"The world is made of patterns, and those patterns are mathematical at their core." — Max Tegmark
I lean toward the hypothesis that our reality is fundamentally algorithmic, and everything within it can be described mathematically—somewhat aligning with Stephen Wolfram's Hypergraph of Reality. Perhaps, at its core, everything follows a structured set of interactions that can be described mathematically, even if we lack the tools to fully articulate those descriptions yet. This isn't just a philosophical stance; it's a reflection of how we model the world and how we ourselves are built.
Our brains operate through algorithmic, information-processing mechanisms. Every decision, perception, memory, and thought is the result of neurons computing—filtering input, weighting probabilities, and constructing outputs. If our consciousness is the product of algorithmic flows, then maybe it follows that any model or measurement we produce of "reality" is filtered through those same computational constraints. Even our language, logic, and scientific frameworks are ultimately extensions of the machinery generating them.
So when we say reality appears computational—when physics models, predictive systems, and mathematical simulations consistently work—it might not be because reality is definitively computational at its core. It may simply be because computation is the only cognitive and epistemological lens we have access to. It's how we interface with the world. In that sense, we may not be observing reality as it is, but rather reality as it appears through the filter of our own structure. We are algorithmic beings examining a world and seeing—inevitably—a reflection of ourselves.
But the argument goes deeper. It's not merely that our perception of reality is computational—it's that reality, so far, has proven itself to be computationally coherent. Every major paradigm in physics has aligned with formal, structured, mathematical systems. Even quantum mechanics, for all its probabilistic strangeness, follows deeply rigorous equations. The Schrödinger equation evolves deterministically; the probabilistic outcomes it yields are governed by Born's rule. Quantum randomness is not disorder—it is structured uncertainty, statistically bounded and mathematically constrained. And the fact that quantum computing is possible at all is evidence that these probabilistic rules can be encoded and manipulated within a coherent computational framework.
Still, this doesn't mean we've reached the basement layer of reality. It could be the case that computation is emergent, not fundamental—that deeper substrates exist which are continuous, chaotic, or even conscious in a way we don't yet understand. Perhaps computation is our best tool, but not the ultimate truth. Maybe what we think of as "structured" or "formal" is just a projection—our attempt to stabilise something deeper and stranger. But unless or until a new paradigm emerges that can match or exceed the explanatory and predictive power of computational models, the most rational stance is that computation is not just a tool for understanding reality—it may be what reality is.
All of this should be understood within the proper historical context. Modern physics is incredibly new. We often talk about the "foundations" of science as if they were ancient, but in truth, we're only a few intellectual generations removed from the beginning. Newton's Principia was published in 1687; that's only six or seven generations ago. Einstein died in 1955, and there are people alive today who knew people who knew him. Einstein was reading Darwin and Nietzsche, who were themselves just decades removed from Hegel and Kant. Kant was born a generation after Newton died. In just eight or nine human handshakes, we can trace a continuous thread from our current theories of reality to their origins in classical physics and Enlightenment philosophy.
That should humble us. Physics is not finished; it's barely begun. We are experimenting with quantum fields and fundamental forces, reverse-engineering the architecture of the universe with fewer than 400 years of coherent thought. Our most powerful tools—like the Large Hadron Collider or nascent quantum computers—are less than a few decades old. Our theories of consciousness are fragmented. Our models of unification are incomplete. We are, quite literally, in the opening moments of knowing anything at all.
So when we say that reality is computational, we should do so with confidence, but not with finality. It is a justified conclusion given our current understanding, but one that must remain open to revision. We must acknowledge the possibility that computation is not reality's ontology, but simply our cognitive epistemology. Still, it remains the best lens we've developed—a lens that consistently works, predicts, and manipulates the world around us.
Maybe we are stuck in a loop, only able to access the computable dimensions of a reality that is far deeper than computation itself. Or maybe we are slowly uncovering the true architecture of the universe, one recursive abstraction at a time. Either way, we're not just decoding the universe—we're decoding ourselves. As Carl Sagan said, "We are made out of star stuff." But perhaps more than that, we are made of patterns—fractal expressions of the very cosmos we seek to understand. Our thoughts mirror the recursive complexity of the universe itself, suggesting that the map and the territory may not be so different after all.