On writing worlds

There is this thing called “worldbuilding” in speculative fiction (the wider genre comprising sci-fi and fantasy), which writers supposedly build and deploy as inconspicuously as possible (lest they bother the reader with the dreaded info-dump) as backdrop for a story. Essays on the craft of writing explain worldbuilding is about inventing culture, history, and geography for imaginary places, from elf forests to steampunk streets, planets in other galaxies to spaceships crossing the nothingness of space, and using them as backdrop for characters boasting with agency. Literary fiction, on the other hand, is based on a world readers already know, and therefore doesn’t need worldbuilding. In literary fiction, readers can safely rely on assumptions about what the world of the story looks like, and focus on characters and plot. On what really matters, basically.

I’ve always had a niggle with this definition of worldbuilding, as you might have gathered by this point. First of all, as a reader, I’m interested in real and imaginary worlds, as much as in who inhabits them. Worlds are not backdrops, accessories, or elements to be kept to a minimum while I follow the actions and views of a character. Worlds are as exciting as characters, sometimes more. Behold a world where gravity is much weaker than on Earth, and imagine how that difference impacts biology, engineering, and travel. Fascinating! Tell me more about it, before you get back to whatever Zong was doing (Zong being the main character in this flash-sci fi world I made up just now). Of course, you have to include the worldbuilding in a smart way, not necessarily showing it (as in another much overused trope of the craft), but blending it nicely with the rest. I mustn’t forget who Zong is, in the midst of descriptions about ethereal people with lighter bone structure, balloon-like mobile homes anchored to the ground with ropes, and giant horse-like creatures used as transport because of their habit of jumping every day to the nearest balloon settlement.

Not only alien worlds are fascinating, though - and here I jump (like the horsey creatures) to the second reason why worldbuilding is required beyond speculative fiction. Our world is varied and puzzling enough to merit a spot in the foreground. Literary novels with no worldbuilding can only appeal to a minimum common denominator between readers. Sure, these novels don’t usually need to mention the effects of gravity, but if the story takes place in a different culture, place, time, or mindset from the reader’s - it needs worldbuilding. A book with no worldbuilding is aimed at people with exactly the same background, the same assumptions, the same way of seeing the world, perhaps the same circumstances as the character and/or the narrator. How boring is that? Also, not inclusive. A reader with a different background would be in the dark, confused, alienated, without access to the bits in the story that have been made invisible, assumed, part of “their” world. Whose?

I’m exaggerating to make a point. No one wants to spend time reading paragraphs with details they already know. When it’s time to strike a balance between worldbuilding and assuming a common world, writers must focus on their target readership. It’s like language, right? If you write novels in English, translate them to reach readers who don’t speak the language. And if you’re writing for aliens, make sure to include the effects of gravity on Earth.