I know authors (and readers!) who hate fantasy worldbuilding. They hate it with a fiery passion. They even go so far as to hand wave whole settings, writing books that feel more like a screenplay – all dialogue and fight scenes – and less like fantasy novels. I’d argue that secondary world fantasy writers in particular sacrifice a lot of tension and richness by doing this, but I understand their motives. If somebody said I had to write a story in a contemporary setting, I’d flee for the hills. We all have different definitions of fun. We’re all in this for different things.
As someone with a background in historical studies, I find the whole process of building new worlds fascinating. Where I’ve seen a lot of newer writers stumble is in making the setting overwhelm the characters. The world becomes so bulky and cumbersome that it drags the story along with it. I’ve heard it said that a great world will feel like another character in the book… but I tend to look at this a little differently. My worlds are never characters – but they do inform the characters. My goal is to create people that couldn’t have existed anywhere else. Their formative experiences, their goals, hopes, aspirations – all of those things are shaped by the world around them. If I can take a character out of my world – or even a country in the world – and they’re the same person in any other time and place as they are in the one I put them in, then I’m not doing my job right.
That’s because when I say “world” I’m not just talking about trees and rivers. I’ll meet folks who have these massive maps full of valleys and mountains and hills and crazy names; they may even have gone so far as to figure out imports and exports, languages and swear words. But when I ask them about marriage ceremonies (or lack thereof), gender expectations (and number of), religious factions/tensions (there’s never “one” religion!) and cultural taboos, I’ll often get blank looks.
And I’ll worry that the book they’re writing may not be for me.
The choices we make when constructing new worlds matter. How much do they matter? Consider this: if you change just one thing – how about giant cats pull carts instead of horses? – then you have to figure out what else changes because of that. Are there giant litter-filled ditches along the streets for cats to relieve themselves? Are there giant dogs, too, and if yes, do they fight; do they fight with other beasts of burden? Is there a whole profession dedicated to clipping cats’ nails and teeth? Is cat-scratch fever more common, and what are the rules and laws related to injuries that may arise if a cat claws someone? Who raises the cats, how much do they cost? If you don’t have one, what does it say about your social standing?
As an author, I’d need to figure this stuff out. Not because it’d all go in the book, but because it could add a lot of flavor. Maybe that character I wanted to be a doctor actually specializes in cat scratch fever. Maybe a vital clue over the course of the plot is found buried in cat litter on the side of the road. Maybe my protagonist sees someone in rags buying four cats and wonders how they can afford such an extravagance, and so follows them, thus moving the plot forward.
Social conventions are far more important, I’d argue, than even economics and geography, though all should work together. Is this world a hierarchy? Does it believe humans can be bought and sold? And if yes, who? In fact, who or what is considered “human” in your books? And is war a blemish or a sacrament?
Daniel Abraham does worldbuildling right in his Long Price Quartet, a world where magic beings are bound by poet-sorcerers to complete everyday tasks. The social and economic effects of this type of magic become plot points in the story, not just background information or “Well, that’s cool” asides. They’re intricately bound to the narrative. If the world was different, the story and the people in it would be, too.
This also applies to things a lot of fantasy authors take for granted, such as brothels. I see brothels tossed into fantasy settings without a second thought by otherwise very savvy writers. Very few think to reimagine them the way that a writer like Jacqueline Carey does in her Kushiel books, where a house of pleasure becomes a holy place, and the sexual act a prayer to god. Carey achieves this in large part by throwing out taboos around sex and placing a greater emphasis on consent. She develops a religion of love and free will, and carries that through to its logical conclusion.
Some of my favorite worldbuilding authors – aside from the ones most folks think of first, like Jeff VanderMeer or China Mieville – are Angela Carter, Tim Akers, Martha Wells, Zachary Jernigan, Saladin Ahmed, Ian Tregillis, KJ Bishop, and Paula Volsky.
These are the sorts of folks who take a lot of time to work out what things in their worlds are the same as ours – and which are fascinatingly different. They convey a powerful sense of wonder that often leaves me breathless and hungry for whatever they’ve got out next. Best of all, they encourage me to re-imagine my own world, and interrogate my own assumptions about what’s “normal.”
Whenever I see a pretty map, now, I compare it to those first few pages of the novel it’s slapped at the front of. Is the world they’re building on the page as compelling as the map? Because if I don’t get the same sense of wonder from the prose as I do from the map, it’s a no-go.
Call me picky. Or a worldbuilding fanatic. But the most important marker of a successful fantasy novel, for me, is its ability to transport me somewhere else. To a place and among people I could never have imagined on my own.
Thanks to Kameron for stopping by Fantasy-Faction. Her first book in the Trilogy, God’s War, has been out in the US for a while now (picking up all kinds of positive reviews, including comments such as: ‘Hurley’s world-building is phenomenal’ & ‘the most inventive world-building I’ve seen’) and it was released by Del Ray UK just a few weeks ago. The Trailer for the book is below:
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