I just wrote this this morning for my ethics (”contemporary moral issues”) class. The assignment was to consider whether it would be morally wrong to enter a machine that would simulate experiences for a period of two years, during which you would not realize you were in the machine. (Think the Matrix, by choice.)

---

I will be considering whether it is most beneficial for me—and, by extension, any human being—to enter an Experience Machine that would simulate pleasurable experiences (e.g., writing a bestseller novel, climbing Everest, jumping from a plane, etc.) for a period no less than and not exceeding two years. The user would program his wishes into the machine. Once inside, the user would not realize that his experiences were not actually taking place.

In the first place, I would not enter the machine. Fantasies are often made sweeter by the fact that we are aware that they are such—there’s an element of bitterness in knowing that it is not reality, but it makes us concentrate on savoring the experience all the more, whether we are reading a fascinating novel, watching a captivating movie, daydreaming about a sweetheart, or imagining ourselves participating in some grand adventure. However, the pure sweetness of a dream that is so potent that it is indistinguishable from reality is quickly replaced by sorrow upon awareness that the experience was not real. The more intensely pleasurable the dream is, the more we regret it in those brief disambiguating moments upon waking.

From a simply hedonistic perspective, while we may hate waking from a wonderful dream, it is most wise to consider that its short timespan keeps us from feeling awfully bereaved upon waking. Applying this principle to the Experience Machine, it is clear that if the pain of waking from a pleasurable dream is significant enough to upset us, then the horror of waking from a pleasurable simulation of a full two years in length would be enough to devastate us. This would be all the worse because all of the people whom we dreamed were with us would not have been: If one climbed a mountain with her beloved, he would not be there, and indeed would not know her; if one wrote a novel and had won new friends, his friends would not be there; and all the time that one spends in the machine apart from the reality of actual loved ones, they are beginning to forget him, or are at best not getting closer to him in the slightest. Coming to an awareness upon waking that not only were the experiences a lie, but that he is no closer now to all the people about whom he dreamt than when he first went in would be a harsh and miserable realization. The one who wakes may consider that life is no longer worth living apart from the experience machine, but that his actual life is wasting away while he is inside, and so, trapped between two dismal options, his quality of life and general pleasure would drop into a state of bitter despair.

It seems that the only way around this intense pain would be to wipe the user’s memory of it having ever happened when he or she wakes. This, too, is unacceptable—indeed, potentially much more so—because the memory of the experience, while false, is still all the person has to signify that two years of his or her life have passed. Even granting that there was a way to keep one’s muscles from atrophying, and to keep nutritive intake at an acceptable level, the one who entered the machine and then had his memory wiped would be completely bereft of two full years of his life, in which his friends and loved ones as well as his body—but not his mind, insofar as new experience is concerned—have all aged and matured. Then the idea that the machine had delivered pleasure would be not only moot but a cruel reality.

Let us consider for a moment that this would not be the case: that the one who enters the machine could come out and, after a nominal period of debriefing—mental “detoxification,” as it were—would be fully able to re-enter the stream of normal life. Perhaps this would not be the case. It could be argued, with however much difficulty, that the psychological adjustment of having lost two years of one’s life would have minimal negative impact and that the whole experience would grant the user a net pleasure. Why, then, should we not condone the use of the experience machine?

The answer inevitably points beyond the individual’s pleasure and pain to the way in which that person fills needs and particular jobs and fits into other persons’ schemas in unique ways. When one would enter a machine such as this, he would effectively be dead to the world for a period of two years. He would not only lose vital skills through disuse, but he would also leave a vaccuum in his unique social roles. At his job, even if there were nineteen other people with his exact job description, he was a part of the office dynamic amongst his coworkers and filled a necessary role—if the employer didn’t need all twenty people, he would not have hired them in the first place. If he was an active member of a church, synagogue, mosque, or temple, his abilities to serve will be missed to the whole community and, in some small part, to the whole community of believers. Among friends, he would be missed because one of the great joys of friendship is in shared experience: if he is no longer there, his element of sharing will be lost. Finally, his family will have lost an integral member for two years, and all of the elements of participation, however minor they may have been, will be gone from them. For the sake of argument, let us say that the experience machine user was living away from his parents and had officially “left the nest” to make his own place in the world. Nevertheless, if there was a serious illness, if someone needed his help, or if some issue came up within the family, he may be unable to say goodbye to a parent or loved one, he would certainly be unable to help, and the little things that family do for each other and with one another—no matter how seldom—would be lost.

Ethically, then, there is more at stake than one’s personal well-being when we do not consider anything but pleasure and utility. Entering the experience machine for two years is morally impermissible because it sacrifices all the good one could be doing for his employer, his fellow faithful, his friends, and his family for the sake of his own pleasure. The fulfillment of our desires must not trump the benefits of giving to others; when it does, the utilitarian position becomes bounded hedonism, unwilling to say that sheer pleasure is the highest good, but also unwilling to say that suffering is ever a good, unless it brings pleasure to others. We have duties that may not bring us pleasure in their performance, but which are necessary and good: the idea of selfless care for another, just for his or her own sake and even if there will be minimal end benefit to him or her, is lost on the utilitarian. If no one takes into account another person’s well-being—or even his or her own well-being—apart from an account of how much suffering or pleasure a person is getting, society will eventually collapse into communism or anarchy. For this reason, by extension, choosing a couple of years of pleasure over the benefits that would be seen by even a single person acting selflessly even part of the time, is morally untenable.

I just wrote this this morning for my ethics (”contemporary moral issues”) class. The assignment was to consider whether it would be morally wrong to enter a machine that would simulate experiences for a period of two years, during which you would not realize you were in the machine. (Think the Matrix, by choice.)

---

I will be considering whether it is most beneficial for me—and, by extension, any human being—to enter an Experience Machine that would simulate pleasurable experiences (e.g., writing a bestseller novel, climbing Everest, jumping from a plane, etc.) for a period no less than and not exceeding two years. The user would program his wishes into the machine. Once inside, the user would not realize that his experiences were not actually taking place.

In the first place, I would not enter the machine. Fantasies are often made sweeter by the fact that we are aware that they are such—there’s an element of bitterness in knowing that it is not reality, but it makes us concentrate on savoring the experience all the more, whether we are reading a fascinating novel, watching a captivating movie, daydreaming about a sweetheart, or imagining ourselves participating in some grand adventure. However, the pure sweetness of a dream that is so potent that it is indistinguishable from reality is quickly replaced by sorrow upon awareness that the experience was not real. The more intensely pleasurable the dream is, the more we regret it in those brief disambiguating moments upon waking.

From a simply hedonistic perspective, while we may hate waking from a wonderful dream, it is most wise to consider that its short timespan keeps us from feeling awfully bereaved upon waking. Applying this principle to the Experience Machine, it is clear that if the pain of waking from a pleasurable dream is significant enough to upset us, then the horror of waking from a pleasurable simulation of a full two years in length would be enough to devastate us. This would be all the worse because all of the people whom we dreamed were with us would not have been: If one climbed a mountain with her beloved, he would not be there, and indeed would not know her; if one wrote a novel and had won new friends, his friends would not be there; and all the time that one spends in the machine apart from the reality of actual loved ones, they are beginning to forget him, or are at best not getting closer to him in the slightest. Coming to an awareness upon waking that not only were the experiences a lie, but that he is no closer now to all the people about whom he dreamt than when he first went in would be a harsh and miserable realization. The one who wakes may consider that life is no longer worth living apart from the experience machine, but that his actual life is wasting away while he is inside, and so, trapped between two dismal options, his quality of life and general pleasure would drop into a state of bitter despair.

It seems that the only way around this intense pain would be to wipe the user’s memory of it having ever happened when he or she wakes. This, too, is unacceptable—indeed, potentially much more so—because the memory of the experience, while false, is still all the person has to signify that two years of his or her life have passed. Even granting that there was a way to keep one’s muscles from atrophying, and to keep nutritive intake at an acceptable level, the one who entered the machine and then had his memory wiped would be completely bereft of two full years of his life, in which his friends and loved ones as well as his body—but not his mind, insofar as new experience is concerned—have all aged and matured. Then the idea that the machine had delivered pleasure would be not only moot but a cruel reality.

Let us consider for a moment that this would not be the case: that the one who enters the machine could come out and, after a nominal period of debriefing—mental “detoxification,” as it were—would be fully able to re-enter the stream of normal life. Perhaps this would not be the case. It could be argued, with however much difficulty, that the psychological adjustment of having lost two years of one’s life would have minimal negative impact and that the whole experience would grant the user a net pleasure. Why, then, should we not condone the use of the experience machine?

The answer inevitably points beyond the individual’s pleasure and pain to the way in which that person fills needs and particular jobs and fits into other persons’ schemas in unique ways. When one would enter a machine such as this, he would effectively be dead to the world for a period of two years. He would not only lose vital skills through disuse, but he would also leave a vaccuum in his unique social roles. At his job, even if there were nineteen other people with his exact job description, he was a part of the office dynamic amongst his coworkers and filled a necessary role—if the employer didn’t need all twenty people, he would not have hired them in the first place. If he was an active member of a church, synagogue, mosque, or temple, his abilities to serve will be missed to the whole community and, in some small part, to the whole community of believers. Among friends, he would be missed because one of the great joys of friendship is in shared experience: if he is no longer there, his element of sharing will be lost. Finally, his family will have lost an integral member for two years, and all of the elements of participation, however minor they may have been, will be gone from them. For the sake of argument, let us say that the experience machine user was living away from his parents and had officially “left the nest” to make his own place in the world. Nevertheless, if there was a serious illness, if someone needed his help, or if some issue came up within the family, he may be unable to say goodbye to a parent or loved one, he would certainly be unable to help, and the little things that family do for each other and with one another—no matter how seldom—would be lost.

Ethically, then, there is more at stake than one’s personal well-being when we do not consider anything but pleasure and utility. Entering the experience machine for two years is morally impermissible because it sacrifices all the good one could be doing for his employer, his fellow faithful, his friends, and his family for the sake of his own pleasure. The fulfillment of our desires must not trump the benefits of giving to others; when it does, the utilitarian position becomes bounded hedonism, unwilling to say that sheer pleasure is the highest good, but also unwilling to say that suffering is ever a good, unless it brings pleasure to others. We have duties that may not bring us pleasure in their performance, but which are necessary and good: the idea of selfless care for another, just for his or her own sake and even if there will be minimal end benefit to him or her, is lost on the utilitarian. If no one takes into account another person’s well-being—or even his or her own well-being—apart from an account of how much suffering or pleasure a person is getting, society will eventually collapse into communism or anarchy. For this reason, by extension, choosing a couple of years of pleasure over the benefits that would be seen by even a single person acting selflessly even part of the time, is morally untenable.