In every version of you, characters grapple with a daunting choice: Upload your consciousness to a digital paradise or succumb to a forsaken physical reality.

Mind uploading, a familiar theme in science fiction, often serves as the backdrop for relationship dilemmas or philosophical inquiries. But what does it really entail to transfer consciousness into formless space? Can we decipher its mechanisms based on current science? And if we could, would we really want to?

At the core of my novel, amid romantic tenderness and innovative technology, is a theoretical and philosophical question: the Ship of Theseus paradox. Plutarch’s version, dating back to the 1st century AD, challenges whether a ship, meticulously replaced part by part, still qualifies as the same vessel. Philosophers have debated this thought experiment for centuries. What if we were to reconstruct the original ship from its components—planks, oars, masts, and sails? Is either constructed ship the authentic Theseus’ ship? This dilemma compels us to differentiate between the material essence of an entity (wood, neural pathways, molecules, etc.) and our perceptions of its completeness and authenticity.

In every version of you, my character Navin opts to upload himself to Gaia, a digital utopia. Navin represents a pivotal moment. At the moment of uploading, his physical and uploaded selves are theoretically identical. However, they begin to diverge thereafter. The virtual Navin would not be the same as the corporeal Navin had he continued to exist.

I had to reverse engineer the concept of uploading to create a plausible narrative. Some tales intentionally obscure the science to highlight themes such as relationships, philosophy, or satire. In certain narratives, characters connect devices to their heads or receive intravenous injections to magically extract their consciousness into a “cloud.” Other works contemplate science rigorously, depicting a brain systematically deconstructed via laser scanning, leaving no doubt about the destruction of the physical entity.

Exercising my rights as a writer, I ventured beyond the fundamentals of neuroscience, boldly speculating within the realm of science fiction. While crafting this novel, I was working in various neuropsychiatric wards and preparing for my psychiatric examinations. A recent edition of New Scientist‘s what to think series, which delves into theories about consciousness, would have undoubtedly aided my research!

After studying neural networks and connectomes, I began to envision consciousness as an incredibly intricate network of activity, with unique activation patterns varying from individual to individual. If we could duplicate these connections and their activation sequences using a sufficiently advanced computer, might we be able to replicate our minds without being tethered to our physical forms? However, the question persists: will we ever have computers capable of preserving human consciousness without loss or distortion of information?

Upon sharing my early manuscript of every version of you, I was struck by the array of reactions to the concept of uploading. Some experienced fear, exclaiming, “You mean you eradicated all the originals?!” Others adopted a more detached, philosophical stance. If there exists continuity between substance and subjectivity, how can we claim that the uploaded entity is not the original person?

Should I upload myself to Gaia? My answer is far from straightforward. In an intellectual society, we often overlook that we are not merely distinct minds controlling our physical forms. We forget the intricate interplay between our minds and bodies, with the latter often leading the way. Our gut, heart, skin, glands, and blood vessels engage in perpetual dialogue with our brain.

Moreover, we are molded by our surroundings, our connections with others, and our relationship with nature. Psychoanalyst Esther Bick has discussed the concept of “psychic skin,” which serves as a vessel for our inner selves, arising from early childhood sensory experiences. Severing the link between mind and body results in loss.

In every version of you, uploading compels us to scrutinize the subtle ways technology can undermine our essence. We integrate technology into our lives and the intimate spaces of our homes and bodies, drawn to its utility, brilliance, and excitement. But who owns the data we transfer to technology? Who possesses our uploaded minds? I would endure uploading for an extended period in search of an alternative way to exist on Earth. However, I cannot definitively predict my ultimate decision. If all my loved ones resided on Gaia, resisting that allure would be incredibly challenging.

Grace Chan is the author of every version of you (Verve Books), featured as New Scientist Book Club’s Reads for November 2025. Join us to read together here.