The Causal Fabric of Reality: Redefining Existence Beyond Material Tangibility
"The limits of my language mean the limits of my world"— Ludwig Wittgenstein
The Folk Definition of Reality
We often arbitrarily define what "real" is, often described as something that "exists"— I'd argue this definition is somewhat flawed, perhaps even circular. Real often gets defined in terms of what it's not— for example, being described as "not artificial", or "not imaginary". This is analogous to describing poor as "not rich" and rich as "not poor". Additionally, it appears somewhat contradictory, because "non-real" material, such as dreams, do affect what we consider real, such as our mental states and emotions— how can some that is not real have causal influence over something that is real? The definition is using a binary framework (real vs not real) to try to describe a spectrum, or even worse, potentially a multi-dimensional, evolving construct. It also gets defined in terms of what is tangible, measurable, or even physical. Less than 200 years ago, neurons were not part of our observable reality; we did not know what they were, therefore, we could not measure them — they did not exist as physical objects in what we thought our reality was at the time. However, as you likely follow, it would be absurd to suggest that neurons were not real because they did not satisfy the criteria of what is considered to be real. Many of our definitons are still stuck in the Pre-Scientific era— even though physics has moved way past Newton, into quantum fields and relativistic space-time, our everyday notion of what's "real" is still stuck in the classical mindset—tangible, solid, observable stuff. If we can't touch it or measure it with instruments, people assume it's either not real or automatically "less" real. Ultimately, it's clear that our definitions are flawed, and incomplete— ones that rely on folk intuition, rather than objective reality.
Nothing is Real in the Quantum World
In the quantum world, nothing is really real—at least not in the objective sense we think it is. What we call "reality" is not some neutral substrate that simply exists and reveals itself; it's a filtered interface constructed by the observer. Quantum Field Theory (QFT) radically reshapes our understanding of what is "real" at the most fundamental level. According to QFT, particles like electrons and quarks are not tiny solid objects; they are simply excitations—temporary ripples—within underlying quantum fields. These fields fill all of space, and what we perceive as matter is just a localised disturbance, not a standalone thing. In this view, nothing has an independent, intrinsic identity. What we call "objects" are not building blocks of reality but momentary patterns in a continuous, fluctuating sea of probability. Even solid matter—like your hand, or a rock—is mostly empty space, held together by invisible forces and governed by statistical interactions. So the familiar world of shapes, textures, and solidity is more like a visual story our brains tell us—a simplification layered over a much stranger, probabilistic foundation. Predictive processing takes this even further by suggesting that perception is not a passive reflection of the world, but an active construction. According to this model, the brain is constantly generating predictions about what it expects to encounter, and then updating those predictions based on incoming sensory information. We don't see the world as it is—we see the world as our brain expects it to be, refined only when there's enough "error" between expectation and reality to warrant an update. This means that much of what we experience—colours, edges, even the sense of self—is a top-down hallucination that's useful for navigating the world, but not necessarily an accurate mirror of it. In combination with quantum theory, it paints a sobering picture: the external world doesn't consist of solid, permanent things, and even the version we do experience is sculpted by internal biases and neurological shortcuts. What we experience as "reality" is essentially a hallucination that just happens to be shared and consistent enough to be useful. Or, as Donald Hoffman might say, it's a user interface— you see the desktop icon, but not the underlying, dynamic code. One that evolved not to show us truth, but to help us survive. Colour does not exist as an objective property of reality—it is the brain's way of encoding different wavelengths of light to create 'meaning' out of it. Likewise, sound is not an external feature of the world but a structured interpretation of vibrational waves. From that lens, even the things we consider most physically tangible—like an arm—are not fundamentally real. They are representational approximations. Temporary patterns of matter and perception. A functional hallucination produced by a self-organising system navigating an incomputable world.
The Self vs Consciousness
At first glance, the terms self and consciousness appear synonymous—interchangeable placeholders for "me," the entity that perceives, feels, thinks, and acts. But this conflation is a mistake. Consciousness is not the same as the self. Consciousness is the condition for experience; the self is a construction layered on top of that condition. You can have consciousness without a self; you cannot have a self without some form of consciousness to scaffold it. Certain states—deep meditation, psychedelic experiences, near-death phenomena—can produce what's known as "ego dissolution." The sense of being someone dissolves, but consciousness remains. Experience is still happening—sights, sounds, emotions—but there is no strong boundary separating the observer from the observed. This suggests the self is not necessary for consciousness to exist. Conversely, the self relies on active memory, prediction, introspection, and embodied awareness. All of these functions are housed within a conscious system. Damage to specific brain regions—like the default mode network—can interrupt self-referential thought while sparing basic consciousness.
Consciousness, in its most minimal form, is the raw capacity for subjective experience—the what-it's-like-ness of being. The red of an apple, the sharpness of pain, the scent of smoke—these are phenomenal contents within the container of awareness. This is what philosophers refer to as phenomenal consciousness. It does not require language, identity, or memory. It only requires awareness: a moment-to-moment sense of "something is happening." A newborn likely has consciousness. A mouse likely does too. A self, however, is something else entirely.
The self is a model. It is a cognitive interface built by the brain to simulate a unified, continuous entity that exists through time and across situations. It includes autobiographical memory, bodily ownership, agency, preferences, a first-person perspective, and a running internal narrative. It is not a singular object, but a bundle of interrelated functions—stitched together so seamlessly that we experience it as a single thing. The neuroscientist and philosopher Thomas Metzinger describes the self as a "transparent self-model"—transparent in the sense that we are unaware it's a model. Like a cursor on a computer screen, the self is not what does the work; it's just the visible pointer the system uses to navigate. The self changes. The person you were five years ago, emotionally, cognitively, ideologically—is not who you are now. Your self-model has updated. Yet consciousness—the capacity for experience—has remained. This plasticity of the self-model makes it hard to define in fixed terms. It is less like a statue, and more like a shadow—shifting depending on angle and context, but always projected by something deeper
In The Ego Tunnel, Metzinger discusses how the self doesn't really exist—that it's a process, a hallucination. A kind of internal simulation. I'd largely agree with this. But I would argue—neither does your arm. The self is just a higher-order hallucination within the hypergraph of reality. If everything we experience is mediated by prediction, feedback, and reconstruction—then the boundary between what we call physical and what we call abstract becomes increasingly irrelevant.
Real Is Defined by Causal Influence
If we define real not by tangibility but by causal influence, then the self—though constructed—may be more real than many physical structures. 'Real' becomes a function of embeddedness in a causal system. You look at your arm— you can see it, feel it, touch it, you can move it. Your arm has causal power, yes. It can push, pull, and lift external objects. It affects the external world directly, but in a localised and spatially bound way. Your self, however, affects not just your actions—but how others respond to you, how you respond to those responses, and how entire chains of behaviour propagate through society. Your self influences your career, your relationships, your impact on future systems. It shapes institutions, feedback loops, personal trajectories. It even changes the trajectory of other minds. All of which update the self model in a multi-dimensional, recursive system.
The self influences actions, actions reinforce the self ↔ actions affect others, others' actions affect the self ↔ collective actions reshape systems, systems shape collective behaviour ↔ system changes update self-models, self-models influence new actions
The same principle applies to thoughts, beliefs, and dreams. As I've discussed, if something alters the causal flow of events in the world, it is real. These are things that we often arbitrarily separate into a distinct category to separate from what is "physical".
Dreams and Their Causal Impact
Dreams affect mental states, mental states affect dreams ↔ mental states affect actions, actions affect mental states ↔ actions affect reality(systems), reality affects actions
To suggest that a dream is "not real" ignores this interconnected causal loop and introduces a contradiction—because it implies that something "not real" can meaningfully influence something that is "real." Yet dreams undoubtedly influence our mental states. Whether vivid or vague, nightmares or subtle emotional flashes, dreams do not exist in isolation; they alter mood, behaviour, and in some cases, entire life trajectories.
Mental states—especially subconscious ones—are often the very foundation of how we respond to situations, how we speak, how we engage with people, and how we perceive meaning. Dreams influence these states, often without us realising. A light dream might leave a residue of unease or calm that subtly alters the texture of our day. A nightmare might push us into anxiety, withdrawal, or hypervigilance. A profound or symbolic dream might cause someone to re-evaluate their relationships, their values, even their entire sense of purpose. So while dreams may lack physical substance, they are embedded within—and contribute to—a web of psychological and behavioural causality.
A dream that merely nudges your mood has what I'd call low causal density. Its influence is shallow, limited, fleeting. But a dream that reshapes your perspective—changes your priorities, affects your long-term behaviour, or influences how others perceive and respond to you—has high causal density. It ripples outward, not only through your own life but through the lives of others in ways that may not be easily traced, but are no less real in their consequence. In this view, some dreams are more real than others. Not because of what they are made of, but because of what they do. In this framework, reality is not binary—it is a gradient of reverberation, embedded within the causal matrix. The more deeply something participates in the causal web, the more "real" it becomes.
Perhaps, I'd even speculate, under this principle, that a child's dream, which had greater causal influence on their mental states, their actions, and the mental state and actions of others may be more real than a rock that never moves, never changes, never does anything— one with far less causal influence. It's interesting because you look at a rock, you can hold it, feel it, throw it; yet, if that rock remains minimally causal— perhaps existing where there is minimal life, minimal external objects which it can interact with; then, under this principle, the causal influence is minimal.
Linguistic Flaws in Our Definition of Reality
Going back to my earlier critique of the concept of "real." The term is often used carelessly—as though its meaning were self-evident. But when we probe the word with philosophical and linguistic scrutiny, we find that it rests on a flawed binary. Language tends to structure reality in opposites: real vs not real, true vs false, rational vs irrational. This structure feels intuitive, but that's because it's a linguistic artifact, not necessarily a reflection of how reality actually functions.
Take the phrase "X is real." Language makes it natural to then say, "X is not real"—as if the negation is coherent. But this binary distinction breaks down when we acknowledge that even a "non-real" idea (say, a fictional character or a dream) still exists within consciousness, has measurable brain activity, and often leads to real-world consequences. If a dream affects your mental state, and that mental state affects your behaviour, and your behaviour affects others, then it has causal power. Therefore, how can something be deemed "not real" if it measurably alters reality? This is the contradiction. Our current definition of "real" fails to account for causal influence. If a dream or thought alters mental processes, decisions, and the external world, then it exists within the causal framework of reality. Dismissing it as "not real" is incoherent—it implies that something without ontological status is still able to affect things that do have it. That's a contradiction.
To resolve this, we likely need a better framework. Rather than a binary notion of real/not real, we should adopt a graded model based on causal density—how embedded something is in the flow of events. In this framework, even imagined or abstract entities aren't excluded from reality—they are simply less causally dense. Everything that reverberates through the system exists, just in different degrees and domains of influence.
Maybe something can have "realness", but can't be described as real. But, this brings us to a paradox. If we say something "has realness," we're still using the root concept of "real"—which we've now shown to be vague, binary, and folk-intuitive. "Realness" inherits the problems of "real." So perhaps, we should abandon the term altogether—at least when speaking about fundamental ontology—and instead use descriptors, like causal influence, to better describe what we're trying to measure.
Conclusion
There's something we've carried with us—perhaps since the beginning of thought, or at least since the earliest attempts to understand the world. It is this: we define reality through ourselves. Our language, our intuitions, our categories of understanding are deeply rooted in existential utility rather than reflective of what actually is. From the pre-scientific era to today's age of quantum computation, we still define words not based on objective systems, but based on how they make us feel; how they fit into the narrative of us.
We define "real" based on what we can touch, see, or measure; or worse, what comforts us, what maps to our evolved intuitions. This tendency persists even when it contradicts the deeper structure of the world. Many of our definitions are circular—real is what exists, and what exists is what is real. They're self-referential, anthropocentric, and designed to preserve a sense of certainty in a world that offers very little of it.
Everything in reality is causal—even dreams. There is no such thing as something that is "not real"; there are only things that have minimal causal influence. The challenge is not in deciding what is real, but in redefining realness itself—away from our existential comforts, and toward something that reflects how embedded a thing truly is. Only then can we begin to understand reality not as a mirror of ourselves, but as a structure in which we are just one participant among many.