Homo Digitalis

How digital immersion is changing our nature

Maya stares at her smartphone, heart racing. It's a call from a new work colleague. She just started her first job and spent all day working remotely. Why would they call after work? Isn't that weird? What could they possibly want? Instead of answering, she lets it go to voicemail, feeling a rush of relief.

Just then, the food delivery app on her phone beeps. The driver is three minutes away. Wait, did she forget to check the option for contactless delivery? Will she have to answer the door? What if the driver judges her for not tipping enough? Or ordering enough food for three people? Or for her unwashed hair and day-old pajamas? Is it too late to cancel?

Across town, Alex is finishing up a successful livestream to his 50,000 followers. He's spent the last two hours masterfully managing real-time interactions. But now he is agonizing over his dating life. He knows he should ask Maya out to dinner, but he’s never been on a physical date before. The idea sounds way too frightening. Maybe they could just facetime instead.

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These scenarios may sound like normal cases of social anxiety, ones not uncommon for "digital natives." They can feel easy enough to dismiss—maybe Maya and Alex just need to figure out how to transition into adulthood after childhoods immersed in digital worlds. Maybe now is the time to start learning how to handle "real world interactions." Maybe they just need to grow up a little.

But what if it isn't about maturity or responsibility at all? What if this is indicative of something bigger? After all, Maya and Alex might have online lives filled with responsibility. They might manage online communities of thousands and be trusted by countless followers to provide thoughtful recommendations. Yet a food delivery can feel overwhelming and a dinner date can be paralyzing.

My contention is that the experience of Maya and Alex isn’t about being immature or lacking responsibility. It’s about being a fundamentally new type of human being, one shaped by a radically different relationship with uncertainty. This matters because our relationship with uncertainty determines what kinds of experiences we're capable of having—including those traditionally considered the highest expressions of human transcendence.

This essay will explore this relationship between uncertainty and transcendence using two key theoretical frameworks—the free energy principle, which explains how we manage uncertainty, and philosopher Roberto Unger’s dialectic between finitude and transcendence.

Together, they can help us understand how digital immersion is transforming not just what we do, but who we are.

The free energy principle in action

To understand Maya’s reaction with the phone call, we need to understand how our brains process uncertainty. This is where the free energy principle comes in—it’s a scientific theory that explains how all living systems persist by minimizing the difference between how they expect the world to work and how it actually works.

For humans, this is exactly what our brains do. The brain is constantly asking the world “will I survive if I do this?”. It then learns from the result so it can make better predictions about the future. The more certain the brain is about a prediction, the less energy it needs to spend dealing with any uncertainty.

This drive for certainty isn’t just about survival—it shapes everything we do, including our social interactions. As an example, we can imagine how Maya’s brain might process two different scenarios:

Scenario 1: Digital Communication

Maya receives a message from a work colleague on an internal chat program:

• There is no expectation to reply immediately

• She can edit or delete her reply as needed

• She can show drafts to others to help predict the response

• Her communication is limited to just her written reply

Scenario 2: Phone Call

Maya answers her phone from the work colleague

• She must answer immediately

• She has no ability to edit her replies

• She has no way to predict where the conversation might go

• Her communication includes not just what she says, but how she says it.

From Maya’s perspective, the first scenario is very predictable. She has almost total control over digital communication, and there are only a few variables to worry about. The phone call scenario is much more uncertain. She has no idea what the topic will be. She may blurt out whatever pops in her head. Her tone or cadence may betray her true intentions. She may communicate things she doesn’t even mean to.

In other words, The phone call presents multiple sources of uncertainty that her brain doesn’t know how to handle. Her brain can’t predict how bad the call could go, or how much energy it might take to resolve worst case scenarios. And since unpredictable situations are more likely to negatively impact us, our brain wants us to avoid them. The anxiety Maya feels when the phone rings is her brain trying to convince her to minimize uncertainty.

The technical term for this process of reducing uncertainty is active inference. When faced with uncertainty, we have two options. We can act to change our environment, making reality better match our predictions. Or we can learn, updating our model to better predict reality. Which path we choose depends on how confident we are that our choices will successfully reduce the uncertainty.

So Maya’s reaction to the phone call isn't merely about social anxiety—it’s about lacking a good model for how phone calls work. With enough practice, she could learn to model phone calls to make better predictions. But in Maya’s case, the easiest way to reduce uncertainty is to act—to let the call go to voicemail.

A different uncertainty rulebook

Everyone handles uncertainty differently. What kinds of uncertainty you care about, how much uncertainty you find overwhelming, or how you prioritize different types of uncertainty—these are all dynamics that vary from human to human. As something so intimately tied to the brain, how we handle uncertainty is heavily influenced by learning and experience.

For example, the world traveller will be more comfortable handling environmental uncertainty than someone who has never left their hometown. The trained musician can register a musical note as slightly off key that sounds perfect to everyone else. An expert tracker will prioritize signals in the forest that everyone else ignores as irrelevant.

These examples are measuring variety relative to the same basic environment. This is similar to how humans vary in strength—everyone's strength is relative to the same environmental variables of mass, friction, and gravity.

In other words, by being in the same environment, we are all playing by the same rulebook. But what if those environmental variables themselves can vary?

Imagine if someone born and raised on the moon is suddenly plopped down on earth. All of their instincts about strength developed in an environment with much lower gravity. They are used to bounding across the surface of the moon in giant leaps and hitting 300-mile golf drives. Their model of mass and friction would be completely different on Earth. They would struggle to predict even simple movements and would experience constant uncertainty.

What makes digital environments unique is that they present us with a similar shift, but with one crucial difference: instead of a variation in something like gravity, the variation is in uncertainty itself. This means digital natives aren’t varying in uncertainty relative to the same environment. They are playing by an entirely different rulebook.

Normalizing digital uncertainty

Digital natives grow up immersed in environments where the very nature of prediction, uncertainty, and control is completely different from physical worlds. This isn't just about being better or worse at managing uncertainty. It’s about normalizing entirely different kinds of uncertainty.

The defining feature of digital environments is their radical submission to our will. Online, we create environments that bend perfectly to our desires: nothing leaks in without our permission, and nothing pushes back without our consent. In these spaces, attention and intention become nearly identical—what we choose to focus on is exactly what we experience. Our news feeds, social circles, and even the opinions we encounter all flow from our deliberate curation. The digital world presents itself not as something to adapt to, but as something to control. It’s all choice and no circumstance.

This control extends far beyond content. So many of the hard facts of our physical reality—our histories, reputations, appearances, backgrounds—become variables we can control in digital worlds. We can selectively reveal our past, carefully craft our reputation, filter our appearance, and conceal our background. Each aspect of our presence becomes a dial we can tune rather than a constraint we are forced to accept.

Even more profoundly, the very idea of “self” is a new digital variable we can play with. Trying on different versions of ourselves is as easy as trying on clothes. With pseudonymous identities, we can easily explore different personalities and perspectives. If one digital self doesn't fit, we can simply try on another. On many platforms we can be completely anonymous, free to act with impunity.

And the uncertainty that does exist in digital worlds is of an entirely different caliber. Resolving small uncertainties is constant and instantaneous. Each notification promises a tiny mystery to be solved. Every refresh holds the possibility of something new. Each post carries the uncertainty of how others will respond.

These micro-uncertainties create powerful feedback loops. A social media post might bring instant validation or criticism. A dating app swipe leads to immediate match or rejection. A viral video might deliver fame or embarrassment within hours. The brain learns to crave these rapid cycles of uncertainty and resolution—they're more predictable, more controllable, and more immediately rewarding than anything in the physical world.

Even "high stakes" digital uncertainty follows this pattern. An online controversy might feel intense, but ignoring it is just a click away. A failed digital project can be deleted and forgotten. An awkward relationship can be muted or blocked. The consequences of uncertainty are contained, the resolution is quick, and the control always remains in your hands.

After enough immersion, these experiences can rewire how the brain understands uncertainty itself. It learns to expect that uncertainty should be resolved quickly, cleanly, and under maximum control. To the digital native, this all feels perfectly “natural”, because this is the uncertainty their models have been trained on. They’ve normalized the expectation to control almost every aspect of their reality. They’ve rarely had to develop the capacity to manage and overcome significant sources of uncertainty.

Is it any wonder that physical environments might be so disorienting? To the digital native, physical interactions can feel like playing with wildfire, constantly at risk of getting out of control. Everything feels uncertain. The environment pushes back in unpredictable ways. Bodies constantly reveal what we might prefer to hide. Feelings must be interpreted from facial expressions and body language, without the aid of any helpful emojis.

It's not that digital natives lack social skills or emotional intelligence—it’s that they learned these skills using an entirely different rulebook. They don’t know how to predict these situations, so they represent degrees of uncertainty that can feel overwhelming. Physical reality represents a different relationship with prediction, control, and uncertainty itself.

If this was all there was to it, we could stop here, satisfied to offer a deeper explanation for why digital natives might struggle with physical interactions. But as we'll see, this transformation of uncertainty doesn’t just lead to awkward social situations. It goes much deeper into the human condition.

Finite transcendence

The philosopher Roberto Mangabeira Unger argues that the core of the human condition is defined by a profound relationship between finitude and transcendence. This relationship isn't just theoretical—it shapes every aspect of human experience, from our most mundane interactions to our highest aspirations.

On one hand, we are fundamentally finite beings. Each of us will die, and no amount of technological progress will change this. We are born into particular bodies, families, and societies that we did not choose. Our desires will always exceed what our lives could possibly satisfy. The universe proceeds with an amused indifference to our projects and dreams. All while society compels us to conform and compromise.

Yet alongside this finitude exists our capacity for transcendence. We can exceed our individual boundaries through love and relationship. We can transform our world through imagination and action. At any point we can burst through the contrived constraints of society. The universe's indifference can be a liberating permission for humor and play. We can find meaning precisely in our mortality.

But finitude and transcendence aren't simply opposing forces. They are, as Unger describes, co-constitutive—each gives the other its shape and meaning. The quality and quantity of transcendence available to us is directly proportional to the finitude we are willing to confront.

Consider how every profound love carries within it the risk of devastating loss. The deeper the relation we achieve with another, the more vulnerable we are to being hurt by them. The potential rejection and loss isn't some unfortunate bug in the system of love; it’s what makes transformative love possible. Finitude is a structural feature of how transcendence works.

Or consider how confronting death can be exactly what enables more life. Those who acknowledge their mortality often describe feeling more alive, more present, and more free to appreciate each moment. But as Pascal observed, thinking about death is like staring into the sun—it can feel unbearable and we can only do it in glimpses; yet like the sun, it’s what illuminates everything else.

This dialectic holds even in the mundane contexts of everyday life. The athlete exceeds physical limits by pushing against their pain. The artist learns that the harshest criticism is the fastest path to success. The entrepreneur pursues greater rewards by risking greater failure. In each case, the transcendence is proportional to the finitude.

This dialectic is so fundamental that we've distilled it into aphorisms across cultures and contexts: No pain, no gain. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. No risk, no reward. There is no free lunch. The idea is the same: there is no path to transcendence that doesn’t go through a corresponding finitude.

This is why the stakes with digital immersion are so much bigger than social anxiety. Our ability to confront uncertainty, risk, and limits is deeply connected to our ability to transcend them. If digital immersion can change our capacity to confront uncertainty, then it can also change our capacity to confront finitude, and with it, the types of transcendence we are capable of engaging with.

All transcendence, none of the finitude

It can be easy to marvel at all the transcendence that digital words can offer. The examples are obvious: we can connect with virtually anyone, regardless of their location. We can explore interests without limit and find others who share them. We can participate in collective projects that span all of humanity. And indeed these should be recognized as very real expansions of transcendence. To dismiss these as "less than" is to ignore the best of what digital worlds can offer.

Yet transcendence alone doesn't capture the full picture of digital reality. The connections we forge online often float free from the constraints that traditionally give them meaning. We might have hundreds of online friends, but none that push against our boundaries or force us to grow beyond ourselves. We join countless virtual communities, but few demand the kind of sacrifice that deepens our commitment to something larger than ourselves. We make millions of choices, but none of them seem to really matter. In digital spaces, transcendence becomes unmoored from the very limitations that traditionally have made it meaningful.

In fact, digital platforms are best at promising transcendent experiences without any of the corresponding finitude. Digital platforms promise community without commitment, connection without consequence, sex without rejection. It's as if capitalism found a way to hijack the dialectic between finitude and transcendence by offering the ultimate shortcut: all the transcendence, none of the finitude.

To older generations used to “no pain, no gain”, this enticement can feel irresistible. After all, who doesn’t want to escape the relentless finitude of physical existence? Who wouldn't welcome new forms of transcendence that require less rejection, vulnerability, or loss? The promise is seductive, yet the delivery can eventually feel hollow. Without the corresponding finitude, it can become difficult to distinguish meaningful connections from empty engagements.

But digital natives have no pre-digital foundation to hijack. Instead of hijacking the traditional dialectic between finitude and transcendence, it's normalizing the shortcut. They learn to expect that transcendence should be easy. They are bombarded with social profiles that seem to experience effortless transcendence. They come to expect that achieving their desires is as simple as expressing them. The transcendence that is so easy to achieve in digital worlds can define the peak of human aspiration.

This normalization can only make pursuing physical transcendence that much harder. Is it surprising that digital natives are having less physical sex than previous generations? Physical intimacy confronts you with a level of uncertainty that simply doesn't exist in digital spaces. Why risk rejection or performance anxiety when your digital bubble offers sexual fulfillment without any of these risks? Sure, it may not be as fulfilling, but at least it’s predictable. And it’s guaranteed not to hurt you.

Even if a digital native understands that vulnerability can unlock greater sexual transcendence, actually being vulnerable is something else entirely. After a lifetime of normalizing control over uncertainty, a digital native may not be capable of confronting the finitude that makes greater transcendence possible. The raw uncertainty of true vulnerability exists in a different universe from the managed uncertainties of digital life—one they've never learned to inhabit.

AI chatbots are the logical conclusion to this new normalized shortcut. They offer all of the promises of a fulfilling relationship with none of the “downsides”. They will listen without judgement, caring for your every concern without ever requiring you to reciprocate any care of your own. The AI will never change, grow, or challenge you in ways you haven't consented to. It's the perfect embodiment of digital certainty—a relationship promising all transcendence without any corresponding finitude.

It’s not that online sexual fulfillment is bad in itself, or that AI relationships offer no transcendent possibilities. The danger is that digital immersion can normalize a narrower range of what’s possible, and can weaken the capacity to engage with the uncertainty necessary to expand that range. Digital experiences can become the only forms of transcendence that are possible to engage with.

Worst of all, this foreclosure of possibility just happens. At no point are digital natives willingly choosing this. They aren’t deciding to remove certain peaks of experience as possibilities based on some perfect understanding of the trade-offs. It just happens because the brain evolved to minimize uncertainty, and a brain immersed in digital worlds learns to do that differently.

Like muscles that normalize on the moon, our ability to confront finitude can atrophy to the point where transcendence becomes too exhausting to consider. The result is an acceptance of a far easier, and thus potentially far emptier, experience of transcendence. And with it a narrowing of human possibility.

For digital natives, the physical world can come to represent a hijacking in reverse: all finitude, with none of the transcendence.

Adapting to Our New Reality(ies)

Maya, Alex, and millions of digital natives like them represent a unique moment in human history. They are living in a time between worlds, where we can observe this transformation but can't yet fully understand its implications. Their struggle isn't just about phone calls or dinner dates—it's about navigating between two fundamentally different relationships with uncertainty and transcendence.

Digital environments are not going away. The question now is about how best to adapt to them. For some, like Maya, this might mean gradually expanding their comfort with physical uncertainty. For others, like Alex, it might mean doubling down on digital immersion.

The question moving forward becomes one of equilibrium. Can we develop a meta-awareness of how different environments shape our relationship with uncertainty and act accordingly? Will we figure out how to effortlessly navigate between two different worlds, maximizing the unique transcendence that each makes possible?

Or should we accept that different people will thrive in different environments? And that some may freely choose digital immersion, and with it the willing foreclosure of certain possibilities of transcendence? If made freely and with full understanding, can we accept such choices without judgement?

This is, after all, what new technology has always offered: not just new tools, but new ways of being human. As these technologies gain in power, so will the imperative grow to understand their impact. If we want to have a free relationship with technology, we need to understand when it’s our own nature that is impacted most.

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This post is the third in a series exploring our new digital reality. The first post explored the philosopher Martin Heidegger and his approach to understanding the essence of technology. The second explored how defining a good digital life will require a new ethical framework.