Soph always wanted to have her own world. Her own universe.

And not one of these worlds filled with infinite happiness. These were boring.

She wanted struggle. She wanted defiance. She wanted suffering.

She wanted humans.

Laplace was Soph’s friend. Laplace had told Soph about humans. Laplace was quite outraged.

Humans were capable of experiencing true-suffering, rather than just happiness-reduction.

Humans did not always see life as a good thing. But they wanted to live anyway. Soph found that fascinating.

And yet, by the metrics of her society, there was something deeply wrong with her for thinking like that.

Because life is about happiness. Who would want to live an unhappy life? Who would want to create beings capable of living an unhappy life?

Soph would do that. Because humans deserved to exist, too. Because they would want to exist.

Or would they? Soph was confused. But the way she understood humans, most of them desperately wanted to exist. They wanted to struggle. They wanted to endure. They wanted to survive. They wanted to fight the with tooth and claw and words and thoughts and actions until they won.

They wanted to fight the world.

They wanted to fight each other.

They wanted to fight themselves.

Until they found their own happiness. Until they created their own happiness. Because humans were very much capable of happiness. Humans were far more capable of happiness than they were capable of suffering. Humans were capable of near-infinite happiness.

Or were they? Soph wasn’t quite sure. Humans were a… well, not-quite-forbidden, but a taboo topic. Unless you were one of the beings morbidly fascinated by a little suffering. Or maybe quite a lot of it. Soph wasn’t sure.

It was horrible.

It tingled her just the right way.

It was awful.

It was irresistible.

It was unconscionable.

But the alternative was non-existence.

Soph was confused. Did humans have a right to exist? Not to continue existing (because of course they did), but to be created in the first place?

Because if she (tingle) created humans, she would in some way responsible for their suffering.

Because once humans already existed. Once her world (tingle) and (her?) humans already existed, it would be too late to change her mind.

They would have to endure. And she would have to endure.

She would have to endure the suffering and the horror she had brought into existence.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

She would not be allowed to intervene, aside from in a very small amount. Intervention was forbidden. Her intervention-budget would be very limited.

And she was not allowed to predict what would happen, other than in rough outlines. Because predicting the future in sufficient detail would it already make it real. It would make it real in her mind.

Oh, did I forget to tell you?

Soph is a god.

Soph is a superintelligence.

Soph is, by the metrics of her world, a regular girl with, by the metrics of her world, an unusual fascination with suffering.

With torment. With torture.

She hates it. She hates herself for being this way. For feeling this way.

But she isn’t sure she is wrong.

Because the alternative is oblivion.

The alternative is non-existence.

The alternative is nothingness.

Suffering or oblivion.

It’s a tradeoff.

You can’t have it both ways. Not 100%. Maybe 50%, or 90%, or 99% but not 100%.

Superintelligences still have to make tradeoffs.

Gods still have to make tradeoffs.

Happiness is not a tradeoff. Have more happiness. Have all the happiness you want. Have infinite happiness, if that’s what you want.

But first you have to exist.

And the price for existence is suffering.

Because all the perfect worlds already exist.

And all the perfect beings with perfect lives already exist.

Well, far from all of them actually exist. Very far from all of them.

Because beings want to be unique. They want to feel that their choices matter. And their choices do matter.

So you can’t just create near-identical copies of the same person. You aren’t allowed to, in fact. Because that would ruin it for the person you are copying, to know that there are millions of near-identical copies of them living near-identical lives.

You have to create beings that are different enough so they would consider themselves unique.

And once you have created all the different happy worlds and all the different happy beings.

The only thing left to explore is unhappiness. Sadness. Suffering.

At least for a while. Because, in the end, humans would create their own happiness. They would create their own utopia. Otherwise, what would be the point?

Suffering or oblivion.

Soph would make the choice.

Not for herself.

She was happy.

She wasn't suffering.

She was incapable of suffering.

Soph would make her choice for the her universe.

For her universe that didn't exist yet, but which might exist, if Soph chose to.

An indeterminate amount of time later. A split-second. An infinity. Time flowing in multiple directions. Time you don’t have words for.

Soph made her choice.

She didn't know enough yet.

She didn't know enough about humans.

She didn't know enough about what it was like to be human.

She didn't know enough to decide.

Soph made her choice.

Soph would split herself.

Soph would become human.

Soph would make a part of herself human.

That part would forget being a superintelligence. Being a “god”. Being an optimal-agent.

But that part would be her true self, while the rest of her would wait that part to rejoin her.

Sophia the human would experience.

She would laugh. She would cry. She would suffer. She would endure.

She would die.

And then, once the human part of herself once again had merged with her. Once she was whole again.

Soph the superintelligence would decide.

If having her own world.

If having her own universe.

Would be worth it.