How 三体 (Sān Tǐ) Changed Me
At first, I thought this was just going to be another hard sci-fi brain dump dressed up as a novel, and to be fair… it kind of was. The prose clunks, the pacing stumbles, and every time things get exciting, the narrative says “let’s take a little detour to 1967.” But somewhere between the executions, the video game history lessons, and the aliens ghosting us for over a decade, something clicked. This wasn’t just about alien contact—it was about how we collapse under the weight of our own contradictions. The book made me reflect on how trauma, ideology, and the illusion of progress shape people—entire civilizations, even. It made me less sure that first contact is something we should want. It made me more sure that even if the universe is dark, we might still be the scariest thing in it. Hopelessness can look rational.
The idea that religious belief thrives in the mystery, in the unsolvable, and that the not-knowing is the point… that stuck with me. Whether it’s faith in divinity or in technology, we’re just trying to fill the silence with something that makes the chaos feel less random. Science might be our best shot at understanding the universe, but when the abyss stares back too hard, we’ll build temples to anything—even the things coming to wipe us out.
Also reminded me that physics is sexy, but history is terrifying.
eli5.txt
> girl watches her dad get clapped by a teenage cult for being smart
> grows up thinking humans are mid at best
> gets sent to alien-radio military base aka “Red Coast”
> sends DM to aliens like “wyd?”
> aliens reply “bet, on our way”
> proceeds to take 400 years to arrive > meanwhile, cult forms to simp for aliens and cancel humanity
> meanwhile, aliens install omnipresent micro-God to ruin vibes
> calls us bugs (in a motivational way)
> humanity.exe slowly begins to crash
Notes
🔖 Page 197
I’m not sure how it happened, but I’m already halfway through the book. I guess when a story is this engaging, you just can’t stop reading. What’s even more surprising is that I already know how this first installment will unfold since I watched the first season of the Netflix series. I expected to lose interest at some point, but I’m glad to say that hasn’t been the case.
The story grips you from the very beginning with its depiction of the Chinese Cultural Revolution. Speaking of which—holy shit—that was horrendous. I remember briefly studying it in high school, but the details have faded, especially since Western education doesn’t focus much on Eastern societies. I can’t say to what extent this is a faithful snapshot of what happened in China in the 1960s, because the author seems to blur the line between reality and whatever the hell his mind conjures up. To be honest, this kind of literary work requires a great deal of self-awareness. It’s commendable, to say the least.
That said, it’s fascinating to see how social movements, at their core, behave the same way no matter where in the world you are. I can absolutely imagine the public execution of professors at the hands of self-entitled revolutionary students in today’s universities. Given the right incentives and contextual motives, murder wouldn’t just be understandable—it would be justifiable. This hypocrisy and contradiction, driven by humanity’s collective cognitive dissonance, are laid out throughout the book. And it’s not just the immature and reckless youth—the author also seems to express a certain distaste for our primal cognition through the scenes inside the video game Three Body, which serves as both a metaphor and an explanation of the world of Earth’s future invaders.
This in-game storytelling is probably one of my favorite narrative devices in the book, even if it feels slightly offbeat compared to the overarching mystery of high-ranking scientists dying by apparent suicides. It’s amusing to think that even Galileo Galilei might have burned someone at the stake for their ideas—again, given the right incentives and context. I also loved how, in the particular section where the player (whom I’d consider the main character for now, though I know this book doesn’t really follow that structure) finally discovers the solution to the Stable-Chaotic Eras dynamic in Three Body, the only historical figure who doesn’t immediately doubt Wang (as Copernicus) is Leonardo da Vinci. That makes me wonder—why did the author make that choice? Given the impression I’m getting of him, he probably has a deep admiration for Leonardo, as many prolific and multidisciplinary thinkers do. And rightfully so—Leo is undeniably one of the top five GOATs.
Now, things are about to start boiling. Until now, the tension has been steadily rising, but with the Three-Body Problem solution on the horizon and the Red Coast Project explanation unfolded, I think the inevitable “It’s aliens!” moment is coming before Part III begins. The book has been oscillating between an overwhelming dread—caused by this unexplainable mystery—and a breath of fresh air whenever another piece of the puzzle falls into place. So far, there’s still a glimmer of hope for humanity, but I can’t shake the feeling that things are about to get much, much, much darker. As the character about to solve the Three-Body Problem said:
This particular character gives me strong Mersault from L’Étranger and 人間失格 (Ningen Shikkaku) vibes, especially in the way he reflects on his own life. His recollection would actually make a great excerpt to test as a pilot for the Diegetic Tapes project, by the way.
I also love how the author integrates Chaos Theory into this book. This might be one of the most creative sci-fi showcases of the Butterfly Effect I’ve ever seen, because all of it circles back to the Chinese revolution, as if to say that revolutions suck. Well played, Cixin Liu.
🔖 Page 472
Finished it. It was really hard to put down after the operation at the Second Red Coast Base. I’ve got a few general thoughts, but I’ll start with the differences from the series that stood out to me.
I actually liked the changes they made in the show, especially in the episode based on the chapter “The Sophon.” In the book, that chapter’s a huge info-dump — kind of like that one page in Neuromancer whereCase deduces the entire plot. The series reworks this nicely. Having Wang reimagined as multiple interconnected characters gave the narrative a more emotional core. And honestly, that’s something hard sci-fi often lacks — it tends to prioritize concepts over characters. The adaptation brings a more human dimension to the story, which I appreciated.
This saga does not really have a main character, but the strongest contender for this position would be Ye, she is the one that sets everything in motion. She is an interesting character for sure that is worth a deep dive into her psych itself.
She watched her father being executed for the most senseless reason, while a crowd cheered his death. That moment is the root of her deep distaste for human society—and it’s what fuels her self-destructive actions later in the book.
Her entire life was defined by this one traumatic event, despite it being completely out of her control. She became a political prisoner solely because of her family’s status in the former Chinese social hierarchy. Although her intellect earned her slightly better treatment than others in the Red Base, her life still had no real meaning or outlook. That place was all she had.
In that environment, the only thing that gave her a sense of purpose was working on the antenna. And so, she threw herself into it. But ultimately, it wasn’t enough. Was it selfish of her to betray humanity, given her circumstances? I think so. But at the same time, I don’t believe any argument could have changed her mind. Both her work and her lived experience conditioned her to see the world—and human nature—in a particular, deeply pessimistic way.
If there had been a trial, she would likely have been condemned to death. The more pressing question is whether her actions could have been prevented. Her hatred toward humanity may have been inevitable, but the desperate decision to answer back the alien civilization might not have been. That’s the crux of it: we don’t always choose how we feel about what happens to us, but we do choose how we act in response.
What drives this idea home is what happens next. The alien civilization wouldn’t even respond for another—what, eight years? Sixteen? I don’t recall exactly. But it was long enough that the Chinese Cultural Revolution moved past its most violent and immature phase. During this time, Ye began to question whether what she had done—the most consequential act in human history—had even really happened.
It is hard to say that she’s a monster. She doesn’t act out of hatred for its own sake. She acts because she genuinely believes that human civilization is beyond saving—that if another species can take our place, maybe that’s for the best. And that’s what makes her so unsettling: her betrayal isn’t impulsive or fanatical. It’s calm. It’s reasoned. It’s tragic. She is both a product and an agent of destruction.
In psychological terms, you could argue she experiences existential despair morphing into radicalized misanthropy. She seeks meaning, fails to find it among people, and ultimately constructs her own through a kind of cosmic utilitarianism: sacrificing humanity in hopes that something better might grow in its place.
Some choices feel inevitable in the moment. But with time and distance, we gain perspective. If only we had that foresight while in the midst of crisis. Maybe then, things would be different. Maybe better.
And perhaps that’s why purpose in life isn’t about reaching a particular outcome—whether immediately or eventually—but about choosing something to pursue consistently throughout our existence.
I gotta say, my favorite character by far is the detective/policeman Shi Qiang, aka Da Shi. There’s something incredibly compelling about his cynical, no-nonsense demeanor. Even in the face of certain death and an impending alien invasion, he remains unbreakable. That final moment — the “bugs don’t go extinct” pep talk — was based as hell. We may be underdeveloped, but we’re stubborn as cockroaches.
To me, he, Wei Cheng, and Ye Wenjie are the most memorable characters in the story. The show toned down some of his acerbic lines, but the essence of his character is still there, and it hits hard.
Speaking of Wei — he’s entirely absent from the series! I think they partially merged him into the genius physicist who later becomes a Wallfacer (a concept that, I guess, will be explored in future installments). A strange choice, since his character brings a lot of thematic depth. But it does fit the changes they made to the ETO.
The series really scrambles the timeline, pulling elements from across the entire trilogy. We get plot points that don’t even appear in The Three-Body Problem — like the guy whose brain becomes a space probe or the Trisolarans’ hive-mind and inability to lie.
That means I got spoiled a bit. I mean, the book hints that Trisolarans are overly literal and unable to deceive, but it’s not canonized in the first book.
Throughout the book, I kept wondering how the Trisolarans evolved to be so intelligent so fast. Apparently, they live for around 75–80 Earth years, like us, and reproduce through a process I’ll call “fusion.” There’s probably a proper biological term for it, but in essence, they split into multiple new individuals, passing on fragments of memory.
This helps solve their demographic problems — well, aside from their planet’s chaotic orbits wiping out their civilization every so often. Their physiology and culture have adapted to survive this, even regulating emotions to focus entirely on planetary escape.
The series really leans into the hive-mind concept, portraying them as ultra-rational beings. It’s different from the book, where the reason they want to destroy us is more straightforward. In the series, it’s because we can lie and they can’t. In the book? It’s more: “You’re a threat, so goodbye.”
One major shortcoming in both the book and the series is the lack of exploration of the ETO’s internal factions. It’s such a missed opportunity — political intrigue is just as juicy as alien invasions.
That said, the book does a better job. The series shrugs it off like, “eh, not important right now.” But the factions (Adventists, Redemptionists, and Survivors) mirror the ideological chaos at the beginning of the book during the Chinese Cultural Revolution.
Alien contact becomes just another symbol of our fractured, conflicting agendas — personal and political.
I disagree with the romanticized idea that alien contact would unify humanity. Maybe briefly. But let’s be real: just like we forget our impending death, we’d forget the impending death of civilization in 400 years and go back to our gimmicks.
ETO members embody this quiet misanthropy, often stemming from our environmental destruction. Are humans bad for the environment? Sure. But is that enough to justify extinction? No. We’re nature too — just a destructive extension of it.
We act like alien invaders on Earth, but maybe we’re just flawed. And in that flaw, there’s potential. Unlike beavers, who instinctively wreck trees, we can calculate, reflect, and prevent damage. The problem is the incentives: society rewards greed and short-term gains.
Cultural beliefs — like religion — sometimes act as moral buffers. They know how to reinforce values. But they rely on something crucial: mystery.
Only insoluble mysteries become religious. That’s why the idea of God persists — it’s unprovable, and that’s the point. If you prove God exists, the dynamic shifts entirely. That tension between the known and unknown is deeply present in the book.
At one point, the desperation for meaning is so strong that the Trisolarans themselves are deified. There’s this hilariously tragic moment when an ETO member prays to a (non-existent) god to help her (real) god — the aliens. It’s absurd. And that absurdity is the point.
Mysticism is our coping mechanism for chaos. Science, the book argues, is the best system for dealing with the unknown. But if madness gains enough momentum, it hijacks even science. That’s when rationality breaks down.
This is clearest at the beginning of the book — the humiliation sessions led by revolutionary youth. They deny everything: science, religion, reason. Their stance is so extreme it’s unintelligible. No wonder they meet the end they do.
It raises a tough question: how do you create a social movement that doesn’t self-destruct? Violence as a means is dangerous precisely because it creates a positive feedback loop. “I destroy because they destroy.” Logic becomes irrelevant. It’s just reaction, not action.
And if philosophy isn’t backed by data or experiment, it becomes as useful as a fairy tale for immature children that don’t want to deal with reality.
If we ever do make contact with intelligent alien life, I suspect it’ll be for the worse. It’s a dark thought, but a real one. We crave truth so badly that we forget: some truths might destroy us.
Maybe not answering is the best idea.
The book drives this home — some doors shouldn’t be opened. Even if extraterrestrial life exists, we’re still all we’ve got. So maybe we should focus on ourselves, on this world, this fragile home.
In the end, it’s a story about choosing between roots and wings, and the terrifying costs of reaching too far, too fast.
Now, I do have some issues with the Sophon.
I think it’s an incredibly creative and clever concept — but it also comes with big narrative problems. It’s the kind of Deus Ex Machina that risks undermining the whole story. If the Trisolarans have tech that allows for omnipresence and omniscience anywhere in the universe, then why not just use it for stealth exploration of new inhabited worlds? They’ve already learned the universe is teeming with intelligence, so why risk being found by bigger fish? Why replace The Great Hunt with another and potentially deadlier great hunt?
And here’s the kicker: if sophons can interact at the atomic and molecular level, why not mess with our brain chemistry? Mind control via sophon would’ve been wild — like, you could even have certain strong-willed characters resist the effects. That opens up a whole new layer of conflict and character development.
I get that the Sophon is meant to be a cool sci-fi idea, but it sort of breaks the central theme of information theory. The issue isn’t that it exists — it’s that there aren’t enough clear constraints placed on it. That’s what rubs me the wrong way.
That said, if I just go along with it, I’ve got to admire the audacity of the book’s exploration into higher-dimensional physics. I’m not sure how plausible any of it is — from what I remember, the idea of 11 dimensions mostly comes from String Theory, and that’s still struggling to hold up under experimental scrutiny.
So in the book’s universe, String Theory is taken as truth. And that has major implications — especially in how it deals with the Fermi Paradox. The universe isn’t silent. It’s alive. And not just in our familiar 3D space + time — life might exist in higher-dimensional spaces too. Universes within universes. And they are being destroyed all the time. That’s the existential horror here.
This book is incredibly original and full of big, thought-provoking ideas. However, it really falls short when it comes to prose. Not quite as painful to read as Neuromancer was for me, but still a pretty dull experience overall.
At first, I wondered if the translation was to blame—especially since the translator himself mentioned he avoids word-for-word translations to preserve meaning. But after picking up The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories, I seriously doubt that’s the issue. That collection reads beautifully in English, which makes me think the problem lies more in the original writing than in the translation.
Unfortunately, this is something I’ve noticed a lot in hard sci-fi: brilliant ideas often come wrapped in clunky storytelling. Another thing that didn’t sit right with me was the constant flashbacks. They often interrupt the momentum of the main narrative and break the immersion. The TV series adaptation actually handles this aspect better.
Also, now that I think of it, there’s a strange fixation on sunsets throughout the book. It’s interesting at first—it emphasizes the symbolic contrast between Earth’s stable relationship with the sun and the Trisolarans’ chaotic three-sun system—but it gets repetitive pretty quickly.
That said, there are some beautiful, funny, even poetic lines sprinkled throughout. Here are a few of my favorites, in no particular order: