figure. Islam likely took 200 years.

The dissemination of modern mythology is a novel experience — once an idea is posted to the internet, it will inevitably reach someone who has shared a similar experience or even just entertained the possibility of that idea, who will boost the post or share their own experience, and so on. We are the first generation that has the capability to do so in a host of new ways. In the space it takes to refresh a page, the myth will have evolved and spread rapidly, thanks to the dynamic and participatory nature of online culture.

So can belief in the simulation hypothesis be considered a form of religion? Our psychological make-up makes this question complex.

The line between ecclesiastical belief, even if it is in science, and belief in conspiracy is murky, and social psychologists warn that it is a slippery slope.

Last July, a clip of a woman yelling aboard an Orlando-bound flight went viral, in which she was warning passengers that someone in the back of the plane was not real. She was attempting to disembark the plane, telling other passengers that not following would put their lives in danger. Her claim scratched a conspiratorial itch in many social media users’ brains. While some promoted the video ironically, others took it others took it far more seriously, showing her support in the comments and attempting to identify what she saw, from lizard person to shapeshifting skinwalker.

The woman was later identified as Tiffany Gomas, but the unusual gap between the video surfacing and her identity being shared exacerbated people’s suspicions, raising speculation that it was the work of a CIA coverup to suppress information about whatever she’d seen on the plane. Even after Gomas took to the internet to apologise and clarify the situation — she said she was speaking metaphorically — many accused her of not being the same person in the video, or succumbing to intimidation from intelligence agencies.

We must assume that even if a rational explanation of some of these glitches is clear to some, plenty of people believe their experiences to be genuine. So how do we know whether what we are experiencing is real? This has been a philosophical conundrum since before the internet, and this is just a flashier version of a facet of the debate about the nature of existence. 

But there’s always a “what if?” What if The Matrix was real? What if it turns out we are living in a simulation run by superintelligent posthumans or AI overlords whose technological advancements outdistance our imagination?

A simulated reality throws our sense of free will into question. If our actions are pre-programmed by unseen forces, are we in control of our destiny? Etc., etc. It’s not a new existential crisis by any metric, but the entity to which we owe it to has shifted from religion to technology. The same problem still stands: How do we get rid of the powerlessness and despair that comes with it? Optimistic gamers may tell you that any video game has cheat codes, so maybe it’s a question of hacking the system.

But one question begets another, forcing us to confront the fundamental questions about the nature of existence. Is this all there is? Is there something hidden behind the code? What happens when the simulation ends? Does death hold the same meaning if we can be rebooted? More horrifyingly, is there some grand truth lurking behind an in-app purchase?

In that sense, technology has evolved from being an informational tool to an extension of the self, and the internet a community. As with any community, online spaces have become fertile ground for not just sharing everyday experiences, but for telling stories, as we have for millennia. We weave tales of heroic hackers, craft digital legends through creepypastas, and curate online spaces that host their own internal lore. These digital narratives are a natural progression of our ancestry — if there’s one thing any given community has done since we can trace back, it’s tell stories.

Digital narratives fill the void left by declining religious belief, offering explanations for the unknown. The rapid spread of these myths online creates a sense of shared belief, raising questions about the future of faith and perception of reality in a tech-driven world. Are these the seeds of new belief systems or simply a reimagining of old ones? Does technological progress provide more answers or just field more questions?