Moral Uncanniness of De-Extinction and Our Empathy for Dire Wolves
By Steve Lemeshko
Reconstruction of the dire wolf. Credit: Jarble, CC BY 2.0.
Colossal Biosciences recently made headlines with the world’s first synthetic species of “dire wolves.” Twenty genes edited; thousands of years collapsed; a wolf was made to resemble something long gone extinct. The researchers reconstructed ancient genetic material, some dating back to 73,000 years ago, and used CRISPR to edit a gray wolf genome. The result is a gene-tweaked gray wolf marketed as a de-extinct dire wolf. But here’s the thing: if you tweak 20 genes in a chimp, you don’t get a human. These dire wolves are nothing but designer dogs built for headlines. And yet, something about this “technological triumph” sticks with me—not because of the science, but because of the deep sense of moral uncanniness. We’re told this is about conservation, innovation, even empathy, but is it?
Don’t get me wrong; the science is undeniably impressive. Editing genes to recreate lost forms of life is real and is happening. And it might open doors to potential conservation miracles: reintroducing genetic diversity to endangered populations like red wolves, reviving functionally extinct species like northern white rhinos, or bringing back species like passenger pigeons. However, if this is the doorway to the future, why do the first ghosts made with CRISPR belong more in a theme park than a forest?
Let’s talk about those “dire wolves.”
Ecological empathy means understanding and restoring lost relationships between humans, species, and the natural world. However, real dire wolves went extinct thousands of years ago. Nothing alive remembers them. There’s neither ecological nor cultural memory, only a leash and a brand name.
They are, at best, artifacts of nostalgia—not for wolves themselves, but for the fantasy of a “wilder world.” This is not the nostalgia grounded in reality, memory, or place, but rather in fiction and spectacle. So yes, it is nostalgia because deep down we mourn what we destroyed, so instead of confronting that loss, we invent a polished fantasy figure, not to repair the damage but to soothe our discomfort.
This isn’t conservation; it’s a performance. We created a new lineage—living, breathing beings—destined to live on display because the idea “captured the public’s imagination” on a fantasy show, Game of Thrones. We’ve seen this before. Animals have long been used for our entertainment: cetaceans like orcas and belugas kidnapped, raped, and forced to perform at SeaWorld, an exploitation framed as conservation efforts. These synthetic wolves are no different. They are highly sophisticated creatures born into captivity to become our slaves, created to exist for us, and only for us.
In the best-case scenarios (which is a big “if,” assuming these wolves aren’t trophy-hunted), they’ll still spend their entire lives in enclosures—big ones, maybe, but still enclosures. There can be no plan for rewilding because their world is long gone. So, when compassionate conservation asks us to empathize with and assign moral worth to individual animals, is it ethical to create beings destined to never be wild?
Empathy has power, and it can move people to action. That’s why we saw such overwhelming grief over Peanut the squirrel, Hokget the terrier, or Tilikum the orca. In a setting of zoos and aquariums, empathy has been associated with increased wildlife conservation attitudes. However, even if those wolf puppies are cute—and they are—what is the target of our empathetic reaction? What action is this story leading us toward? Is it a campaign for species revival or a soft PR roll-out for a future filled with animals engineered for our entertainment?
Even if we assume the best intentions (and I’m not saying we should), this still raises questions. De-extinction is often pitched as a technofix for biodiversity loss, but technofixes don’t resolve systemic problems. The root causes of extinction, such as habitat loss, climate change, and ecological fragmentation, remain largely unaddressed. Just like fire suppression created the conditions for catastrophic wildfires in the West, using new tools to patch over old destruction can backfire in ways we don’t yet understand. And even technofixes, if they’re to be justified, must at least attempt to address the problem. For example, culling barred owls to save northern spotted owls is ethically fraught, but it tries to address an ongoing ecological challenge. These wolves are not solving anything.
And if this isn’t about ecology, empathy, or memory, then what is it for?
What makes this story especially ironic is the timing. As we speak, real gray wolves are under attack. There are efforts underway to delist them from the Endangered Species Act. While the lab reinvents symbols of ancient predators, the real thing is being erased, in the background. And this is the question I can’t let go of: Why are we spending millions to recreate fantasy wolves, when the actual wolves are still here and still dying?
I want to be clear. Tools like CRISPR aren’t inherently bad. They’re just that—tools, and the moral weight comes from what we do with them. Nuclear energy, for example, can boil water or flatten cities. The question is not about whether the tool itself is bad or not, but rather how and for what we apply it. And right now, the purpose looks a lot more like performance than conservation.
I would want to end this essay with a quote from Life, Edited:
“The most effective de-extinction strategy after all is actually just preventing extinctions in the first place.”
Let’s not lose sight of that.
For further reading, see the following articles:
How Zoos and Aquariums Help Develop Empathy for Wildlife / January 30, 2025
Ethics, Compassion, and Captivity of Cetaceans / January 9, 2025
Northern Spotted Owl vs. Barred Owl: The Ethical Conundrum of Compassionate Conservation / November 7, 2024