We spoke with science fiction writer Maxim Lykov about how the idea of time loops helps us think about ethics, responsibility, and the role of speculative fiction in the age of technology. Lykov is the author of novels and short stories in which time and memory often become the main characters; in his texts, he explores how new relationships with time change a person’s character and destiny. This interview contains reflections on three models of the loop, the writer’s responsibilities, and what should be preserved in a world where technology replaces human presence.
Maxim Lykov is a Russian writer and essayist, author of novels and short prose in the genres of mystical and social science fiction. His stories focus on questions of time, identity, and human relationships in the era of digital transformation. He is the recipient of several literary awards, curator of creative workshops, and a regular participant in discussions about the future of literature and technology.
— How do you understand the idea of time loops—does it have a philosophical root?
The idea of time loops can be considered from roughly three angles.
The first variant is ancient and metaphysical: a thought experiment in which life is offered to be lived again and again. Infinite repetition turns the quality of life into a measure of eternity: if it was lived poorly, repetition becomes a personal hell; if worthily, an infinite good. I am not close to the fetishization of this model, but its meaning is clear: repetition reinforces moral responsibility. Every action gains a perspective of infinity, and therefore even small things acquire weight. This formula makes the loop akin to ideas of eternal return and karma, where moral choice is not an abstraction but a repeating reality.
The second variant is popular and pragmatic, well illustrated in «Groundhog Day.» Here the loop is not a sentence but a school of character. Being stuck in a single moment in time turns into a chance to rebuild oneself and the world around so as to bring good to oneself and others. The loop provides space for trial and error, in which a person trains in empathy, responsibility, and the mastery of life. This is an optimistic ethic: exiting the loop not through escape but through internal transformation, through improving relationships and actions.
The third variant is escapism. If everything is unchanging and returns, including the subject themselves, it gives an illusion of impunity: one can create, experiment, take risks without regard for consequences. For some, this is psychologically attractive—personal safety, freedom from social sanctions. But on a mass scale, such a lifestyle undermines the social contract: it levels the concept of responsibility and destroys the meaning of long-term relationships. The loop in this form is not a teacher but an anesthetic for conscience.
— Can repetition of life be seen as a punishment or as a chance for correction?
These three axes—punishment/reward, school of morality, and escapism—provide a working map for analyzing the loop. In a literary text, they can be combined, sharpened, or contrasted, creating different aesthetic and ethical effects. It is also important to consider the texture of repetition: a mechanical restoration of exactly the same event gives one set of effects; variable loops, where details change from iteration to iteration, open space for character creativity and reflection on chance and free will.
In my prose, I strive to move away from the purely mechanical scheme of the loop and explore more complex relationships between a person and time. In the novel where I addressed the theme of time, it’s not so much about literal loops but about a different quality of temporal experience: how behavior changes when a person relates differently to their history; what directions their life takes; what moral options become possible. I am interested not only in the final ethical verdict but also in the process—the gradual rewriting of character through routine trifles, through a multitude of small decisions.
— What is the function of science fiction regarding fears related to technology and AI?
Science fiction in this field works in two ways. On the one hand, it warns: by concretizing fears (for example, those associated with the widespread adoption of artificial intelligence), the genre turns faceless anxiety into a manageable problem. When fear gets a face and a plot, it ceases to be paralyzing. This is a therapeutic function: the story helps to recognize threats and show possible consequences.
On the other hand, science fiction constructs hope—it tries to imagine what a person can become in new conditions. This is not just utopian dreaming; it is the creative responsibility of the author: to formulate an idea of a new quality of humanity in the 21st century. We do not yet have such a «utopia of the 21st century»—there are warnings and variations—but the task of culture and literature is to attempt to imagine it. At the same time, the author must be honest with reality: one cannot impose artificial morality on the reader; it is better to show the origins of certain transformations of a person under conditions of technology and social change.
— What is important to preserve in the age of AI?
An important question during a technological revolution is what to preserve as value. Throughout human history, one thing has remained critically important: relationships with one’s own kind. The quality of these relationships and their transformation into love or its absence is the main subject of moral development. What needs to be preserved is not formal institutions but the very possibility of human connection: the ability to accept, to bear another in their vulnerability, and to build bonds that give meaning. If society descends into pure solipsism, into a version of «the Matrix,» where people remain closed in their simulations, it will be the end of human history as a history of relationships.
An example from psychological practice illustrates the limits of machine replacement of humans. A modern neural network can analyze a client’s statements well and provide recommendations—at best it gives a quality mirror. Where human acceptance, empathy, and the ability to hold another’s pain are required, the machine is powerless. This is not an argument against technology as such, but a reminder: we need to preserve the human quality of response. Artificial intelligence can enhance and scale assistance, but genuine human connection remains irreplaceable. In artistic practice, this means that characters and plots unfolding in an AI world must maintain focus on the human encounter—even if the encounter itself is mediated by machines.
Science fiction can be both large-scale—a cosmic epic—and an intimate drama shown through the lens of one person. Nothing prevents combining these approaches: the large and the small can work in tandem. I think that in the 21st century, popular science fiction will lean toward soft SF and fantasy, where human drama is reflected through a fictional backdrop. Hard science fiction will remain as a niche, but the broad cultural need will be for stories about people in new relationships with time, technology, and society.
— And what is the conclusion, Maxim? What can be said to readers in the final analysis?
— The idea of time loops remains a fruitful tool for ethical and artistic reflection. The loop as an amplifier of the significance of choice, as a training ground for character, or as a refuge of impunity—these all orchestrate different answers to the same question: what does it mean to be human when time ceases to be linear? Science fiction, by modeling these scenarios, warns and offers—and the writer’s task is not only to record anxieties but also to try to formulate an image of a new quality of humanity that we have not yet fully realized.
Photo from open sources
Comments (0)