Immortality, Wikipedia and the Stories We Tell Ourselves

This was written to be read out loud so below is a recording of that.

A brief introduction. I was a big fan of John Green’s , and then , The Anthropocene Reviewed, where he would pick a semi-random item or concept and then write a Trip Advisor style review, finishing with a star rating. After that concluded, fans of the show from John and his brother Hank’s online community Nerdfighteria, of which I am a proud member, started their own podcast in the same vein, called . I came up with the idea for this piece a while back, with the intention of contacting them to see if I could get it on the show. Alas, by the time it was written this week, the fan podcast has been off the air for three years.

I also have a caveat. I came up with the idea and wrote an initial draft, but I wasn’t convinced it was really in the right style to fit in with John’s original work, so I asked ChatGPT, or “Mr G.” as we call it in this house, to give it a polish. That’s why, if you know me, it might not sound fully like me.

Once upon a time, immortality was earned in the bright glow of achievement. Heroes and visionaries etched their names into history, not with keyboards but with feats so grand that they rippled through generations. To be remembered, you had to slay dragons or write epics or lead nations through the kind of moments historians would call pivotal, but which the people living through them called terrifying. Immortality was carved into the walls of pyramids, sung around campfires, and printed on the front page of newspapers. It required not only greatness but a chorus of voices to echo your name through time.

Today, immortality is a hyperlink.

We live in an age where every person, place, and penguin with enough notability — or merely enough persistence — can be immortalized in the ever-expanding halls of Wikipedia. To be remembered now is not necessarily to be monumental, but simply to meet the criteria of verifiability and relevance. The bard who once sang your praises has been replaced by an anonymous editor debating whether your entry meets the notability guidelines. Immortality is still granted, but now it’s peer-reviewed.

This shift fascinates me because it reflects a profound democratization of memory. In the past, to enter the annals of history required gatekeepers: scribes, poets, historians. Today, those gatekeepers have been replaced by algorithms and volunteer editors. On one hand, this feels revolutionary. No longer is legacy the exclusive domain of emperors and scientists; it’s a space where niche skateboarders, YouTube personalities, and one-hit-wonder bands can also find their place.

But there’s something unsettling about this shift, too. The immortality offered by Wikipedia is as fragile as it is accessible. A hero of yore might have had their exploits misremembered, but they were rarely forgotten entirely. A Wikipedia entry, meanwhile, can be deleted with a single keystroke and a cold verdict: “Fails to meet the notability criteria.”

I think often about how this changes the way we pursue immortality. The urge to be remembered is as ancient as fire, and yet its expression has transformed. Achilles sought to die gloriously in battle because he knew his deeds would echo in the epics. Today, someone might spend their days meticulously documenting their achievements, adding citations, ensuring their legacy is not only notable but well-sourced. Achilles would probably edit his own Wikipedia page.

This isn’t just about Wikipedia, though. It’s about the way we memorialize ourselves in a digital age. There are people — perhaps you, perhaps me — who measure their legacy in followers, likes, and posts. We don’t sing songs about our heroes as much as we retweet them. Our memories are archived in a million cloud servers, searchable but impersonal.

And yet, I find hope in this. Wikipedia might seem cold compared to an ancient epic or a heartfelt folk song, but it’s also a testament to our collective desire to preserve the stories of humanity. The very existence of Wikipedia depends on people who care enough to document, verify, and debate the worth of those stories. That care is an act of love.

Immortality has always been a story we tell ourselves. Whether through epic poetry, newspapers, or an online encyclopedia, the goal has always been the same: to be remembered, to matter. Wikipedia is just the latest tool in that endeavour — a fragile, fallible, and deeply human one.

I rate Wikipedia immortality 4.5 stars. It’s imperfect, but then again, so are we.