Outer Wilds, Neurodiversity, and the Shape of Intelligence

I’ve watched enough Outer Wilds playthroughs to develop a theory that is either insightful or a sign I should touch grass. Possibly both.

One of the things Outer Wilds does—quietly, insistently—is ask what different kinds of minds look like when they’re allowed to shape a civilization. Not as labels. Not as diagnoses. As ways of being intelligent.

Seen through that lens, the game starts to look less like a puzzle box and more like a thought experiment in neurodiversity.

(By the way, Outer Wilds is a game that has to be experienced for yourself without previous knowledge — and this article is packed with spoilers. If you haven't played yet, do us both a favor: bookmark this, stop reading right now, and come back after you finished it. Thanks.)

The Nomai: “Identify and Explain”

Let’s start with the Nomai.

If you dig deep enough — especially around the Quantum Moon — you eventually learn that Nomai philosophy can be reduced to two verbs:

Identify. Explain.

These are the two tenets of Nomai philosophy; to seek out and to understand is our way of living.

These aren’t just scientific habits. They’re moral ones.

To identify is to resist premature conclusions: to ask what something actually is, where its boundaries lie, how it behaves under observation. To explain is to build a model that survives contact with reality and can be shared with others.

This is an entire civilization built around what, in human terms, looks a lot like autistic cognition at its healthiest: intense curiosity, comfort with abstraction, systematic thinking, externalized memory, and zero cultural stigma around saying “we were wrong, let’s revise.”

(Also: they awkwardly put their feelings into written words. “I don't know how to be me without you.” “In romantic matters, her density rivals a neutron star.” They cautiously probe around each other. They engage gingerly but productively with their rivals (Poke/Cassava, Pye/Idaea). Very Spectrum communication style.)

The Nomai don’t conquer. They don’t mythologize themselves. They document failures with pride. Their cities feel like collaborative notebooks stretched across a solar system.

They are unapologetically curious—and tragically vulnerable to a universe that does not care how good your epistemology is.

The Hearthians: ADHD at the End of the Universe

Now contrast that with the Hearthians.

By the time they evolve, the universe is old, resource-scarce, and actively hostile. Long planning horizons are a luxury. Survival favors minds that are:

In other words: ADHD as an evolutionary feature, not a bug.

The Hearthians are brilliant generalists (they have to: their population is minuscule). They build rockets with wood, vibes, and courage. Every single tech device they use has duct tape somewhere. They outsource executive function to cameras and autopilot (thanks, Slate). They are distractible, fearless, and absurdly resilient.

They don’t understand the universe deeply (okay, except for Gabbro) — but they engage with it constantly. And in a chaotic environment, that matters more.

Quartz, the Hatchling: The Convergence

And then there’s the protagonist. Or, as I like to call them, Quartz.

Quartz is what happens when you give an ADHD brain infinite retries and a strict 22-minute timebox.

“What if,” Quartz seems to ask, “I could do everything… in the same day?”

This is the Superman-of-ADHD fantasy realized. Hyperfocus without permanent consequences. Novelty without punishment. Failure as information instead of shame.

Quartz succeeds not by being the smartest individual, but by borrowing ways of thinking as needed: Nomai patience here, Hearthian boldness there, infinite sass where there's someone to talk to, relentless curiosity everywhere.

Intelligence, in motion.

Quartz also stops us from asking “but which approach is better?” because the question then seems stupid. There's no such a thing. They're optimized for different problems — and they beautifully complement each other. That's why we call neurodiversity, well, neurodiversity.

The Final Campfire: A Mind Assembled

By the time you reach the final campfire, it stops feeling like a reunion and starts feeling like a metaphor.

Each character represents not a personality, but a faculty:

Esker Patience and reflection. Esker is the one who stepped away from the noise and kept listening. Solitude not as withdrawal, but as signal amplification. The part of intelligence that says: slow down, the universe will still be there. Without Esker, you rush past meaning. Telling: you don't have to go “gather” Esker. He's already there. He's always been there.

Gabbro Calm, openness, acceptance of uncertainty. Chill™. Gabbro doesn’t solve quantum mechanics; they coexist with it and turn it into art. This is epistemic non-attachment. “I might be wrong, and that’s okay.” The antidote to panic. The hammock at the edge of the abyss.

Chert Mathematics, strict observation, uncomfortable truth. Chert keeps watching even when the data becomes existentially rude. No avoidance. No narrative sugar. Just: this is what the universe is doing. Intelligence that doesn’t look away. And appropriately, it collapses into panic, since that's the failure mode of this faculty — but that doesn't make it less valuable.

Riebeck Memory, history, continuity. The past as a dataset, not nostalgia. Riebeck is the reminder that understanding is cumulative, that knowledge persists through careful preservation. Fear doesn’t disqualify you from insight. It just means you proceed gently.

Feldspar Curiosity and adventure, unfiltered. The willingness to go first, to test the impossible, to be gloriously wrong at high velocity. Feldspar is raw exploratory drive—the spark without which nothing ever starts. Or at least until he gets tired… because taking a break is important too.

None of these traits is sufficient alone. Together, they form something like a complete intelligence: reflective, courageous, grounded, and adaptable.

And then there’s Solanum stepping in to integrate them with the one thing that makes it all work.

Is Solanum the Real Main Character? (Semi-Serious)

This is where I allow myself a little trolling.

Solanum’s arc can be read as the actual philosophical spine of the game.

Child: What if the Eye is evil? Teen: Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Young adult: The universe is, and we are. Ancient quantum hermit: I think of us as friends.

That’s not a plotline. That’s intellectual maturation.

Solanum embodies the hardest cognitive skill of all: updating one’s worldview without losing oneself. She is the 看板娘 of changing your mind in response to evidence—without panic, without nihilism, without clinging to certainty.

If the Nomai give us the method, Solanum gives us the emotional maturity to use it.

So What Is Outer Wilds Actually About?

It’s not a puzzle game. Calling it that does real harm.

It’s a game about how intelligence works when it’s allowed to be curious, fallible, and brave. About how different kinds of minds survive — or don’t — under different cosmic conditions. About learning deeply enough that, when explanation runs out, you can still choose to leap.

You do have to YOLO into the Eye in the end. You do probably crash into the sun at least once on purpose. And that’s the point.

Understanding gets you to the edge. Meaning requires the jump.

Intelligence, in Outer Wilds, isn’t a stat you possess. It’s a process you practice—until you know enough to let go.

And maybe that’s why the game hits so hard: it quietly insists that becoming smarter isn’t about becoming different.

It’s about becoming willing.