Our stories about brains are all invented.
If a stunning surrealistic painting turns out to have been painted by an elephant or a toddler, does that make it less beautiful?
If an essay on the nature of reality was written by GPT-3 or a Tufts scholar, does it matter?
There are people who have no voice in their heads–they function as ordinary humans, except without the jabbering noise some of us call ‘consciousness’. Are they still human?
If a book was written by a ghost writer, or a team of ghost writers, does that make it less of a book? Not worth reading?
At some point, these aren’t simply philosophical debates. Given the connected nature of our economy and the advances of AI, these questions are showing up in our lives every single day.
All of the intent that we’re busy assuming that other creators have is invented. By us.
The stuff we interact with, created by us, by animals and by computers, it is simply the result of synapses firing away. We invent the story of its creation for our own satisfaction and sustenance.