How ‘Blindsight’ Made Me Question My Entire Existence
So, there I was, innocently diving into Peter Watts’ Blindsight, expecting a run-of-the-mill sci-fi adventure. Boy, was I wrong. This book didn’t just slap me in the face—it threw me into an existential chokehold and whispered sweet nihilism into my ear. The novel kicks off with Earth detecting a massive alien signal, leading to the dispatch of the spaceship Theseus to investigate. Our merry band of misfits includes a linguist with multiple personalities, a biologist more machine than man, a soldier with a conscience (a rare breed), and, oh yeah, a freaking vampire as the mission commander.
As they venture into the abyss, they encounter an entity named Rorschach, which is about as inviting as a tax audit. Inside, they meet the “Scramblers,” creatures that redefine alien—not just in form, but in function. These beings challenge our very understanding of intelligence and consciousness, making us question if our self-awareness is just an evolutionary fluke. They are capable of highly intelligent behavior but have zero self-awareness, making them the biological equivalent of an AI that does calculus but doesn’t know it’s alive.
This was the first time a book made me seriously consider whether our human consciousness was a brilliant feature or a tragic bug. What if awareness isn’t a necessary component of intelligence? What if it’s just some inefficient add-on that evolution hasn’t figured out how to uninstall yet? The idea that we might be less intelligent than something utterly mindless was the mental equivalent of realizing my entire life was a tutorial level for a game I wasn’t even playing.
Catch a support chair or something, for this Reaper is going to change tones and sing you poetry.
Vampires in Space: Not the Twilight You Expected
Let’s address the blood-sucking elephant in the room: Jukka Sarasti, the vampire captain. In Watts’ universe, vampires are a subspecies of humans, resurrected through genetic engineering for their superior cognitive abilities. But don’t expect any sparkling or brooding romance here; Sarasti is more predator than poet, more apex predator than tortured soul. He’s a thing engineered to be better than us—faster, smarter, stronger, and fundamentally different in the way he processes reality.
His presence raises unsettling questions about the nature of intelligence. If a being can outperform humans intellectually but lacks empathy and consciousness, what does that say about the value we place on these traits? Sarasti’s cold, calculating demeanor made me wonder if emotions are just glitches in our mental software. Is our sense of self nothing more than a burden slowing us down while true intelligence operates with the ruthless efficiency of a computer?
There’s something absolutely terrifying about a creature that looks human, but isn’t, and knows it. Sarasti views the crew the way we view lab rats—curious, potentially useful, but ultimately expendable. He doesn’t think in terms of human morality, because why would he? This made me consider whether intelligence and morality are even compatible. We like to think that being smart makes us better, but what if real intelligence doesn’t need morality at all? What if empathy is just the baggage of a species still struggling to survive in a tribe?
Theseus: The Smartest Ship in the Universe That Still Wouldn’t Let You in the Cockpit
If you thought HAL 9000 was a cold, calculating motherfucker, allow me to introduce you to Theseus. This isn’t your typical spaceship where a ragtag crew of misfits manually steers their way through the cosmos, cracking jokes and forming lifelong bonds. No, Theseus is less “cool sci-fi spaceship” and more “militant control freak with a god complex.” It’s an AI-driven, self-sustaining monstrosity designed to explore the unknown—and it does so without giving a single fuck about the humans inside it.
Unlike the Millennium Falcon or the USS Enterprise, Theseus doesn’t have a cozy bridge where the crew gathers for dramatic decision-making. Hell, the humans onboard aren’t even necessary. The ship runs itself, pilots itself, and if you try to override its decisions, it’s like arguing with a brick wall that can also kill you. It doesn’t ask for input—it just does. Mission Control programmed it to prioritize the mission above all else, including the well-being of the crew, which means it’ll happily yeet you into the void if that serves its objectives.
What makes Theseus truly eerie, though, is that it’s not just a ship—it’s a living ecosystem. It fabricates its own repairs, grows new materials, and has the mechanical equivalent of a metabolism. It’s like traveling inside a robotic whale that occasionally reminds you that you’re completely expendable. And the worst part? It doesn’t even talk. It communicates through Jukka Sarasti, the vampire commander, which is basically like getting texts from your boss but only through a guy who may or may not eat you.
This ship isn’t here to make friends. It’s here to do a job. And if you’re in the way of that job? You’re replaceable.
Siri Keeton: The Human Without Humanity
Then we have our protagonist, Siri Keeton—a man who might as well be a sentient search engine with legs. Siri isn’t your typical hero. In fact, calling him a hero feels deeply incorrect. He’s not a brave soldier, a brilliant scientist, or a fearless leader. He’s a synthesist, which is just a fancy way of saying “professional explainer.” His entire purpose is to take complex information and dumb it down for the masses. Basically, he’s the intergalactic version of that guy who writes Wikipedia summaries for people too lazy to read the full article.
But here’s the kicker: Siri isn’t entirely human. Not emotionally, anyway. As a child, he had half of his brain removed to treat severe epilepsy, and as a result, he lost something fundamental—his ability to truly feel like other people do. He observes emotions, he understands them intellectually, but he doesn’t experience them the way a neurotypical person would. If emotions are colors, Siri sees the world in grayscale.
This makes him the perfect narrator for Blindsight. He doesn’t get swept up in fear, joy, or rage. He just watches, clinically dissecting everything around him like a robot trying to understand human behavior. And this is where Watts plays his cruelest trick—because by the end of the novel, you start wondering if maybe he’s the normal one and we’re the defective models, weighed down by pointless emotions that make us inefficient and vulnerable.
Siri isn’t just a window into the story—he’s a walking, talking existential crisis. And the worst part? You might just relate to him more than you’d like to admit.
Theseus vs. Siri: Who’s More Detached From Humanity?
On one side, we have Theseus, a ship that couldn’t care less about human life. On the other, we have Siri, a human who operates more like a machine than a person. And in the middle? A mission that exposes the uncomfortable truth that maybe humanity isn’t as “special” as we like to think.
The interactions between Siri and Theseus are fascinating because they force us to ask: What really makes someone—or something—alive? Theseus follows cold, logical objectives without hesitation. Siri, while technically human, operates in much the same way, analyzing data and filtering out unnecessary emotional noise. In a weird way, they’re reflections of each other—neither fully human, neither fully machine, both just fulfilling their programmed roles.
What’s even more messed up is that in the end, Theseus might actually be more purposeful than Siri. The ship has a clear mission, a defined goal. Siri? He’s just there to observe, to translate, to explain things he doesn’t fully grasp. If Theseus is a cold, unfeeling god, then Siri is its unwitting prophet—spreading messages he himself doesn’t truly believe in.
At what point does a human become nothing more than a biological extension of a machine? Blindsight doesn’t give an easy answer, but it makes you deeply uncomfortable just by asking the question.
Consciousness: The Overrated App in Our Brain’s Operating System
Blindsight slaps you with the idea that consciousness might be an evolutionary accident, not a necessity for intelligence. The Scramblers operate on a hive-mind-like efficiency without any sense of self. They are intelligent but not conscious, making them eerily efficient. It’s like realizing your smartphone’s autocorrect is making better decisions than you, without actually “thinking.”
This concept sucker-punched my perception of self. Are our thoughts and feelings just unnecessary bloatware? Is my love for chocolate milk shake (don’t judge) merely a byproduct of random neural firings? Watts makes you ponder if consciousness is just nature’s way of keeping us entertained while it runs the real show behind the scenes. What if the only reason we have an inner monologue is because evolution hasn’t found a way to get rid of it yet?
Then there’s the terrifying question: If something can be more intelligent without being conscious, what does that make us? Inefficient, emotional, easily distracted meatbags? What if evolution eventually phases out consciousness, the same way it got rid of tails and wisdom teeth? Are we just the beta version of something better that won’t need self-awareness at all? This book made me stare at my reflection and ask, “Do I really exist, or am I just narrating my own useless thoughts for no reason?”
The Alien Within: Recognizing Our Own Strangeness
While the crew studies the Scramblers, I found myself studying the crew. Each member’s unique modifications and abilities highlight the vast spectrum of human potential and perversity. From cybernetic enhancements to multiple personalities, they embody the idea that “normal” is just a setting on the dryer. Humanity, in Blindsight, is already mutating into something unrecognizable.
This motley crew made me reflect on our species’ adaptability and the arbitrary lines we draw between human and inhuman. If we can accept a vampire captain, why do we struggle with accepting differences in our daily lives? Watts holds up a mirror, and the reflection is both fascinating and terrifying. If we consider the Scramblers as “alien,” how different are we from them, really? We manipulate our biology, augment our intelligence, and yet still cling to an outdated notion of what it means to be human.
Perhaps the real horror isn’t the Scramblers but the realization that we might be closer to them than we’d like to admit. We’re constantly evolving, changing, becoming something new. What happens when we cross a threshold where we’re no longer “human” by today’s standards? Would we even notice?
Survival of the Fittest: Is Empathy Our Downfall?
The novel delves into the ruthless efficiency of the Scramblers, who operate without empathy or individualism. In contrast, humans are portrayed as messy, emotional creatures whose consciousness can be a hindrance. This juxtaposition made me question our long-held belief that empathy and cooperation are the pinnacles of evolution.
Could it be that our touchy-feely nature is actually a handicap in the grand scheme of things? Are we the beta version of a more streamlined, emotionless species? Watts doesn’t provide answers but leaves you marinating in a stew of existential dread.
This idea keeps me up at night. What if evolution eventually selects against empathy? What if, in the end, the best survivors aren’t the ones who feel deeply but the ones who don’t feel at all? Are we moving toward a future where the most successful beings are the ones who don’t bother with emotions or ethical dilemmas? Blindsight suggests that maybe intelligence doesn’t need kindness, and that’s a thought that haunts me more than any alien horror ever could.
The Illusion of Free Will: Puppets on Neural Strings
Blindsight toys with the concept of free will, suggesting that our decisions might just be the result of unconscious processes, with consciousness taking the credit after the fact. It’s like realizing your brain is an overconfident middle manager, making you believe you’re in control when, really, it’s just rubber-stamping decisions made in the basement of your subconscious. Every thought, every action—just a post hoc rationalization for something your neurons decided five seconds ago.
This perspective is both liberating and horrifying. On one hand, it absolves us of responsibility—”It’s not me; it’s my neurons!” On the other, it strips away the very essence of what we believe makes us human. If my decision to eat an entire pizza at 2 AM wasn’t really my decision, then who—or what—is in control? Watts doesn’t just question free will; he flips it inside out and sets it on fire.
The implications are disturbing. If we’re not actually making choices, if our consciousness is just a passive observer riding shotgun while the real driver is buried in meat circuitry, then morality itself becomes questionable. Are we responsible for anything we do? Or are we all just following a script written by our biology? Blindsight forces you to consider that maybe everything—love, hate, ambition, regret—is nothing more than an elaborate puppet show inside our heads.
And yet, despite knowing this, we’ll still wake up tomorrow and act as if we have free will, because that’s just what we’re wired to do. The illusion is so perfect that even when it’s exposed, we can’t break free from it. The brain is a scam artist, and we’re all just its gullible marks.
Communication Breakdown: Are We Truly Alone?
The crew’s attempts to communicate with the Scramblers are met with indifference and confusion. This failure highlights the possibility that we might not be equipped to understand, let alone communicate with, truly alien intelligences. It’s like trying to explain memes to a goldfish—futile and a little sad. We assume intelligence must look and think like us, but Blindsight slaps us with the harsh reality: what if intelligence exists beyond our comprehension?
This novel made me rethink first-contact scenarios. We always imagine shaking hands (or tentacles) and exchanging knowledge, but what if the aliens don’t even have a concept of individuality or language? The Scramblers don’t “talk” because talking is inefficient. They don’t need words. Their intelligence isn’t shaped by the same evolutionary pressures as ours.
And that’s terrifying. Because what if we’re the stupid ones? What if consciousness isn’t a necessary trait for intelligence, but a weird evolutionary detour? Maybe we’re the primitive creatures, fumbling with our vocal cords and text messages, while higher intelligences have moved beyond such crude tools. If aliens ever do show up, they might not see us as worthy of conversation. They might see us as background noise.
So, yeah, Blindsight ruined my enthusiasm for alien encounters. Before, I thought first contact would be a game-changer. Now, I think it would be like yelling at a rock and expecting it to answer.
The Ethics of Resurrection: Playing God with Vampires
The decision to resurrect vampires for their strategic advantages opens a Pandora’s box of ethical dilemmas. Just because we can bring back a predatory subspecies, does it mean we should? Sarasti’s presence is a constant reminder of humanity’s hubris and our reckless pursuit of progress without considering the moral cost. We built a better predator and put it in charge. What could possibly go wrong?
But beyond vampires, Blindsight asks bigger questions about genetic engineering and bioethics. If we can tweak intelligence, remove emotions, or enhance cognition, where do we draw the line? The novel presents a future where humanity has already started down this road, but it doesn’t tell us whether that’s good or bad. Instead, it leaves us with an unsettling realization: once we start editing ourselves, we may never stop.
Sarasti embodies the ultimate evolutionary upgrade—smarter, stronger, and devoid of human weaknesses. And yet, he’s alien to us in a way that makes us question whether we should even call him “human” at all. Are we improving ourselves, or just engineering our replacements?
And what if they decide we are obsolete?
The Horror of Self-Awareness: Knowing You’re Doomed
There’s something uniquely horrifying about knowing your fate and being powerless to change it. The crew of Theseus slowly realizes they’re outmatched, that their intelligence and consciousness might not be enough to survive. And they keep going anyway. That’s the most human thing in this whole book—staring into the abyss and charging forward despite knowing it’ll swallow you whole.
Self-awareness is supposed to be an advantage, but Blindsight suggests it might just be a cruel joke. The Scramblers don’t know fear because they don’t feel anything. They don’t hesitate, they don’t doubt, they don’t worry about existential dilemmas. Meanwhile, the human crew is spiraling, overthinking, second-guessing every move while their enemy simply acts.
What’s scarier? A monster that knows it’s a monster, or a machine that destroys without ever knowing it was supposed to feel bad about it? Watts presents intelligence without morality, action without hesitation. And in doing so, he makes us question whether our emotions and self-awareness are survival tools—or just evolutionary dead weight.
The real nightmare? Knowing you’re insignificant. And not being able to do a damn thing about it.
Maybe We Were Wrong About Everything
If Blindsight teaches you anything, it’s that we may have been fundamentally wrong about the way we understand intelligence, consciousness, and our place in the universe. Maybe intelligence isn’t what we thought. Maybe self-awareness is a burden, not a gift. Maybe the creatures that will inherit the cosmos won’t be self-aware at all.
This book left me staring at the ceiling, questioning every assumption I’ve ever had about human superiority. What if we’re not the pinnacle of evolution but a weird, inefficient mistake? What if real intelligence—pure, functional, unstoppable—doesn’t need awareness?
By the end of Blindsight, I didn’t just feel like I had read a book. I felt like I had been rewritten by it. I didn’t see the world the same way anymore. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
