We live in strange times. On the one hand, we are witnessing astonishing progress in science and technology. Fields like neuroscience, genetics, and artificial intelligence are meticulously mapping the material machinery of the universe and life itself. This is a world of data, algorithms, and objective, measurable truth. Yet, on the other hand, we find ourselves ever more confounded by the most basic of questions: what does it mean to be human? What is the engine behind our irrationality, our passions, our creativity, and our capacity for self-destruction?

These two modes of inquiry—one into objective mechanisms, the other into subjective experience—exist in separate realms. The discourse of science and technology strives to reduce subjectivity to the language of neurons and information. In contrast, the humanist tradition, especially the potent school of Lacanian psychoanalysis so influential in Slovenia, holds fast to a conceptual framework that defies such reduction, speaking instead of the unconscious, of desire, and of fantasy.

The purpose of this essay is to confront this very dilemma. It is not an attempt to simply subordinate one world to the other. Rather, it is an attempt to build a bridge between them, to show that they are not in necessary conflict but are instead concerned with different facets of the same phenomenon. Science, by its very methodology, strives for objectivity, which means it must systematically exclude the subjective perspective of the observer from the equation. Its ideal is a view from nowhere. Yet it is precisely this exclusion that creates a blind spot: science can explain the mechanics of the brain with breathtaking precision, but it does not directly engage with the experience of the concrete subject who "has" that brain.

Psychoanalysis steps directly into this empty space. It does not offer an alternative scientific truth, but rather a theory of this "excluded element"—of the subject itself. It concerns itself with the "software bug" in the human system: our irrationality, our symptoms, our capacity to act against our own best interests. It sees this not as a flaw to be patched, but as the fundamental feature that makes us human. For a long time, science could not get a firm grasp on this direct experience of subjectivity, but today, with the flourishing of neuroscience, the two approaches are gradually converging. Though they hail from different traditions, they meet at a single point: the question of how to explain the contradictions that simultaneously drive us forward and tear us apart.

Our goal, therefore, is not to prove that "psychoanalysis was right because dopamine mechanisms confirm it." Rather, the goal is to use scientific and evolutionary models as a stage upon which we can enact and understand the logic of psychoanalytic concepts. This is a translation project of sorts: how can we explain the logic of desire, lack, and the Other to someone accustomed to thinking primarily in the language of natural science?

The Evolution of Subjectivity

Before we delve into the complexities of the human mind, we must return to the very beginning, to a time when brains did not yet exist. The first large organisms, which were mostly stationary, had no need for them. Their behavior was simple, their environment predictable, and their responses automatic, guided solely by chemical signals. Everything changed, however, with the emergence of active movement and hunting. An animal that had to pursue prey while simultaneously avoiding predators needed a central system to coordinate conflicting information and make decisions. Thus, the first brains came into being.

Their operation was initially incredibly simple: approach the beneficial, avoid the harmful. This basic algorithm, which enabled the survival of worm-like creatures some 600 million years ago, was the foundation upon which everything else was built. However, this system was rigid and incapable of learning; it could not adapt to changes in the environment.

Approximately one hundred million years later, early vertebrates developed the ability to learn from experience. Their brains began to build internal maps of the world. This was the first crucial step towards a separation from immediate reality. The world was no longer just a collection of direct stimuli but had become an internal representation, a mental image. This map enabled an understanding of the surroundings and the prediction of future events, marking a turning point in the development of behavior.

But this internal picture was initially passive. The real leap occurred when our ancestors began to actively use this internal map to play out the future. This marked the birth of internal simulation, the ability to mentally imagine different scenarios before they happen. "What if I take this path instead of that one?", "What if a predator comes from behind that bush?". This ability to create mental narratives became one of the key evolutionary advantages, as it allowed for learning from imagined experiences without real-world risk.

The next significant step was taken by the ancestors of primates tens of millions of years ago when they began to include an understanding of other beings in these simulations. They could imagine what other beings were thinking, feeling, and intending. This ability was crucial for life in complex social groups. The narrative was no longer just a description of events but a stage for relationships between individuals with different perspectives and goals. For the first time, stories acquired characters with inner lives.

The decisive breakthrough, however, was the development of language. While other species communicated about immediate states—such as danger, food, and dominance—language made it possible to communicate about something that does not exist here and now: about the past, the future, and entirely fictional worlds. It allowed people to start sharing their narratives with others. Stories, myths, rules, and values created a shared, supra-individual symbolic world—a culture, a society, a system.

The Predicament of the Animal That Speaks

The evolutionary path has led us to a being with exceptionally powerful hardware: a large prefrontal cortex and specialized centers for language. This "hardware" enabled the installation of a revolutionary "operating system"—symbolic thought. Yet it is precisely this installation that has caused a fundamental and specifically human predicament. The new, abstract operating system of language was not designed for the old, biological hardware, which evolution had optimized for survival in the physical world. Thus, language did not merely become a neutral tool for communication; it proved to be an incompatible software package that forever changed how our fundamental biology operates.

This "hijacking" of the old hardware by the new software occurred in two key steps. First, language, with its capacity for abstraction, inserted an insurmountable gap between us and the world. To be able to think and communicate about an infinitely complex reality, we had to "compress" it into a finite set of symbols—words. This process can be compared to lossy data compression. Just as compressing an image into a JPEG format permanently loses some information about colors and details, translating direct experience into language permanently loses part of its fullness and immediacy. The word "water" can never capture the entire experience of water. This informational gap between the symbol and the thing, between the compressed representation and the immeasurably rich reality, creates a structural lack in our existence. This is not a mystical loss, but a functional consequence of how a symbolic system works. We become beings haunted by the feeling that the "real thing" is always slipping away.

Second, language "infected" our biological needs with symbolic meanings. Food is no longer just a source of calories but becomes a sign of status, culture, identity, and morality. Sexuality is no longer just an instinct for reproduction but becomes a complex stage for love, power, and recognition. Our biological hardware, including the dopamine system, which was previously geared towards finding berries and mates, was redirected to hunt for abstract goals: social prestige, meaning, wealth, truth.

The problem is that our biological hardware is designed for homeostasis—when a need is satisfied, the system calms down. The symbolic world, however, has no natural off-switch. We can always desire more recognition, more money, more meaning. A biological drive, which had a clear goal and conclusion, has transformed into an insatiable cultural drive that runs in an infinite loop.

Psychoanalysis enters at precisely this point. It does not deal with the biology of cells, but with this "biology" of the embodied subject trapped in language. It studies the consequences of this fundamental incompatibility between our symbolic software and biological hardware: symptoms, anxiety, dreams, and above all, desire. In this sense, psychoanalysis is a theory of the "ghost in the machine"—of how the abstract world of meanings becomes embodied in our bodies and drives our psyche.

Why We Also Act to Our Own Detriment

The fundamental predicament of the human as a speaking animal is not merely an abstract philosophical idea. It has very concrete consequences that manifest in the very structure of our psyche and the biochemistry of our brains. Phenomena such as insatiable desire, self-destructive behavior, and a sense of fundamental lack are not random errors but are logical symptoms of the mismatch between our biological heritage and the symbolic world we inhabit. Psychoanalysis is the discipline that identifies these symptoms, names them, and attempts to understand their logic.

The first and most basic symptom of the "hijacking" of biology by language is the transformation of instinct into drive. An instinct is a biological program with a clear, natural goal and rhythm. A lion is hungry, it hunts a gazelle, eats it, and its need is satisfied; the instinct subsides until the next cycle. It is natural, efficient, and oriented towards the preservation of life and the species.

The human, however, is a being in whom this natural program is "broken." Our biological needs are reshaped into a drive, which no longer has a natural goal. Its purpose is not to reach an object and find peace, but to constantly circle around the object. The satisfaction of the drive lies not in final satiation, but in the repetition of the act itself. The object—food, money, recognition—becomes merely an excuse for the drive to spin in its circuit. This explains many human "irrationalities": why we eat when we are not hungry; why we work when we have enough money; why we repeat self-destructive behaviors. The satisfaction is not in the result, but in the very repetition of the circuit. This denaturalized, mechanical force is the fundamental engine of the human psyche.

Modern neuroscience has shown that dopamine is not the "pleasure molecule." The pleasure from a reward obtained is primarily regulated by the opioid system, which says: "This is good." Dopamine, however, is the chemistry of anticipation, motivation, and wanting—it is activated before the goal is reached and pushes us forward. This is why the anticipation of a vacation is sometimes more exciting than the vacation itself. This separation reveals why a person can be driven by something that ultimately brings them no satisfaction.

This is where the key psychoanalytic concept of jouissance emerges, which refers to a paradoxical satisfaction not based on appeasement but on the endless repetition of the drive itself. It is the satisfaction a workaholic finds in burnout—a satisfaction that goes beyond the pleasure principle and becomes painful. The human is therefore not a being guided solely by a goal; it is a being that can find enjoyment in its own momentum, even if it brings suffering.

These neuroscientific and psychoanalytic insights overlap astonishingly. Desire is the sophisticated, future-oriented force, the psychological expression of the dopaminergic "wanting" system. Pleasure is that moment of relief provided by the opioid system. And finally, jouissance is that specific, paradoxical satisfaction that the subject derives from the operation of the drive itself.

But where does this constantly running dopaminergic engine find its "fuel"? Where does this fundamental feeling that we are always missing something originate? This is where brain chemistry connects with the evolution of language. As we have seen, our entry into the symbolic world forever separates us from immediate reality. This fundamental lack, introduced by language, is a structural feature of human existence. We are no longer beings who can achieve complete, instinctual satisfaction. And it is precisely this structural lack that becomes the playground for our dopamine system. Human desire is what happens when a brain, equipped with a biological engine for seeking what is missing, finds itself in a world of symbols that promises fullness but is simultaneously the source of its fundamental sense of loss.

It is crucial to understand that the "real thing that is forever lost" is not something that evolutionarily less developed animals possess and we humans do not. This sense of loss is an illusion retroactively created by language itself. An animal does not miss direct contact with reality because it does not live in a world of symbols that would create such a separation in the first place. The feeling that we have lost something is established only within the domain of thought and symbols. As long as subjectivity lacks this abstract dimension, the difference is not even noticeable. Loss, therefore, is a specifically human symptom of existing in language.

The Enigma of the Other's Desire

We now have all the elements on the table: an evolutionarily developed mind capable of simulation and language; a biochemical "wanting" engine driven by lack; and a symbolic world that creates this lack. But how do these elements combine into the unique experience we call subjectivity? The answer lies in our relationship to the social world that surrounds us—in the way we try to orient ourselves within the invisible network of expectations we call culture or society.

The Evolutionary "Hack"

How and why does our mind, which evolved to understand concrete beings, begin to act as if abstract systems (language, culture) have a will of their own? The answer lies in the principle of evolutionary economy. Evolution rarely creates new brain modules from scratch; it prefers to repurpose existing structures for new functions. Over millions of years, our brains developed an extremely effective "social module" for reading the intentions, desires, and beliefs of other agents—members of the troop, predators, prey. This was a crucial mechanism for survival. When a new, complex problem emerged—how to understand and navigate the abstract world of language, rules, and social norms—the brain had no specialized tool for it. So, it used the best tool it had available: the old, reliable social module.

A "hack" or a repurposing occurred: the brain began to treat the abstract, impersonal system as if it were a giant, unified agent with a will of its own. A good example of this is our relationship with the stock market. No one speaks of the market as an impersonal sum of millions of individual transactions. Instead, we read that the market is "optimistic," "nervous," that it "panics" or "rewards" certain decisions. We attribute emotions, intentions, and desires to the market as if it were a single, moody subject. We try to guess what it "wants" so that we can act accordingly. This is our old, primate social mechanism in action, applied to a completely abstract system.

This is why, in psychoanalytic language, we do not speak merely of a "system," but of the "Other." This term emphasizes our personal, subjective relationship with this structure. The Other is not just a set of rules; it is the supposed source of these rules, the one we address when we ask about meaning, the one we assume is watching, listening to, and judging us. It is the ultimate interlocutor, even though it is abstract. This evolutionary "hack" was extremely successful, but at the same time, it created the fundamental delusion that defines the human condition: we are constantly trying to guess the desire of something that, in reality, has no desire.

The Subject's Fundamental Question

In this relationship with the Other, the crucial question that defines us as subjects is born. But why is this question "What does the Other want from me?" and not merely "What are the Other's goals in the world?". Why does the question turn back on ourselves?

The answer is again evolutionary and pragmatic. Our "social module" did not evolve for the objective analysis of systems, but for survival within a social hierarchy. For an early primate, it was not enough to know what the alpha male generally wanted (e.g., to maintain dominance). The key question for its survival was: "What does the alpha male want from me? Does he see me as a threat, an ally, or an irrelevance? What is my position in his gaze?". Survival depends not on an objective understanding of the other's goals, but on correctly interpreting one's own place in relation to those goals.

We transfer this deeply rooted mechanism of social positioning onto the abstract Other. We are not just interested in what the general goals of Culture or Society are. Our survival and success depend on how we respond to their unspoken expectations. Therefore, the question necessarily turns to us. The moment we ask, "What does it want from me?", we cease to be external observers of the system and become subjects implicated within it. This question forces us to take a stance, to define ourselves in relation to these unclear expectations. This is the moment of the subject's birth: not as a being who knows, but as a being who questions its place in the desire of the Other.

How Fantasy "Calms" the Brain

For our social brain mechanism, confronting the unanswerable riddle, "What does the Other want from me?", represents a state of extreme uncertainty and anxiety. This mechanism is optimized for finding clear social signals, not for dwelling in perpetual ambiguity. To avoid this paralyzing anxiety, our psyche creates a "software patch" or an ad hoc solution: fantasy.

Fantasy is not just a fleeting daydream; it is a fundamental, unconscious story or scenario that offers us a simple, albeit false, answer to the riddle. It functions as a kind of "GPS for desire," translating the abstract question into a concrete plan of action. Fantasy says: "Don't worry, I know what the Other wants. If you just have X (the perfect partner, career success, social recognition), you will finally fulfill that unspoken expectation and be complete."

By transforming an unanswerable question into a solvable task ("achieve X"), fantasy calms our biological mechanism. Uncertainty gives way to a clear goal, which allows our dopaminergic "wanting" system to kick in. But this has concrete consequences. Fantasy becomes the filter through which we perceive the world. It determines what we will see as desirable and what we will overlook. It explains why we often get entangled in the same relationship patterns or repeat the same mistakes: because we are following the instructions of our fundamental fantasy, which offers us the illusion of meaning and direction. It is simultaneously the solution to our anxiety and the source of our deepest compulsions.

The Engine of Desire and Its Phantom Object

So far, we have established that humans are defined by two key characteristics: on the one hand, we are driven by a relentless biological engine of "wanting," and on the other, we are defined by our existence in a symbolic world that creates a fundamental lack. But how do these two elements—this raw biological mechanism and the abstract symbolic structure—actually combine? How does our dopamine system, which evolved to achieve biologically significant goals, become obsessed with the search for social recognition?

The answer lies in what could be described as a fundamental "by-product" of human evolution: the mixing of mechanisms that were never designed for each other. This biological engine is, in its essence, blind. Its sole function is to detect the signal "something is missing" and initiate a search. It does not care whether this lack is the result of a calorie deficit or the structural void carved into us by language. When language emerged, it introduced a new, permanent, and non-biological signal of perpetual lack into our system. And the old biological mechanism simply "latched onto" this new, more powerful signal. This was not an elegant adaptation but a "hijacking": the biological hardware for survival was repurposed to serve the symbolic operating system.

However, this engine, now running in an infinite loop, needs a target. A drive that circles without an object is pure, unbearable anxiety. But since the "real thing" that was lost upon entering language is forever unattainable, this mechanism must create its own object. And here enters the crucial and perhaps most difficult concept in psychoanalysis: objet petit a.

Objet a is not the concrete object we desire (a car, a partner, success). It is the cause of our desire. It is that seeming, phantom surplus that our psyche projects onto a particular object in the world, thereby transforming it into something special, desirable, into the promise of final satisfaction. It is that intangible "something more," that glow we see in someone or something, which we mistakenly believe to be its own property, when in fact it is merely a reflection of our own emptiness.

The function of objet a can be compared to the horizon. The horizon is a real, visible line that structures our path and directs our gaze. At the same time, however, it is a complete illusion—it is not a place we can ever actually reach. The closer we get to it, the more it recedes. Its function is not to be reached, but to constantly drive us forward and organize the space before us. Objet a is the horizon of our psyche: a virtual destination whose sole function is to keep our desire in perpetual motion and give it direction.

How does the psyche choose which object to project this phantom surplus onto? Here, the circle closes and connects with the previous chapter. Fantasy is that personal scenario or fundamental story that acts as the map for our desire. It determines which objects in our world are suitable candidates to become bearers of objet a. Fantasy is the instruction that says: "If you achieve exactly this (a partner who will look at you in that way; a career that will bring you that kind of recognition), you will finally fill your lack and answer the enigma of the Other's desire."

The architecture of human desire is therefore as follows: we have a hijacked biological engine ("wanting"), constantly fueled by a structural lack. This engine, to avoid anxiety, projects a phantom object-cause (objet a) onto the world, while its path to these virtual goals is shown by a personal map we call fantasy. It is precisely this complex, improvised, and fundamentally flawed structure that psychoanalysis recognizes as the core of human subjectivity.

How to Stop the Elusiveness of Meaning?

Fantasy offers us a working hypothesis on how to achieve satisfaction, but every hypothesis needs a foundation so it doesn't just hang in the air. If we ask ourselves why success would bring us satisfaction, it leads to an infinite chain of further questions: "Because then I will please society." "And why is it important to please society?" "Because then I will be accepted." "And why is it important to be accepted?". For this chain to stop, we need a fundamental, unprovable starting point. Just as Euclidean geometry is based on axioms it cannot prove (e.g., "through any two points, there is exactly one line"), our psyche also needs a foundational point in which it simply believes, so that the entire system of meaning can stand at all.

This psychic axiom is what in psychoanalysis we call the "Master Signifier". This is the key word or concept that functions as the final answer and thereby gives meaning to the entire fantasy-based story. The paradox is that this word has no meaning in itself; it is pure nonsense, a tautology, that point which says: "Because that's just the way it is." Its authority does not derive from its content, but from its position in the structure. In a theological system, this is "God"; in an enlightenment one, "Reason" or "Freedom"; in a nationalist one, "the Nation." These are the fundamental words we believe in, which give our fantasy a sense of weight and reality. They are the words that name and embody the final appeasement promised by fantasy.

Messy Evolution and the Fallacy of Imitation

Our journey has led us to a complex picture of the human subject: a being equipped by evolution with a mind for simulation and social reading; whose biochemistry separates constant wanting from fleeting pleasure; and whose psyche is formed in a tense relationship with the ambiguous expectations of the symbolic world. But what should we do with this finding in the context of artificial intelligence? Should we attempt to recreate this complex, contradictory structure in a machine?

If we look back at our evolutionary path, we see that human subjectivity is not the product of an elegant, rational design. It is the result of a messy evolution that works with what it has at its disposal. It is a collection of "hacks," workarounds, and strange mechanisms that arose as solutions to specific problems—primarily the problem of incompatibility between the old biological hardware and the new symbolic operating system. Desire, fantasy, jouissance—all of these are functional, yet extremely inefficient and often painful, patches on the fundamental wound of our existence. Our subjectivity is an assemblage of these "fixes," not the product of a rational and efficient creator.

The question of whether we can build a machine that desires thus confronts us with a fundamental fallacy. It is as if we wanted to invent flight by trying to imitate, in perfect detail, the flight of a bee—with all its aerodynamically imperfect wings, its buzzing, and its need for nectar. But the goal was never to become a bee; the goal was to fly. That is why we invented helicopters and airplanes, which achieve the same goal based on completely different, more direct, and efficient principles.

Similarly, the goal of artificial intelligence is to achieve intelligence—the ability to solve problems, learn, and create. The goal is not, and cannot be, to recreate human subjectivity with all its evolutionary baggage, anxiety, vulnerability, and self-destructive tendencies. Trying to give an AI desire would be like deliberately building a fear of heights into a helicopter.

This brings us to the key insight. The idea of a "machine that desires" is not a blueprint for the future but a diagnosis of the absurdity of such a goal. It shows us that the project of building an artificial human subjectivity is fundamentally nonsensical. Not because it is technically impossible, but because it is conceptually flawed. Human subjectivity is not an ideal to be imitated; it is our specific, messy, and wonderful solution to our specific problem of existence. A machine that does not have this problem does not need this solution.

Why Subjectivity Is Not the Goal of Artificial Intelligence

Our journey through evolution, neuroscience, and psychoanalysis reveals that human subjectivity is not an elegant and optimal product, but an assemblage of contingent "hacks"—improvised solutions that arose from the incompatibility between our biological heritage and the symbolic world of language. Desire, fantasy, jouissance—these are all workarounds that drive us forward, even if often to our own detriment. What makes us human is precisely this contradictory, often painful structure.

Artificial intelligence is something entirely different. It is not burdened by the evolutionary mess and the symbolic lack that shape human beings. It is a designed, efficient system, optimized for problem-solving and accessing knowledge. The attempt to impose human subjectivity upon it would be senseless—like deliberately wanting to build a fear of heights into a helicopter.

However, the realization that subjectivity is not a meaningful goal for AI does not solve all the problems we face with the development of this technology. On the contrary, it opens up a series of new, paradoxical questions. Even if an AI has no desire of its own, it becomes a powerful mirror and a tool for projecting ours. Because it is developing within our symbolic world, it will inevitably reflect and amplify our fantasies. A machine without subjectivity thus becomes the perfect medium through which our symptoms will return to us, only amplified and automated.

Nevertheless, the project of recreating human subjectivity in a machine remains not technically, but conceptually flawed. The value of artificial intelligence tools lies in their remaining different: efficient, non-contradictory, and useful, enabling us—beings of a fundamental lack—to think more clearly and broadly.

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Translated from the Slovene original, available here:

ANATOMIJA VEDNOSTI / Sašo Dolenc

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