Another world

It's as likely as not that the creation of our Universe resembled not so much a big bang or a divine spark, but the plotline of The Matrix, a poorish sci-fi flick. We are just too much of a perfect mix to be true, ask Martin Rees, astronomer royal.
Gravity is tweaked to such a degree on our planet, one in billions, that the possibility of our being here being an accident defies, well, all probability. Everything that makes life possible on Earth is arranged to such a degree, gases, climate, positions of other planets, it simply couldn't be by chance.
In David Ambrose's briliant novel Coincidence, we are shown to be mere playthings of a super-intelligent creator, as flys to small boys, as Shakespeare put it. Our feeble intelligence is not capable of understanding what makes the Universe tick. Man is at best a stone age creature with the brain of a hunter gatherer fashioned by a million years of violence and a mere few hundred years of civilisation. Heard of The Holocaust anyone? Perhaps only the welcome advances in genetics or sentient computers can ever shunt us into an understanding of our place in the Universe. We are as amoeba, still floundering on the margins of creation. We don't need to fear the future.