Even If Teleportation Were Invented Today, You Wouldn't Get to Use It

Let's start by explaining how teleportation actually works—because, believe it or not, scientists have already done it! Well, with tiny subatomic particles, at least. In the real world, you don't physically send a particle across distances; instead, you "replicate" that particle somewhere else. You measure its state at one point and copy that state in another, making an identical particle appear where you want it, while destroying the original.

Now imagine scientists could measure every particle in your body and replicate each one somewhere else—you'd have a fully functional teleporter. When I first heard about this, I was both excited and terrified. What if it glitched? What if it malfunctioned? I mean, I've seen The Fly—I know how bad it could go.

But then a deeper, stranger thought crept in: if teleportation works by breaking you down, atom by atom, and reconstructing you somewhere else, is it still you who steps out on the other side? Or is it just a copy—a version of you so identical it even remembers walking into the teleporter, but isn't actually you?

And if that's true, where do you go? Are you gone the moment your atoms are disassembled? Do you die every time you teleport, leaving behind a perfect imposter who thinks they're the real deal? At what point does convenience become a philosophical nightmare?

The more I think about it, the more unsettling it becomes. Because here's the truth: if teleportation works the way most scientists theorize, the person who dreams of teleporting—the person sitting here, writing these words—will never experience it. Oh sure, someone who looks like me, sounds like me, and even believes they're me might step out on the other side. But me, the real me? I'd be left behind, scattered into atoms and never reassembled.

So let's dive into the possibilities, because not all teleportation is created equal. And where better to start than with the gold standard of sci-fi teleportation: Star Trek. The transporter beam is arguably one of the coolest ideas ever put on screen—step onto a glowing platform, watch yourself shimmer into pixels of light, and suddenly you're on an alien planet, ready to boldly go where no one has gone before. It's clean, quick, and somehow doesn't even mess up your uniform.

But when you stop to think about it, Star Trek's version of teleportation isn't actually teleportation at all. Why? Because in this version, you're not being destroyed and reconstructed from scratch. Instead, the transporter converts you into energy, beams that energy to another location, and reassembles you there. It's still you, the same matter, just temporarily turned into energy. No copies, no replacements—just one continuous you.

But here's the catch: if you're traveling as a beam of light, then you're still bound by the rules of light itself—namely, its speed limit. Even at lightspeed it takes four and a half years just to reach the nearest star system. So, while it might work great for getting from the ship to a planet's surface, It's more of a glorified elevator than an actual teleporter. If real teleportation existed in the Star Trek universe, they'd be using it to get across galaxies instead of flying around on ships.

So let's discuss the actual way teleportation works, where every atom in your body is meticulously scanned, its exact position and state recorded down to the quantum level, then that information is transmitted to another location, where an identical version of you is rebuilt from scratch. Sounds efficient, right? Except for one glaring issue: the original you is destroyed in the process.

For this version of teleportation to work, the atoms that make up your body are disassembled, obliterating your physical self in one place. What appears on the other side is a flawless replica, complete with your memories, personality, and even the stray thoughts you had mid-teleport. But no matter how perfect the reconstruction, it's still just that—a reconstruction. The original you is gone, and someone else, even if they believe they're you, is now living your life. But it's NOT you.

So here's the question that keeps me up at night: would you step into that machine? Knowing full well that the person who walks out on the other side isn't really you, it's just some idiot who thinks they are?

If you answered yes to the previous question, let me ask you this: what if the machine didn't kill you? What if, instead of destroying your original body, it simply scanned you, transmitted the information, and created a perfect copy of you somewhere else? You'd still be standing there, alive and intact, watching as another version of you lived your dream life on some distant planet. Imagine watching a live feed of yourself on a faraway paradise—a version of you who gets to explore a new world, bask in the sunlight of an alien sky, and live a life of adventure while you're stuck here, watching it all unfold.

Would you still do it then? Sure, you don't die in this scenario, but does that really make it better? Because now, you're left with the crushing realization that the "you" who's out there living their best life isn't actually you—it's someone else. Someone who looks like you, thinks like you, and feels like you, but isn't bound by the limitations of your current existence. They're on the magical planet of the happy clones, while you're still here, stuck with your commute and your taxes.

And here's a weird question: would you follow yourself on TikTok? Would you obsess over every video of your clone living their best life, endlessly scrolling through footage of sunsets, alien landscapes, and adventure-filled days? Could you resist the temptation to compare their happiness to your own? Or would you spiral into existential despair, knowing you're forever trapped in a life that could have been yours?

But let's go one step further—into a scenario so dystopian, it feels ripped straight out of a sci-fi thriller. What if someone, let's say a megalomaniac billionaire with limitless resources, didn't stop at sending their clones to distant planets? What if, instead, they kept every single one of their clones here on Earth?

Using teleportation technology, this billionaire doesn't just clone themselves once or twice. No, they go all in. They build 1,000 teleporters and set them to work, creating new versions of themselves every few minutes. Each clone is a perfect replica—not just in appearance, but in ambition, ego, access to bank accounts and, most importantly, their belief that they are the one and only real person. By the end of the weekend, there aren't just a few extra versions of this billionaire wandering around. There's a billion of them.

And they're all here. On Earth. Each clone is just as megalomaniacal as the original, driven to seize power, wealth, and control. They don't see themselves as clones—they see themselves as equals, each one entitled to the same status and influence as the original. Imagine the chaos: a society entirely populated by this single individual, competing with themselves for dominance, resources, and recognition. Governments collapse, economies are destroyed, and the world is reshaped—not into a utopia, but into a dystopia ruled entirely by one man's ego, endlessly replicated.

Okay, maybe I got a little carried away with that last one. A billion narcissistic clones overthrowing the world might sound like the plot of a bad sci-fi movie, but the point still stands: no matter what version of teleportation we imagine, none of us—the people reading this right now—will ever get to truly teleport. Whether it's a clone living out your dreams on another planet, an endless society of duplicates ruling Earth, Whether you are destroyed or not, The fact is that you will always be left behind.