What If We're All Just Characters in Someone's Draft Folder?

What If We're All Just Characters in Someone's Draft Folder?

Somewhere, beyond the veil of our observable reality, maybe beyond space and time as we understand them, imagine this: a cluttered desktop screen, a blinking cursor, a folder titled "Drafts". In it, thousands—maybe millions—of half-written stories, fragmented characters, speculative worlds. And what if we—you, me, your dog, the man who delivers your mail, the quiet girl who always sits in the corner at lunch—are all part of one of these drafts? Not final products. Not finished novels. Just characters in someone’s work-in-progress. A cosmic draft.

This notion might seem whimsical, even absurd. But it poses some tantalizing possibilities—philosophical, metaphysical, even emotional. What if our inconsistencies, our abrupt changes in personality, our deep moments of doubt, our unexplained urges, aren't just chemical imbalances or human complexity—but evidence that we’re mid-edit? What if déjà vu is just the echo of a previously deleted paragraph? What if your gut feelings are fragments of an earlier version of yourself, overwritten but not fully erased?

The idea isn't entirely foreign. Across centuries, humanity has flirted with similar concepts. Plato’s Allegory of the Cave posits that what we see is only a shadow of true reality. René Descartes wondered if a deceiving demon was crafting the illusion of our lives. In contemporary times, simulation theory suggests we're living in an artificial environment constructed by an advanced intelligence. But to say we’re drafts in someone’s folder—that adds a more intimate, artistic twist. It’s not just computation or deception—it’s storytelling.

A story in progress is inherently flawed. Characters contradict themselves. Dialogue rings hollow. Motivations are murky. Sometimes the plot meanders, or suddenly swerves without warning. If you've ever wondered why your life feels like a series of disjointed chapters, this theory might offer solace. You’re not failing; your author just hasn’t figured out where your arc is going yet.

There’s also a profound humility in this idea. We often strive for perfection, demand answers, seek closure. But what if closure isn’t the point? What if the real purpose is to remain open, pliable, rewritable? We may crave resolution, but perhaps we’re not meant to have it—yet. In draft form, we’re not final; we’re becoming.

This also makes space for empathy. If everyone is a work in progress, literally, how can we not be more patient with one another? The rude cashier might be undergoing a rewrite. The friend who ghosted you might be a subplot the author hasn’t quite resolved. That heartbreak, that trauma—it might not be your ending, just a misplaced chapter the author is still deciding whether to keep.

Of course, the question looms: Who is writing us? Is it a god, a cosmic novelist, a child playing with ideas, an artificial intelligence creating simulations to refine narrative structures? Or perhaps, more unsettling, is there no singular author at all? Are we being collectively co-written by a thousand unseen hands, each tugging at different threads?

If you accept this framework, then free will becomes a murky concept. Are our choices our own, or are they plot devices? When we take sudden leaps of faith, are we asserting autonomy or following a subconscious script? On the other hand, perhaps the beauty of being in a draft lies precisely in the tension between direction and improvisation. Authors don’t fully control their characters—often, characters rebel, surprise, take the story in unexpected directions. Maybe our moments of bravery, creativity, or kindness are the places where we defy the outline, where we co-author our existence.

But here’s the most haunting thought of all: what if we’re a draft that has been abandoned?

Unfinished stories pile up in every writer’s life. Stories started with passion and hope, stories once promising, now gathering digital dust. If we are such a draft, then maybe that explains the silence we sometimes feel from the universe. The randomness, the sense of drifting, of being unmoored. Maybe the hand that once typed with such intent has moved on to another project, or worse, lost interest. And yet, the characters continue to move, think, live—autonomously.

That doesn’t have to be bleak. Even if we are abandoned drafts, we are still here. We persist. And in persisting, we may finish the story ourselves. Maybe being a draft is not a limitation but a permission—a license to rewrite, to transform, to shape our lives as we see fit. Because even if someone started writing us, perhaps the greatest act of rebellion is to pick up the pen ourselves.

What if the author is waiting to see what we do when they stop guiding the narrative?

In the end, maybe we’re not just characters—but co-authors. Maybe life isn’t about being part of a perfect novel, but about embracing the mess, the edits, the plot holes, and still finding meaning between the lines. Maybe the draft folder isn’t a graveyard—it’s a garden, full of growing stories.