The unsettling possibility of human beings as the focal animal: A thought experiment exploring the hypothetical framework of possible cosmic observers

Back in 2008, a motherlode of western lowland gorillas was discovered by scientists in the remote, inaccessible regions of the Congo. As a lifelong admirer of Steve Irwin and his wildlife conservation efforts, I was overjoyed by the news. I closely followed the subsequent efforts to study these magnificent creatures and was particularly intrigued by the methodology adopted. Initially, every possible precaution was taken to ensure no direct contact with them. They were, for the most part, unaware that they were being observed. This has been a standard approach in wildlife research for a long time now.

This news, and the global attention it received, resurfaced in my mind recently amid the discussion and furor surrounding the arrival of 3i/Atlas. It was not merely this latest interstellar object that prompted the connection, but the broader sequence of events that some scientists, notably Dr. Avi Loeb . The similarity between Dr. Loeb’s hypothesis and the earlier example of wildlife observation struck me as uncanny. It led me to ask an unsettling question: are we, as human beings, the newly discovered “gorilla colony” for a far more advanced civilization?

This deceptively simple question sent me down a rabbit hole too compelling to ignore.

If I were part of an advanced civilization that had recently discovered another intelligent life form, I would be inclined to observe it in much the same way humans study wildlife. I strongly suspect that the cognitive gap between gorillas and humans is far smaller than the gap between humans and a civilization capable of traversing interstellar distances. From that perspective, restraint and non-interference would not merely be ethical choices, but methodological necessities.

The choice of gorillas as an analogy is deliberate. They exhibit high intelligence relative to other species, possess complex social structures, demonstrate rudimentary tool use, and display remarkable emotional depth. What they lack is not intelligence per se, but the degree of self-awareness and technological cognition that humans possess. Is it unreasonable to imagine a similar asymmetry between humanity and a sufficiently advanced civilization? Perhaps not. After all, the gorillas are not “hidden” from us, they simply lack the cognitive framework required to detect us.

This line of thought naturally led me to revisit humanity’s own approach to uncontacted human tribes. In the early days of exploration, these encounters were often reckless, unscientific, and ethically indefensible. Indigenous populations were viewed as potential converts, labor sources, or obstacles to be overcome. While those atrocities are not the focus of this discussion, it is worth noting that our perspective has evolved. Today, there is a growing recognition that such tribes have a right to isolation and autonomy.

This raises an uncomfortable question: could we ourselves be subject to a similar policy of non-interference?

The earliest alleged contact took the form of a radio signal that never repeated and could not be conclusively traced. This was followed decades later by an interstellar object exhibiting unusual characteristics, plausibly consistent with passive reconnaissance. Most recently, 3I/ATLAS has reignited debate due to certain anomalies that are difficult to dismiss outright. Is the degree of contact being increased systematically?

I want to be cautious here. Assigning intent would be premature and intellectually irresponsible in the absence of definitive evidence. However, the sequence appears to follow a discernible pattern: an initial low-information signal, followed by ambiguous probes that allow for plausible deniability. This resembles a “touch-and-go” strategy, the kind one might employ when testing detectability rather than announcing presence.

This hypothetical approach stands in stark contrast to our own behavior. Humanity has been broadcasting its presence loudly, through efforts such as the Voyager probes, deliberate radio transmissions, and other attempts to attract attention. While our ethical framework has matured in the context of wildlife conservation and uncontacted tribes, our attitude toward space exploration still echoes the mindset of the 18th century, an era driven by conquest, expansion, and territorial ambition. At times, we seem less like cautious explorers and more like cosmic versions of James Cook or Christopher Columbus.

Such an approach may not only be naive, but potentially dangerous. We have no meaningful understanding of the capabilities, intentions, or ethical frameworks of any non-human intelligence we might encounter. Broadcasting our presence without restraint assumes a shared moral universe — an assumption history suggests we should be wary of making.

There is one final discomfort that refuses to go away in all of this.

Our instinct, as modern thinkers, is to demand evidence. Clear signals. Repeatable measurements. Something unambiguous enough to collapse speculation into certainty. That instinct has served science well. But it also carries an unexamined assumption: that if something important is happening, we will be able to notice it in time.

History suggests otherwise.

In nature, the subject being observed almost never receives evidence of the observer. Gorillas do not demand proof of satellites. Isolated tribes do not infer drones from altered river paths. The very success of observation often depends on the absence of detectable signs. Detection is not the default state, it is the exception.

If that asymmetry holds at a cosmic scale, then the kind of evidence we keep asking for may be epistemically incompatible with the phenomenon itself. Not because it is hidden by conspiracy or malice, but because advanced observation does not announce itself to the observed.

This leads to a deeply unsettling possibility:

that definitive proof, if it ever arrives, may do so only after the phase where proof was still relevant.

In other words, the absence of clear evidence may not be evidence of absence, nor even of indifference, but simply a reflection of how observation works when the gap in capability is vast. By the time the subject becomes certain it was being watched, the observation may already be complete.

That thought does not demand belief. It does not even demand agreement. But it does force a reconsideration of what we mean when we say, “We would know.”

And once that assumption is weakened, an even more difficult question emerges, not about whether we are being observed, but about what it would mean to be rare, valuable, and noticed in a universe that does not owe us benevolence.