Computers all the way down
Think of “computer” in the broad sense: a system that stores information, follows rules, and transforms inputs into outputs. By that definition, the universe computes. Physical laws update the state of matter from one moment to the next. Life on Earth is built on this process: cells store data in DNA, neurons signal in spikes, ecosystems pass information through food webs and feedback loops.
Because we are part of that system, we tend to copy it. We build machines that remember, compare, and decide. We design programming languages so that tiny, exact instructions can produce large, reliable behavior. This isn’t an accident of culture; it’s an echo of our environment. We learned the universe’s habits and then formalized them.
Our simulations make the connection obvious. We write small worlds with simple rules and watch patterns appear—growth, competition, cooperation—much like the patterns we see around us. Even when we’re not thinking philosophically, this work acts like an unconscious ritual: we rehearse the logic of the larger system to understand it, predict it, and sometimes to feel at home in it.
I’m not claiming we live inside some's PC. The point is simpler: treating nature as computation is a useful lens. It explains why code feels powerful and strangely familiar. When we program, we’re aligning our thoughts with the world’s rulebook.
That’s why the craft can feel like prayer without the theology. A program is a clear intention stated in a strict language, then submitted to reality to see if it runs. When it does, we learn a little about the system that made us—and why making systems of our own feels like both work and worship.