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The device arrived without ceremony. A small, humming disc, like a pocket mirror crossed with a UFO, and a single instruction: “Point, pose, pick your icon.”
Within 48 hours, Techville had gone completely mad.
The new gadget, known only as EGO-Snap, uses advanced artificial intelligence-driven photogrammetry, deep-learning facial synthesis and a healthy disregard for history to let users take selfies with anyone — dead, fictional, mythological, or living but completely disinterested in your existence.
You want a selfie with Cleopatra in the Dubai Mall food court? Done.
Napoleon at your cousin’s wedding in Riyadh? Sure.
Kant giving you bunny ears while you vape on a beach in Ibiza? We regret to inform you it already exists.
Naturally, Instagram imploded. TikTok followed. Ethics committees have not yet responded because most of their members are too busy taking smiling pictures with John Locke in front of Starbucks.
Welcome to another moral migraine in Techville.
Let’s pause for breath. What does EGO-Snap really do? Technically, nothing illegal. It doesn’t deepfake videos, (intentionally) spread misinformation or hack anyone’s likeness for profit (unless you count the optional “Buy merch with your Gandhi selfie!” button). It simply lets you insert yourself into a simulated moment with anyone you admire or wish to impress your followers with.
It is, in theory, harmless. But then again, so was the banana gorilla. We know how that ended.
The philosopher Jean Baudrillard warned us long ago: “We live in a world where there is more and more information, and less and less meaning.”
What EGO-Snap offers isn’t memory. It’s spectacle. Not legacy, but vanity. Ethically, it’s like mixing a museum, a seance and a nightclub bathroom.
At the heart of the issue lies consent, or the absence thereof.
Does Marcus Aurelius get a say in being digitally positioned next to a 23-year-old lifestyle coach who is holding a matcha latte, captioned “Stoic vibes only”? Does the Dalai Lama, currently very much alive, have to watch as thousands of slightly awkward young men pose with his AI-simulated self in dim gym lighting for “enlightenment gains”?
Technically, these aren’t images of the real people. They are AI reconstructions based on publicly available data, artistic approximations and just enough wiggle room to avoid lawsuits. But in the realm of public trust, that line doesn’t matter.
This is not history. It’s history-themed entertainment. It’s “Great Men of Civilization,” sponsored by filters and flat stomachs.
And yet the device is addictively democratic. Everyone can now appear important. You too can be the protagonist of a fake documentary featuring your AI-generated hike with Nelson Mandela. You can “remember” the time you did karaoke with Shakespeare, though he looks suspiciously like Benedict Cumberbatch in a neck ruff.
What’s the harm, some ask? Isn’t this just cosplay with better graphics?
But that misses the point. The concern is not simply deception — it’s dilution. When images replace experience and moments become modifiable, truth becomes optional. And once truth is optional, ethics become nostalgic.
In an era of curated feeds and filtered truths, plausibility has become more important than authenticity. If it feels right, it is right. That’s the new creed.
Rafael Hernandez de Santiago
Socrates might not be on Instagram, but he’d have something to say. Possibly: “Know thy selfie.”
In Techville’s schools, students now submit history projects featuring AI-generated photos of themselves watching the storming of the Bastille or doing push-ups with Winston Churchill. One alarmed parent asked the teacher: “Isn’t this lying?”
The teacher reportedly replied: “No — it’s engagement.”
A second parent said: “My son kissed Julius Caesar in the cafeteria and now wants to be a senator.”
We are raising a generation for whom history is not a record of past events but a menu of aesthetic choices.
It’s tempting to laugh. And to be fair, it is hilarious. One cannot help but admire the creativity: Abraham Lincoln in a puffer jacket; Confucius playing Uno; Angela Merkel in a roller disco. The surrealism is exquisite.
But underneath the giggles, a deeper ethical rot is blooming: the slow erosion of context.
When public figures, historical icons, and intellectuals become customizable props for one’s personal brand, their ideas and sacrifices get flattened into backdrops.
We don’t study them. We pose with them.
We don’t learn from their time. We Photoshop them into ours.
This isn’t identity. It’s ego-laundering. With better lighting.
The real kicker is this: People believe these images. Not because they’re convinced, but because they want to be. In an era of curated feeds and filtered truths, plausibility has become more important than authenticity. If it feels right, it is right. That’s the new creed.
The Stoics might have some advice here, though they’re currently booked through October for AI selfies. Maybe Cicero can get back to us.
In the meantime, questions mount:
Should living public figures have control over how their likeness is used in synthetic selfies?
Can political candidates “appear” with icons of democracy to boost legitimacy?
Can dictators?
Will we soon see fabricated images of ourselves with our own future selves, smiling enigmatically, hinting at a destiny the algorithm invented for us?
The device is selling fast. Ethics is not.
In Techville, philosopher cafes have already formed AI-free selfie zones, while protestors outside demand the right to “pose with Picasso without persecution.” Meanwhile, the Vatican has issued a cautious statement: “We prefer saints in prayer, not Photoshop.”
The Dalai Lama remains silent, possibly because he’s still trying to figure out why he’s trending next to AI versions of Kanye West and a Siberian tiger in yoga pants.
In conclusion, the rise of EGO-Snap is not just about vanity. It’s about veracity. It’s about what happens when we replace the solemn mystery of time, legacy and reverence with the giddy intoxication of clout.
We no longer seek meaning. We seek proof we were there, even when we weren’t.
We don’t ask: “What did this person teach the world?” — we ask: “Will they look good next to me?”
The ancient Greeks warned of hubris—excessive pride that offends the gods. In Techville, hubris comes with a lens flare and optional hashtag. And, just maybe, that should give us pause — before we take that next selfie with Plato in a nightclub whispering: “The Form of the Good is bottle service.”
• Rafael Hernandez de Santiago, viscount of Espes, is a Spanish national residing in and working at the Gulf Research Center.