My genres are science fiction and fantasy. They tend to get lumped together for a whole load of reasons: the lines are pretty blurred, they tick a lot of the same boxes with wish-fulfilment and some other things, and the same authors tend to write both. Now if you’re a hard SF purist or whatever you might be outraged, but I’m not here to fight you. Let’s just both agree that in the large they have some pretty big overlaps.

The reason I bring this up is that I think the fault line between the two genres is interesting, and it’s not where you think it is. Before we get there, let’s talk about some preconceptions.

We talked about how SF and F are both settings genres. That is, the expectations of our readers are that this fiction will be set in a particular world. They don’t have any expectations around tension levels or cozy or plot or individual scenes or anything else, and its one of the reasons that science fiction and fantasy are such rich grounds for exploration.

So, that’s easy. But what, exactly, are those setting expectations?

At first blush I think we’d say that science fiction is in the future, and fantasy is in the past. Or a possible future and past, anyway. I don’t think anyone imagines Lord of the Rings really could be historical truth, even though Tolkien makes a point that it is kinda supposed to be.

This definition falls apart pretty quickly, though. Rivers of London is set here and now. Star Wars is obviously a long time ago in a galaxy just over there. Most second world fantasy (that is, fantasy set in its own completely imagined world, not in our world) isn’t in the past as such; it just uses historical tropes. The Man in the High Castle is set in an alternative history of the United States, and I don’t think anyone considers that fantasy.

Okay. Let’s try another approach.

Both these branches of speculative fiction… well, they speculate. They imagine what could be, rather than what is. I am rather wary of the term spec fic for a few reasons, but I don’t think anyone will take offence to the idea that SF and F are both set in universes that are distinct from ours, here and now, unlike most other types of fiction. So how are they different?

It’s easy, isn’t it? It’s how they suspend your disbelief. And now we get to the bones of my argument.

We suspend our disbelief for all fiction. No one can dodge as many bullets as John Wick, but we’re happy to ignore that so long as the gun ballet keeps blazing. Suspension of disbelief might be the other side of the coin to wish-fulfilment: Batman is obviously impossible, but we want him to exist so much that we ignore everything that stops that from intruding on our enjoyment. However, it happens in other places too, otherwise we wouldn’t enjoy crime drama or thrillers or anything else; because, really most police jobs are just about forms and road traffic incidents and graffiti and cases are rarely solved by one person, never mind have satisfying narrative arcs. There are of course exceptions to that, and as a result we can believe that high-stakes crime dramas are possible. However, you should try watching anything detective-y with an actual police officer and you’ll quickly discover that they can’t suspend their disbelief because, come on, that wouldn’t happen. The same is true for medical professionals and secret agents.

So suspension of disbelief is a very personal thing. We accept some fiction, and we don’t accept others. It’s based on both our personal experiences and also how willing we are to set aside that nagging voice in the back of our heads.

Fantasy and SF! I think that the difference between the two is that in fantasy the setting can’t exist. The world is supported by magic. Magic doesn’t exist, but we agree that it could. We take this premise at face value, and set our doubts aside.

In SF we think that the story could happen. It’s often science and technology – or sometimes just the passing of time – that takes us to another world. That enables us to suspend our disbelief differently; we consider that this is possible because we’ve seen something like it in our real world. Sometimes SF uses that to show a mirror of our lives, but actually, I’m not an SF snob and I don’t think that SF is a ‘higher’ form of writing than fantasy. Read, I don’t know, Babel by R F Kuang.

Is this distinction true? Maybe. It’s worth considering, certainly. The point of this, though. is that the different ways that our readers push aside doubts require different ways to help suspend them.

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So how can you, as a writer, help your readers immerse yourself in your non-real world?

I think there are a few ways.

The first is to make it live up to your reader’s expectations as best as you can. For example, if your reader is looking for hard science fiction, the physics on your spaceships are perfect. That particular reader is probably not comfortable with the loosey-goosey handwavyness of space opera, and will be unable to accept your whole story.

This involves a reasonable amount of research. Yes, research is boring and is not writing, but actually it’s a great way to procrastinate on a tired day; fire up Wikipedia and take notes. Think about your setting and read up about their known real-world counterparts. Horses can’t fly in this world because the muscles on their backs just couldn’t power wings, so a pegasus isn’t possible… and anyway, where are you going to fit the saddle? But maybe our fantasy readers expect that, in which case let’s read up about how it might work to help them immerse in the world.

The aim here is to get a level of reality which meets the needs of our reader, so you don’t bring the world crashing down because they turn a page and say, come on. That couldn’t happen.

The next way is to make the micro work. Little details, generally around the mundane, ground it. People do the same thing everywhere; they flirt and eat and lie and laugh and grumble when they lose snail racing, and the more that you show that the more you cement the world as a place where people could actually live. Our tolerance for disbelief is much higher when the characters in a world feel real. It’s a pretty standard trick, this. Look out for it in fiction and copy it.

Then; internal consistency. Nothing makes you want to throw a book across a room more than when something leaves a huge plot hole. If the space pilot could warp jump away at any time, why isn’t everyone doing it? What are the implications for the foundations that you have placed your world in? This is a great mark of shoddy fiction: when a character can do something which no one else could just to advance the plot you have to make sure that this thing is well established before and afterwards, otherwise everyone gets cross. Brandon Sanderson is good at this. Mistborn goes all-in on the self-consistent magic system, and it so well designed that it becomes part of the plot.

As an aside, is this the reason that big franchises collapse? Because there are only so many exceptional people sustainable in a single universe before doubt creeps in and your internal consistency is blown to heck? Perhaps.

Lastly no ret-cons. They cause you to lose faith in the author, and therefore the world. Set your tools out near the start of your work, and limit yourself to them. Then there are no surprises for anyone and you don’t ruin the flow by saying, well of course I said this but actually… This is fine for plot reveals, but dicey for world building and really only works of the people of the world find out at the same time as the reader.

So. Suspension of disbelief! We need it, we want it, we can make it happen! Now excuse me, I must finish. The flying horses are getting restless, so I’m going to take them for a quick jaunt before lunch. Have a great weekend!

Disbelief

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