PHILOSOPHY AND THE MATRIX

DREAM SKEPTICISM
Neo has woken up from a hell of a dream -- the dream that was his life. How was 
he to know? The cliché is that if you are dreaming and you pinch yourself, you will 
wake up. Unfortunately, things aren't quite that simple. It is the nature of most 
dreams that we take them for reality -- while dreaming we are unaware that we 
are in fact in a dreamworld. Of course, we eventually wake up, and when we do 
we realize that our experience was all in our mind. Neo's predicament makes one 
wonder, though: how can any of us be sure that we have ever genuinely woken 
up? Perhaps, like Neo prior to his downing the red pill, our dreams thus far have in 
fact been dreams within a dream.
The idea that what we take to be the real world could all be just a dream is 
familiar to many students of philosophy, poetry, and literature. Most of us, at one 
time or another, have been struck with the thought that we might mistake a 
dream for reality, or reality for a dream. Arguably the most famous exponent of 
this worry in the Western philosophical tradition is the seventeenth-century French 
philosopher Rene Descartes. In an attempt to provide a firm foundation for 
knowledge, he began his Meditations by clearing the philosophical ground through 
doubting all that could be doubted. This was done, in part, in order to determine if 
anything that could count as certain knowledge could survive such rigorous and 
systematic skepticism. Descartes takes the first step towards this goal by raising 
(through his fictional narrator) the possibility that we might be dreaming:
How often, asleep at night, am I convinced of just such familiar events -- 
that I am here in my dressing gown, sitting by the fire --when in fact I am 
lying undressed in bed! Yet at the moment my eyes are certainly wide 
awake when I look at this piece of paper; I shake my head and it is not 
asleep; as I stretch out and feel my hand I do so deliberately, and I know 
what I am doing. All this would not happen with such distinctness to 
someone asleep. Indeed! As if I did not remember other occasions when I 
have been tricked by exactly similar thoughts while asleep! As I think 
about this more carefully, I see plainly that there are never any sure signs 
by means of which being awake can be distinguished from being asleep. 
The result is that I begin to feel dazed, and this very feeling only reinforces 
the notion that I may be asleep. (Meditations, 13)
When we dream we are often blissfully ignorant that we are dreaming. Given this, 
and the fact that dreams often seem as vivid and "realistic" as real life, how can 
you rule out the possibility that you might be dreaming even now, as you sit at 
your computer and read this? This is the kind of perplexing thought Descartes 
forces us to confront. It seems we have no justification for the belief that we are 
not dreaming. If so, then it seems we similarly have no justification in thinking 
that the world we experience is the real world. Indeed, it becomes questionable 
whether we are justified in thinking that any of our beliefs are true. 
 
The narrator of Descartes' Meditations worries about this, but he ultimately 
maintains that the possibility that one might be dreaming cannot by itself cast 
doubt on all we think we know; he points out that even if all our sensory 
experience is but a dream, we can still conclude that we have some knowledge of 
the nature of reality. Just as a painter cannot create ex nihilo but must rely on 
pigments with which to create her image, certain elements of our thought must 
exist prior to our imaginings. Among the items of knowledge that Descartes 
thought survived dream skepticism are truths arrived at through the use of 
reason, such as the truths of mathematics: "For whether I am awake or asleep, 
two and three added together are five, and a square has no more than four sides." 
(14) 
 
While such an insight offers little comfort to someone wondering whether the 
people and objects she confronts are genuine, it served Descartes' larger 
philosophical project: he sought, among other things, to provide a foundation for 
knowledge in which truths arrived at through reason are given priority over 
knowledge gained from the senses. (This bias shouldn't surprise those who 
remember that Descartes was a brilliant mathematician in addition to being a 
philosopher.) Descartes was not himself a skeptic -- he employs this skeptical 
argument so as to help remind the reader that the truths of mathematics (and 
other truths of reason) are on firmer ground than the data provided to us by our 
senses. 
Despite the fact that Descartes' ultimate goal was to demonstrate how genuine 
knowledge is possible, he proceeds in The Meditations to utilize a much more 
radical skeptical argument, one that casts doubt on even his beloved mathematical 
truths. In the next section we will see that, many years before the Wachowskis 
dreamed up The Matrix, Descartes had imagined an equally terrifying possibility. 

Further Reading:
Dancy, Jonathan. Introduction to Contemporary Epistemology, Blackwell, 1985. 
 
Descartes.The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, tr: John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, 
Dugald Murdoch. Cambridge University Press, 1984 
 
Stroud, Barry.The Significance of Philosophical Scepticism, Oxford, 1984.


BRAINS IN VATS AND THE EVIL DEMON
Before breaking out of the Matrix, Neo's life was not what he thought it was. It 
was a lie. Morpheus described it as a "dreamworld," but unlike a dream, this world 
was not the creation of Neo's mind. The truth is more sinister: the world was a 
creation of the artificially intelligent computers that have taken over the Earth and 
have subjugated mankind in the process. These creatures have fed Neo a 
simulation that he couldn't possibly help but take as the real thing. What's worse, 
it isn't clear how any of us can know with certainty that we are not in a position 
similar to Neo before his "rebirth." Our ordinary confidence in our ability to reason 
and our natural tendency to trust the deliverances of our senses can both come to 
seem rather naive once we confront this possibility of deception.  
 
A viewer of The Matrix is naturally led to wonder: how do I know I am not in the 
Matrix? How do I know for sure that my world is not also a sophisticated charade, 
put forward by some super-human intelligence in such a way that I cannot 
possibly detect the ruse? The philosopher Rene Descartes suggested a similar 
worry: the frightening possibility that all of one's experiences might be the result 
of a powerful outside force, a "malicious demon."
And yet firmly implanted in my mind is the long-standing opinion that there 
is an omnipotent God who made me the kind of creature that I am. How do 
I know that he has not brought it about that there is no earth, no sky, no 
extended thing, no shape, no size, no place, while at the same time 
ensuring that all these things appear to me to exist just as they do now? 
What is more, just as I consider that others sometimes go astray in cases 
where they think they have the most perfect knowledge, how do I know 
that God has not brought it about that I too go wrong every time I add two 
and three or count the sides of a square, or in some even simpler matter, if 
that is imaginable? But perhaps God would not have allowed me to be 
deceived in this way, since he is said to be supremely good; [...] I will 
suppose therefore that not God, who is supremely good and the source of 
truth, but rather some malicious demon of the utmost power and cunning 
has employed all his energies in order to deceive me. I shall think that the 
sky, the air, the earth, colours, shapes, sounds and all external things are 
merely the delusions of dreams which he has devised to ensnare my 
judgment. (Meditations, 15) 
The narrator of Descartes' Meditations concludes that none of his former opinions 
are safe. Such a demon could not only deceive him about his perceptions, it could 
conceivably cause him to go wrong when performing even the simplest acts of 
reasoning. 
This radical worry seems inescapable. How could you possibly prove to yourself 
that you are not in the kind of nightmarish situation Descartes describes? It would 
seem that any argument, evidence or proof you might put forward could easily be 
yet another trick played by the demon. As ludicrous as the idea of the evil demon 
may sound at first, it is hard, upon reflection, not to share Descartes' worry: for all 
you know, you may well be a mere plaything of such a malevolent intelligence. 
More to the point of our general discussion: for all you know, you may well be 
trapped in the Matrix. 
 
Many contemporary philosophers have discussed a similar skeptical dilemma that 
is a bit closer to the scenario described in The Matrix. It has come to be known as 
the "brain in a vat" hypothesis, and one powerful formulation of the idea is 
presented by the philosopher Jonathan Dancy:
You do not know that you are not a brain, suspended in a vat full 
of liquid in a laboratory, and wired to a computer which is feeding 
you your current experiences under the control of some ingenious 
technician scientist (benevolent or malevolent according to taste). 
For if you were such a brain, then, provided that the scientist is 
successful, nothing in your experience could possibly reveal that 
you were; for your experience is ex hypothesi identical with that of 
something which is not a brain in a vat. Since you have only your 
own experience to appeal to, and that experience is the same in 
either situation, nothing can reveal to you which situation is the 
actual one. (Introduction to Contemporary Epistemology, 10)
If you cannot know whether you are in the real world or in the word of a computer 
simulation, you cannot be sure that your beliefs about the world are true. And, 
what was even more frightening to Descartes, in this kind of scenario it seems 
that your ability to reason is no safer than the deliverances of the senses: the evil 
demon or malicious scientist could be ensuring that your reasoning is just as 
flawed as your perceptions. 
As you have probably already guessed, there is no easy way out of this 
philosophical problem (or at least there is no easy philosophical way out!). 
Philosophers have proposed a dizzying variety of "solutions" to this kind of 
skepticism but, as with many philosophical problems, there is nothing close to 
unanimous agreement regarding how the puzzle should be solved.
Descartes' own way out of his evil demon skepticism was to first argue that one 
cannot genuinely doubt the existence of oneself. He pointed out that all thinking 
presupposes a thinker: even in doubting, you realize that there must at least be a 
self which is doing the doubting. (Thus Descartes' most famous line: "I think, 
therefore I am.") He then went on to claim that, in addition to our innate idea of 
self, each of us has an idea of God as an all-powerful, all-good, and infinite being 
implanted in our minds, and that this idea could only have come from God. Since 
this shows us that an all-good God does exist, we can have confidence that he 
would not allow us to be so drastically deceived about the nature of our 
perceptions and their relationship to reality. While Descartes' argument for the 
existence of the self has been tremendously influential and is still actively debated, 
few philosophers have followed him in accepting his particular theistic solution to 
skepticism about the external world. 
 
One of the more interesting contemporary challenges to this kind of skeptical 
scenario has come from the philosopher Hilary Putnam. His point is not so much to 
defend our ordinary claims to knowledge as to question whether the "brain in a 
vat" hypothesis is coherent, given certain plausible assumptions about how our 
language refers to objects in the world. He asks us to consider a variation on the 
standard "brain in a vat" story that is uncannily similar to the situation described 
in The Matrix: 
Instead of having just one brain in a vat, we could imagine that all 
human beings (perhaps all sentient beings) are brains in a vat (or 
nervous systems in a vat in case some beings with just nervous 
systems count as 'sentient'). Of course, the evil scientist would 
have to be outside? or would he? Perhaps there is no evil scientist, 
perhaps (though this is absurd) the universe just happens to 
consist of automatic machinery tending a vat full of brains and 
nervous systems. This time let us suppose that the automatic 
machinery is programmed to give us all a collective hallucination, 
rather than a number of separate unrelated hallucinations. Thus, 
when I seem to myself to be talking to you, you seem to yourself 
to be hearing my words.... I want now to ask a question which will 
seem very silly and obvious (at least to some people, including 
some very sophisticated philosophers), but which will take us to 
real philosophical depths rather quickly. Suppose this whole story 
were actually true. Could we, if we were brains in a vat in this 
way, say or think that we were? (Reason, Truth, and History, 7)
Putnam's surprising answer is that we cannot coherently think that we are brains 
in vats, and so skepticism of that kind can never really get off the ground. While it 
is difficult to do justice to Putnam's ingenious argument in a short summary, his 
point is roughly as follows: 
 
Not everything that goes through our heads is a genuine thought, and far from 
everything we say is a meaningful utterance. Sometimes we get confused or think 
in an incoherent manner -- sometimes we say things that are simply nonsense. Of 
course, we don't always realize at the time that we aren't making sense -- 
sometimes we earnestly believe we are saying (or thinking) something 
meaningful. High on Nitrous Oxide, the philosopher William James was convinced 
he was having profound insights into the nature of reality -- he was convinced that 
his thoughts were both sensical and important. Upon sobering up and looking at 
the notebook in which he had written his drug-addled thoughts, he saw only 
gibberish. 
 
Just as I might say a sentence that is nonsense, I might also use a name or a 
general term which is meaningless in the sense that it fails to hook up to the 
world. Philosophers talk of such a term as "failing to refer" to an object. In order 
to successfully refer when we use language, there must be an appropriate 
relationship between the speaker and the object referred to. If a dog playing on 
the beach manages to scrawl the word "Ed" in the sand with a stick, few would 
want to claim that the dog actually meant to refer to someone named Ed. 
Presumably the dog doesn't know anyone named Ed, and even if he did, he 
wouldn't be capable of intending to write Ed's name in the sand. The point of such 
an example is that words do not refer to objects "magically" or intrinsically: 
certain conditions must be met in the world in order for us to accept that a given 
written or spoken word has any meaning and whether it actually refers to anything 
at all. 
 
Putnam claims that one condition which is crucial for successful reference is that 
there be an appropriate causal connection between the object referred to and the 
speaker referring. Specifying exactly what should count as "appropriate" here is a 
notoriously difficult task, but we can get some idea of the kind of thing required by 
considering cases in which reference fails through an inappropriate connection: if 
someone unfamiliar with the film The Matrix manages to blurt out the word "Neo" 
while sneezing, few would be inclined to think that this person has actually 
referred to the character Neo. The kind of causal connection between the speaker 
and the object referred to (Neo) is just not in place. For reference to succeed, it 
can't be simply accidental that the name was uttered. (Another way to think about 
it: the sneezer would have uttered "Neo" even if the film The Matrix had never 
been made.) 
 
The difficulty, according to Putnam, in coherently supposing the brain in a vat 
story to be true is that brains raised in such an environment could not successfully 
refer to genuine brains, or vats, or anything else in the real world. Consider the 
example of someone who has lived their entire life in the Matrix: when they talk of 
"chickens," they don't actually refer to real chickens; at best they refer to the 
computer representations of chickens that have been sent to their brain. Similarly, 
when they talk of human bodies being trapped in pods and fed data by the Matrix, 
they don't successfully refer to real bodies or pods -- they can't refer to physical 
bodies in the real world because they cannot have the appropriate causal 
connection to such objects. Thus, if someone were to utter the sentence "I am 
simply a body stuck in a pod somewhere being fed sensory information by a 
computer" that sentence would itself be necessarily false. If the person is in fact 
not trapped in the Matrix, then the sentence is straightforwardly false. If the 
person is trapped in the Matrix, then he can't successfully refer to real human 
bodies when he utters the word "human body," and so it appears that his 
statement must also be false. Such a person seems thus doubly trapped: 
incapable of knowing that he is in the Matrix, and even incapable of successfully 
expressing the thought that he might be in the Matrix! (Could this be why at one 
point Morpheus tells Neo that "no one can be told what the Matrix is"?) 
 
Putnam's argument is controversial, but it is noteworthy because it shows that the 
kind of situation described in The Matrix raises not just the expected philosophical 
issues about knowledge and skepticism, but more general issues regarding 
meaning, language, and the relationship between the mind and the world.

Further Reading:
Dancy, Jonathan. Introduction to Contemporary Epistemology, Blackwell, 1985. 
 
Descartes. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, tr: John Cottingham, Robert 
Stoothoff, Dugald Murdoch. Cambridge University Press, 1984. 
 
Nagel, Thomas. The View from Nowhere, Oxford, 1986. 
 
Putnam, Hilary. Reason, Truth, and History, Cambridge University Press, 1981. 
 
Strawson, P.F. Skepticism and Naturalism: Some Varieties, Columbia University 
Press, 1983.

THE VALUE OF REALITY: CYPHER AND THE EXPERIENCE MACHINE
Cypher is not a nice guy, but is he an unreasonable guy? Is he right to want to get 
re-inserted into the Matrix? Many want to say no, but giving reasons for why his 
choice is a bad one is not an easy task. After all, so long as his experiences will be 
pleasant, how can his situation be worse than the inevitably crappy life he would 
lead outside of the Matrix? What could matter beyond the quality of his 
experience? Remember, once he's back in, living his fantasy life, he won't even 
know he made the deal. What he doesn't know can't hurt him, right?
Is feeling good the only thing that has value in itself? The question of whether only 
conscious experience can ultimately matter is one that has been explored in depth 
by several contemporary philosophers. In the course of discussing this issue in his 
1971 book Anarchy, State, and Utopia Robert Nozick introduced a "thought 
experiment" that has become a staple of introductory philosophy classes 
everywhere. It is known as "the experience machine":
Suppose there were an experience machine that would give you any 
experience you desired. Superduper neuropsychologists could stimulate 
your brain so that you would think and feel you were writing a great novel, 
or making a friend, or reading an interesting book. All the time you would 
be floating in a tank, with electrodes attached to your brain. Should you 
plug into this machine for life, preprogramming your life's desires?...Of 
course, while in the tank you won't know that you're there; you'll think it's 
all actually happening. Others can also plug in to have the experiences they 
want, so there's no need to stay unplugged to serve them. (Ignore 
problems such as who will service the machines if everyone plugs in.) 
Would you plug in? What else can matter to us, other than how our lives 
feel from the inside? (43)
Nozick goes on to argue that other things do matter to us: For instance, that we 
actually do certain things, as opposed to simply have the experience of doing 
them. Also, he points out that we value being (and becoming) certain kinds of 
people. I don't just want to have the experience of being a decent person, I want 
to actually be a decent person. Finally, Nozick argues that we value contact with 
reality in itself, independent of any benefits such contact may bring through 
pleasant experience: we want to know we are experiencing the real thing. In sum, 
Nozick thinks that it matters to most of us, often in a rather deep way, that we be 
the authors of our lives and that our lives involve interacting with the world, and 
he thinks that the fact that most people would not choose to enter into such an 
experience machine demonstrates that they do value these other things. As he 
puts it: "We learn that something matters to us in addition to experience by 
imagining an experience machine and then realizing that we would not use it." 
(44) 
 
While Nozick's description of his machine is vague, it appears that there is at least 
one important difference between it and the simulated world of The Matrix. Nozick 
implies that someone hooked up to the experience machine will not be able 
exercise their agency -- they become the passive recipients of preprogrammed 
experiences. This apparent loss of free will is disturbing to many people, and it 
might be distorting people's reactions to the case and clouding the issue of 
whether they value contact with reality per se. The Matrix seems to be set up in 
such a way that one can enter it and retain one's free will and capacity for decision 
making, and perhaps this makes it a significantly more attractive option than the 
experience machine Nozick describes. 
Nonetheless, a loss of freedom is not the only disturbing aspect of Nozick's story. 
As he points out, we seem to mourn the loss of contact with the real world as well. 
Even if a modified experience machine is presented to us, one which allows us to 
keep our free will but enter into an entirely virtual world, many would still object 
that permanently going into such a machine involves the loss of something 
valuable. 
 
Cypher and his philosophical comrades are likely to be unmoved by such 
observations. So what if most people are hung-up on "reality" and would turn 
down the offer to permanently enter an experience machine? Most people might 
be wrong. All their responses might show is that such people are superstitious, or 
irrational, or otherwise confused. Maybe they think something could go wrong with 
the machines, or maybe they keep forgetting that while in the machine they will 
no longer be aware of their choice to enter the machine. 
Perhaps those hesitant to plug-in don't realize that they value being active in the 
real world only because normally that is the most reliable way for them to acquire 
the pleasant experience that they value in itself. In other words, perhaps our free 
will and our capacity to interact with reality are means to a further end -- they 
matter to us because they allow us access to what really matters: pleasant 
conscious experience. To think the reverse, that reality and freedom have value in 
themselves (or what philosophers sometimes call non-derivative or intrinsic 
value), is simply to put the cart before the horse. After all, Cypher could reply, 
what would be so great about the capacity to freely make decisions or the ability 
to be in the real world if neither of these things allowed us to feel good? 
 
Peter Unger has taken on these kinds of objections in his own discussion of 
"experience inducers". He acknowledges that there is a strong temptation when in 
a certain frame of mind to agree with this kind of Cypher-esque reasoning, but he 
argues that this is a temptation we ought to try and resist. Cypher's vision of 
value is too easy and too simplistic. We are inclined to think that only conscious 
experience can really matter in part because we fall into the grip of a particular 
picture of what values must be like, and this in turn leads us to stop paying 
attention to our actual values. We make ourselves blind to the subtlety and 
complexity of our values, and we then find it hard to understand how something 
that doesn't affect our consciousness could sensibly matter to us. If we stop and 
reflect on what we really do care about, however, we come across some 
surprisingly everyday examples that don't sit easily with Cypher's claims: 
Consider life insurance. To be sure, some among the insured may strongly 
believe that, if they die before their dependents do, they will still observe 
their beloved dependents, perhaps from a heaven on high. But others 
among the insured have no significant belief to that effect... Still, we all 
pay our premiums. In my case, this is because, even if I will never 
experience anything that happens to them, I still want things to go better, 
rather than worse, for my dependents. No doubt, I am rational in having 
this concern. (Identity, Consciousness, and Value, 301)
As Unger goes on to point out, it seems contrived to chalk up all examples of 
people purchasing life insurance to cases in which someone is simply trying to 
benefit (while alive) from the favorable impression such a purchase might make 
on the dependents. In many cases it seems ludicrous to deny that "what motivates 
us, of course, is our great concern for our dependent's future, whether we 
experience their future or not."(302). This is not a proof that such concern is 
rational, but it does show that incidents in which we intrinsically value things other 
than our own conscious experience might be more widespread than we are at first 
liable to think. (Other examples include the value we place on not being deceived 
or lied to -- the importance of this value doesn't seem to be completely exhausted 
by our concern that we might one day become aware of the lies and deception.) 
 
Most of us care about a lot of things independently of the experiences that those 
things provide for us. The realization that we value things other than pleasant 
conscious experience should lead us to at least wonder if the legitimacy of this 
kind of value hasn't been too hastily dismissed by Cypher and his ilk. After all, 
once we see how widespread and commonplace our other non-derivative concerns 
are, the insistence that conscious experience is the only thing that has value in 
itself can come to seem downright peculiar. If purchasing life insurance seems like 
a rational thing to do, why shouldn't the desire that I experience reality (rather 
than some illusory simulation) be similarly rational? Perhaps the best test of the 
rationality of our most basic values is actually whether they, taken together, form 
a consistent and coherent network of attachments and concerns. (Do they make 
sense in light of each other and in light of our beliefs about the world and 
ourselves?) It isn't obvious that valuing interaction with the real world fails this 
kind of test. 
 
Of course, pointing out that the value I place on living in the real world coheres 
well with my other values and beliefs will not quiet the defender of Cypher, as he 
will be quick to respond that the fact that my values all cohere doesn't show that 
they are all justified. Maybe I hold a bunch of exquisitely consistent but thoroughly 
irrational values! 
The quest for some further justification of my basic values might be misguided, 
however. Explanations have to come to an end somewhere, as Ludwig 
Wittgenstein once famously remarked. Maybe the right response to a demand for 
justification here is to point out that the same demand can be made to Cypher: 
"Just what justifies your exclusive concern with pleasant conscious experience?" It 
seems as though nothing does -- if such concern is justified it must be somehow 
self-justifying, but if that is possible, why shouldn't our concerns for other people 
and our desire to live in the real world also be self-justifying? If those can also be 
self-justifying, then maybe what we don't experience should matter to us, and 
perhaps what we don't know can hurt us...
Christopher Grau 
Further Reading:
Johnston, Mark. "Reasons and Reductionism," Philosophical Review, 1992. 
 
Nagel, Thomas. "Death," Nous, 1970. 
 
Nozick, Robert. Anarchy, State, and Utopia, Basic Books, 1971. 
 
Unger, Peter. Identity, Consciousness, and Value, Oxford, 1990.


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