Aliens Aren’t Ghosting Us. They’re Just Over It.
There’s a new theory going around that aliens aren’t ignoring us. They’re not hiding, abducting cows, or playing intergalactic peekaboo. They’ve just… given up. The scientific term, apparently, is “radical mundanity.”
It’s from a NASA scientist named Dr. Robin Corbet, who works at the Goddard Space Flight Center. The theory goes something like this: extraterrestrial civilizations exist, but they’re not super advanced. They’re not building Dyson spheres, bending space-time, or doing anything you’d see in Interstellar. They’re just like us, a few steps ahead, bored out of their minds, and probably watching their own version of Love Island.
In other words, aliens might not be ghosting humanity because we’re primitive. They might just be tired of trying.
Honestly, same.
The Universe Might Just Be Mediocre
For decades, people have tried to solve what’s called the Fermi paradox—the question of why, if intelligent life is statistically likely, we haven’t seen any evidence of it. We’ve come up with theories about alien zookeepers, interdimensional civilizations, or higher beings observing us like a reality show that jumped the shark centuries ago.
Dr. Corbet’s idea, though, is refreshingly bleak. He suggests that maybe there are aliens out there, but they’re not that advanced, and the universe itself is just… average.
He calls it a “less terrifying universe.” I call it cosmic burnout.
Because when you think about it, if there really are alien civilizations, they’ve probably gone through the same nonsense we have. They built their version of social media, ruined their attention spans, discovered climate change, and now they’re sitting on their equivalent of TikTok, scrolling through intergalactic thirst traps while their planet melts.
Maybe they tried building massive beacons once, the kind that scream into the void across galaxies. But after a few million years of no one answering, they probably said screw it, unplugged the thing, and went home.
It’s the cosmic equivalent of texting “hey” and watching it sit there on read for eternity.
Radical Mundanity: The Most Depressing Kind of Realism
According to Dr. Corbet, these civilizations might have tech like ours—just not much better. Imagine having an iPhone 42 instead of an iPhone 17. It’s newer, faster, maybe has a better camera. But it’s not life-changing. It doesn’t teleport you or solve loneliness. It just means your selfies look slightly less tragic.
That’s what he’s saying about aliens. They’re not gods. They’re not building wormholes or black hole engines. They just got a firmware update we haven’t downloaded yet.
It’s funny, because that version of the universe actually makes a lot of sense. We always assume aliens are hyper-intelligent beings waiting to enlighten us. But statistically speaking, they’re probably just mediocre—caught in the same loop of progress, distraction, and existential dread we are.
Think about it: maybe they’re sitting in their version of a cubicle, drinking something caffeine-adjacent, scrolling through cosmic news, and thinking, “Man, this galaxy sucks.”
Maybe They Tried—and Quit
One of the more depressing parts of the radical mundanity theory is that even if alien civilizations did try to reach out, the process would take millions of years. You send a signal, then wait for a reply that might show up when your species is long extinct.
It’s like mailing a letter in the 1400s and the response showing up in 3025.
Why would anyone bother? You’d need infinite patience and zero hope, which doesn’t sound like the kind of mindset that survives evolution.
Dr. Corbet’s point is that even advanced civilizations would lose motivation. They’d calculate the energy cost, the time lag, and then go, “You know what? Let’s just not.”
And honestly, that feels right. We can’t even maintain enthusiasm for a group chat past the third week. Expecting a civilization to maintain enthusiasm for intergalactic outreach over geological timescales is optimistic at best, delusional at worst.
Earth: The Unremarkable Airbnb of the Galaxy
Dr. Corbet also said that Earth probably isn’t a very interesting place to visit. Which… fair. From space, we look like a damp marble covered in anxiety and plastic.
If you’re an alien civilization scrolling through potential destinations, we’re not five-star material. We’re more like the Airbnb you book last minute because everything else was full.
“Decent view, smells weird, hosts won’t stop arguing.”
Even if they did drop by, what would they see? A species that still fights about Wi-Fi passwords, believes horoscopes are science, and keeps pretending billionaires are innovators instead of guys who won the capitalism lottery.
Aliens would take one look, decide we’re a fixer-upper, and leave a two-star review. “Would not colonize again.”
The Real Problem: We Keep Expecting Aliens to Care
There’s something deeply human about assuming aliens would care enough to reach out. We’re desperate for validation, even on a cosmic level. It’s the same energy as refreshing your phone after sending a risky text.
We assume that if intelligent life exists, they must want to talk to us. But what if they’ve got their own problems? Their own wars, their own Kardashians, their own billionaires trying to go to space?
Maybe they discovered we exist and thought, “Yeah, no thanks. We’ve got enough drama at home.”
If you think about it, that’s probably the healthiest boundary any civilization could set. Imagine being advanced enough to detect us, realize what we’re about, and then collectively agree to just move on. That’s not ghosting. That’s self-preservation.
The Drake Equation and the False Hope of Math
The Drake equation—the one used to estimate how many intelligent civilizations should exist—has always been a weird kind of cosmic optimism. It’s math trying to justify hope.
You plug in numbers for how many stars, how many planets, how many might have life, and so on. The result always suggests that there should be a lot of intelligent life out there. But here’s the thing: math doesn’t account for apathy.
It doesn’t calculate “percent of civilizations that got bored and stopped trying.” It doesn’t include “chance that alien social media ruined their attention spans.”
Numbers can’t capture the universal truth that every intelligent being eventually gets tired. Whether it’s of existence, bureaucracy, or each other. The Drake equation assumes curiosity is eternal. Dr. Corbet says maybe it isn’t.
Maybe curiosity has an expiration date.
A Boring Universe Might Be the Real Horror Story
You’d think a universe full of killer aliens or godlike entities would be terrifying. But a universe that’s just fine? That’s worse.
Because it means there’s no grand design. No ancient wisdom waiting for us. Just a lot of planets filled with intelligent species who peaked at mediocre Wi-Fi and called it a day.
We might be sitting in a cosmic neighborhood where everyone’s too tired to talk. Where every planet is some version of suburban ennui, full of beings who’ve already seen the end of their own potential and decided to settle for autopilot.
That’s not just depressing. That’s familiar.
Maybe The Signal We’re Waiting For Already Came
What if the “contact” we keep waiting for already happened, and it was just as underwhelming as everything else in life?
Maybe some civilization sent a signal a million years ago, and by the time it reached us, it was a faint blip we dismissed as interference. Maybe it said something like, “Hey, you up?” and we never saw it.
That would be the most human outcome possible: to finally receive a message from intelligent life and accidentally delete it because someone thought it was spam.
Imagine explaining that to the next species that evolves here. “Yeah, we missed the most important message in the galaxy because Karen didn’t recognize the number.”
The Universe as a Group Chat That Died in 2012
If you zoom out, the radical mundanity theory basically says the galaxy is like an ancient group chat. Once upon a time, everyone was talking, sending memes, maybe sharing energy signatures. Then slowly, people stopped replying.
One civilization went extinct. Another got distracted. Another evolved into something too busy binge-watching their version of Netflix to care.
Now, the chat is silent. Billions of unread messages, no notifications. The last active user sent a signal centuries ago that said, “Is anyone still here?” and got nothing.
So yeah, maybe aliens aren’t ghosting us. Maybe we logged on too late.
The Disappointing Truth About Discovery
Even if we did make contact, Dr. Corbet suggests it might not be the earth-shattering moment we imagine. It wouldn’t give us faster-than-light travel or new physics. It would just confirm that life is common—and that everyone’s equally stuck.
We’d probably find a civilization that’s a little more advanced, sure. Maybe they’ve cured disease or figured out renewable energy. But the big revelation would be that intelligence doesn’t save you from monotony.
They’d tell us they still have bad bosses, awkward family dinners, and overpriced housing.
Basically, they’d be us. But with better Wi-Fi.
The Existential Beauty of Being Ignored
There’s something weirdly freeing about the idea that we’re not special. That no one’s coming to save us, judge us, or vaporize us.
It’s like realizing you’ve been standing under a spotlight your whole life, waiting for applause, and then learning the theater’s been empty the whole time.
The universe might not care. And maybe that’s the point.
If aliens exist and they’re as dull and distracted as we are, then we’re not the cosmic underdogs. We’re just another civilization doing its best to fill the silence.
And if they don’t exist at all? Then the silence is still ours to fill. Either way, we’re the ones left holding the mic.
The Punchline: Maybe We’re the Aliens Who Gave Up
Maybe the reason we can’t find aliens is because we already are them. The tired ones. The burned-out ones. The ones who hit the ceiling of innovation, decided it was good enough, and went back to doomscrolling.
Maybe Earth isn’t the latecomer to the conversation. Maybe we’re the rerun. The recycled story that’s already been told a thousand times across a thousand planets.
A civilization rises, creates, destroys, gets bored, fades away. Then somewhere else, another one starts. Same plot. Different actors.
The universe as syndication.
The Universe Owes Us Nothing
At the end of the day, Dr. Corbet’s theory isn’t really about aliens. It’s about expectations.
We keep assuming that the universe is supposed to be interesting. That life must have a narrative arc. That somewhere out there, someone has it figured out.
But maybe it’s all just… fine. Not grand. Not tragic. Just fine.
Maybe the real message is to stop waiting for some higher power, some alien, some big reveal to make the story make sense. Because what if this is it? The middle of nowhere, full of life that’s too busy living—or too tired—to bother looking up.
So go ahead. Keep sending those signals. Keep building your little machines and staring at the stars. But don’t be surprised if no one texts back.
They’re not ghosting you.
They’re just over it.
