If I’d made a million tiny robots and programmed them to love me, to worship me, to sing songs about me, and to weep at the sight of my perfection, you’d call me, at least, twisted.

If I’d made a million tiny robots and programmed them to have free will, and demanded them to love me, to worship me, to sing songs about me, to weep at the sight of my perfection, and threatened them with eternal torment if they chose not to, you’d call me God.