It is possible that there is no “meaning of life,” no ultimate “point,” in which case, we did no harm by trying to find one. It is possible that the “meaning of life” is in fact something very simple: like “love,” or “beauty,” or “joy” — in which case, this will have been a long journey to “know a place for the very first time,” and we will have to trust our AIs to realize some aspect of the meaningfulness of human life more fully. It also is possible that the “meaning of life” is something well beyond our comprehension, which only a much, much greater intelligence could ever hope to appreciate; the way that all of the ants that humans killed in the construction of New York City will never be able to understand the project that they died for. But whatever that ultimate “meaning of life” may be, one thing seems clear: humans exist as an intermediary step. A bootloader, if you will.