We live in a universe that seems to be coming apart at the seams. We shouldn’t be surprised at this.
After all, the scientific principle of entropy tells us that everything is winding down—stars burn out, structures crumble, memories fade. That’s the prevailing narrative, right? The one we learn in school, reinforced by science documentaries, and confirmed by the occasional existential pang we experience when we watch a loved one grow old, or suddenly realize we’ve forgotten something we swore we’d always remember.
Reflecting on this, I can imagine the ghost of Paul Harvey making an appearance, eerily reminding me with a wave of his hands, “…And now the rest of the story…!”
Indeed. Scientist and information theorist Tom Stonier proposed that the story of entropy—while real and seemingly inescapable—may be only half the picture. He suggested that even as systems decay, something else quietly takes shape in parallel: information.
Consider a collapsing star. As it burns through its fuel and sheds its outer layers, it isn’t just disintegrating—it’s transforming. From that cosmic death may come a neutron star, or even a black hole—an entirely new structure with properties the original star didn’t possess. Within the wreckage of entropy, something new and specific emerges—something that holds together, self-organizes, and even informs its surroundings. In a very real sense, the black hole’s new structure announces itself to the universe: “I am here,” it says, waiting to be discovered.
Stonier believed that these emergent structures involve a kind of order that’s isn’t about energy conservation or mechanical function, but about pattern and possibility. He saw information not as the opposite of entropy, but as its quiet partner in a deeper dance—structure rising not despite the decay, but because of it.
This is an idea that has resonated with me.
You see, while it’s not hard to imagine all things falling asunder due to entropy—lol, all I have to do is look in the mirror—I’ve often wondered about the other side: the slow, quiet continual becoming.
What if the universe isn’t just a story of loss and disorder, but also one of emergence—where new patterns form from old ones, and where meaning finds its foothold in the rubble?
This question led me to a term I coined and plan on using as a kind of lens through which I view the universe: Infogenesis.
To me, infogenesis is the process by which information comes into being—emerging not just from raw data, but from data in context, from the interaction between data points, and from change itself. It’s a way of looking at the universe that doesn’t deny entropy, nor give into it entirely, but instead sees it as a partner in the birth of something new.
If infogenesis is real—if information is actively forming through decay, transformation, and interaction—then we should be able to see it not just in dying stars or abstract theory, but in the things we know, feel, and build. And we do!
Take memory, for example.
We tend to think of memory as something stored, like files in a cabinet. But neuroscience suggests otherwise. Memories aren’t filed away whole. They’re rebuilt from pieces – a scene here, a sound there, a smell, etc. — every time we recall them. And sometimes, they’re not rebuilt at all. Sometimes, sadly, pieces go missing. But even in that forgetting, something new can emerge: a reinterpretation, a changed emotional tone, a new layer of personal meaning. The original may dissolve, and in its place we get something else—a reshaped story, a reimagined self. That’s infogenesis at work: transformation giving rise to a new kind of informational structure, often arising unbidden, surprising us as it unfolds.
Or consider radioactive decay.
A radioactive particle emits energy, changing its internal structure and eventually transforms into a completely different element. On the one hand, that’s entropy. But on the other, it’s structure forming — as the process results in a stable atom, perhaps a new kind of matter, or a measurable change in the surrounding environment.
Decay generates patterns, and those patterns contain information—available to anyone who knows how to read them. We use this process to date rocks, bones, and the Earth itself. Again — what breaks down in one form, re-emerges in another.
Even AI is a kind of infogenic system.
We feed large language models mountains of raw data—meaningless on its own. But in the interactions between data points, through countless iterations of training and feedback, patterns form. These AI models don’t just memorize; they generalizes, create, reorganize, sometimes in ways we don’t fully understand.
And occasionally—perhaps disturbingly—they surprise us with insights we never expected. The information was always there, hidden in the noise. But it took structure and an interpreter—to make it emerge. That’s infogenesis at work — not just an idea, but a set of integrated processes that may be larger than our brains are built to grasp.
And if information can emerge from the chaos—if meaning isn’t just something we impose on things, but something the universe imparts—then maybe this process is not just theoretical. Maybe it’s happening all around us, all the time. And maybe… we’re not just watching it.
We’re a part of it.
This idea matters to me because I’ve spent a long time wondering what kind of universe I live in—and what kind of story I’m a part of. If everything is just slowly falling apart, that’s one kind of story. But if something is also quietly coming together, then maybe the story is bigger than I thought.
Infogenesis gives me a way to think about that story—about the role that meaning, memory, complexity, and awareness might play in this narrative we call life. It helps me imagine a universe that isn’t just bleeding heat into the void, but continually shaping something in the process. And maybe, just maybe, it will help me understand what it means to participate in that shaping—however small my part may be.
I don’t have final answers or any answers at all, really. But I do have a growing sense that information isn’t just a byproduct of things happening—it’s a signature of something unfolding, of new stories being written, of things worth noticing.
And if the universe really is a place where meaning can emerge from chaos, then maybe our job—yours and mine—isn’t to solve the mystery, but to live inside it, to follow the threads, to look for where the pattern begins.
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