How to Describe Phenomena in Science Fiction
It’s one of those hot-sun, cool-breeze afternoons in San Francisco’s South Park. I’m on a bench typing in this nifty writing app called, iA Writer, using “focus mode” so that I see nothing but the sentence I’m writing. Each previous sentence fades into oblivion to keep me locked in the present. I’m developing a speculative piece akin to hard sci-fi, meaning that it features today’s technologies improved to a plausible degree (while remaining scientifically sound). As an English major, I’ve been trained to stay out of cliche-ridden genre fiction. To abide to this, I’m developing an experimental narrative structure with a shitload of character introspection. Aaand, voila, I stay within that desired realm of “real” literature.
However, I soon realize that avoiding genre fiction isn’t my main concern. Instead, it’s finding the right way to describe scientific phenomena. I repeatedly find myself in one of two scenarios: I have no idea how to describe the science without demonstrating blotchy knowledge of, say, computers and how they work, or I know a little too much and accidentally write a page-long paragraph describing the many intricacies that permeate the phenomena at hand. The first scenario will lose the reader’s trust. The second will bore them to death. And so, I find myself wondering: how do sci-fi writers gain trust without losing their readers’ attention by way of being overly descriptive? When does a description of science in literature end because its length and depth is “just right”? And what constitutes “just right”? I’ve set out to answer this by looking at one science fiction short story, “The Last Question” by Isaac Asimov, and two science fiction books, The Bible and The Martian by Andy Weir.
Isaac Asimov’s “The Last Question” is a thought-provoking short story that offers a glimpse into what humanity’s future, until the very end of the multiverse, might look like. Humanity invents a supercomputer, Multivac, that continues to self-improve. Its purpose is to solve problems and come up with the best possible solutions. Multivac’s intellect is vastly superior to that of humans, and only continues to heighten. When describing the first version of Multivac, the narrator writes, “[People] had at least a vague notion of the general plan of relays and circuits that had long since grown past the point where any single human could possibly have a firm grasp of the whole.” In this description, Asimov does not venture into the technological unknown. Instead, he admits it to be an unknown and leaves it at that. Other than “circuits,” which are not too specifically described themselves, all other parts of this description are rather vague. Instead, the reader is presented with a concept: people can no longer grasp the inner workings of Multivac. That is all that the author wishes to relate to the reader; a concept rather than specifics. This leaves me with the first takeaway: vague descriptions of technology and science are acceptable as long as the concept is profound.
The story continues to incrementally fast forward further into the future. One such increment addresses overpopulation, which brings me to my second takeaway: address a current issue by way of future-casting (forecasting the future). A dialogue between two people goes as follows: “Space is infinite. A hundred billion Galaxies are there for the taking. More.” To which the second replies: “A hundred billion is not infinite and it’s getting less infinite all the time. Twenty thousand years ago, mankind first solved the problem of utilizing stellar energy, and a few centuries later, interstellar travel became possible. It took mankind a million years to fill one small world and then only fifteen thousand years to fill the rest of the Galaxy.” Now, what the speaker here uses is a series of roughly calculated timespans. Overpopulation and a lack of resources is a problem humanity currently faces. Even when humanity becomes a spacefaring civilization with massive amounts of space for the taking, it will still face the issue of overpopulation. The vast timespan also shows overpopulation to be an issue that is inescapable, meaning that we may as well address it sooner rather than later. From this scene in the story, I conclude that showing an issue stretched over a large timespan works in making a memorable argument. Then, enveloping the said issue in rough numbers that border on the plausible and farfetched works to strengthen the argument’s effect.
The topic of numbers brings me to the next takeaway: the use of specific numbers, especially in dates, that are completely made-up. What is important to understand is that specific numbers gain trust. This is vital in science-fiction where reality is stretched and tested in the reader’s mind. Elements that ground the reader help to alleviate the tension brought about by too much fantastical science. The narrator writes the following:
“Earth exploited its coal and uranium with increasing efficiency, but there was only so much of both. But slowly Multivac learned enough to answer deeper questions more fundamentally, and on May 14, 2061, what had been theory became fact. The energy of the sun was stored, converted, and utilized directly on a planet-wide scale. All Earth turned off its burning coal, its fissioning uranium, and flipped the switch that connected all of it to a small station, one mile in diameter, circling the Earth at half the distance of the Moon. All Earth ran by invisible beams of sunpower.”
Now, this is quite a mouthful of science that involves a number of complex processes. Instead of describing exactly how the sun’s energy is stored, converted, and utilized, and instead of attaching an exact number to half the distance to the moon, we are instead given a specific date: May 14, 2061. This gives the description a realistic nature because it is a real date, albeit in the future. One of my professors once taught me to use odd numbers more than even numbers because, somehow, they look more specific and, therefore, more believable. The date Asimov chose here is both even and odd. The combination makes for an effect of strong realism and simplicity amidst the complex.
The last takeaway I wish to draw attention to in “The Last Question” is the use of repetition. The central purpose of the story is to find an answer to the “last question,” which wonders if there is a way in which entropy can be reversed. Each increment in time ends with humanity asking the supercomputer about decreasing or reversing entropy, otherwise known as chaos or the end of everything. Each time, it replies: “INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER.” The repetition of this non-answer not only keeps the reader thirsting to see how the story will end and how the question will be answered, if at all, but it also strengthens the cathartic effect at the end. We are so desperate for the answer at the end, that the profundity of the story’s conclusion is amplified many times over. This, perhaps, is my favorite takeaway in this story because it is the very feature that keeps me coming back to reread the story year after year. The thrill of the catharsis at the end never subsides, even though I already know what’s coming. And that says something: repetition is powerful. I will not spoil the ending for you, as I hope I have sparked your interest in reading the story.
Let us now turn to the Bible, which, perhaps surprisingly, I have placed in the category of science fiction and the fantastical. In John 5:14, this description is seen: “And this is the confidence that we have in him, that, if we ask any thing according to his will, he heareth us.” This book was, of course, written millennia ago. There were no data collection mechanisms at the time. Jesus couldn’t log into our Facebook and Instagram accounts to see what it is we liked. At the time, it was fantastical for him to hear people and know what they wanted and needed. So, when coming up with new concepts in science fiction, it can be acceptable to propose the implausible because even the implausible may become reality in the future. Future generations may look back and think, “wow, that author was quite the genius,” when, in fact, it was simply a wild guess or ambitious leap of faith.
Another takeaway from the Bible is the use of unexplained fantastical phenomena to spark wonder or other strong emotions in the reader. In 16:28–33, we see Korah and his rebels swallowed by the earth. How does this happen? We do not know. Instead, the event works towards facilitating a response of fear. The fear is then meant for us to draw conclusions from it. Perhaps we shouldn’t sin? Though the earth will not swallow us in a literal sense, it might do so figuratively. This scene leads me to conclude that using exaggerations, especially in figurative form, can be powerful in making a philosophical point in science fiction.
In 4:23–24 we see Jesus heal “all manner of sickness and cast out many demons.” Though protagonists should be imperfect, it is also beneficial for them to possess at least one outstanding trait. It is a formidable experience, after all, to read about an imperfect character who can be a hero in reaching beyond what this world allows. Jesus is flawed because he, though the son of God, is only human. And yet, he possesses supernatural traits. Us human readers can therefore relate to him: we’re imperfect humans, but we can strive to go beyond what our human condition allows. Similarly, the protagonist in my speculative piece, as an example, is a human with some augmentations. He should therefore also have many flaws that pull him back down to an ordinary human level.
Another aspect frequently seen in science fiction to alleviate the weight of scientific and technological details is humor. The Martian by Andy Weir is a perfect example. This book is one of the most scientifically accurate science fiction books ever written. Other than one deliberate choice to exaggerate the strength of a storm on Mars to levels beyond what is possible (due to the thin atmosphere on Mars, strong winds are impossible), every explanation and calculation has been confirmed by scientists who’ve read the book to be absolutely accurate. Now that’s quite a feat! And that’s largely thanks to Andy Weir’s outstanding nerdiness. However, the intense accuracy is paired with frequent comedy. Mark Watney, the protagonist, is stranded on Mars. A number of organizations on Earth are determined to help him get back to Earth. At NASA, Teddy and Venkat are talking about how hard it must be for Mark to be alone so far out of any helping hand’s reach. “What must it be like?” they wonder. “He’s stuck out there. He thinks he’s totally alone and that we all gave up on him. What kind of effect does that have on a man’s psychology?” Then Teddy turns to Venkat: “I wonder what he’s thinking right now.” The narrative cuts to Mark on Mars thinking: “How come Aquaman can control whales? They’re mammals! Makes no sense” (63–64). What is so spectacular about this occurrence, and many other similar ones, is how often the narrative does not take itself seriously. It is founded in serious calculations, but moments like this one make it much easier to read.
Another technique that aids in the readability of science, is the practice of converting scientific terms to ones that are more comedic: “The rover batteries have 18 kilowatt-hours of juice. The oxygenator alone uses 44.1 kilowatt-hours per sol. See my problem? You know what? ‘Kilowatt-hours per sol’ is a pain in the ass to say. I’m gonna invent a new scientific unit name. One kilowatt-hour per sol is…it can be anything…um…I suck at this…I’ll call it a ‘pirate-ninja.’” Mark then goes on using that term: “All told, the Big Three need 69.2 pirate-ninjas” (230). The use of this newly invented unit, “pirate-ninjas,” keeps repeating henceforth and certainly works towards the humoristic flare of the narrative amidst hard-core scientific calculations. My takeaway, then, is to always mix in lightheartedness where the atmosphere may be serious.
On the topic of lightheartedness, it isn’t only humor that can accommodate this effect. Utilizing the familiar can do the same. The makeshift air-sealed home Mark makes for himself on Mars is called a “hab.” Depending on the scene, he jokingly alters its name. Since one of his central character traits is spewing jokes, he calls it his “little hab on the prairie” at one point. This is a fantastic takeaway because it ties new concepts to familiar reference points in pop culture. The Little House on the Prairie is an old show many would be familiar with, so placing this reference in a narrative stationed in the unfamiliar helps to make it more appealing. Another example of reference to pop culture is music. Mark happens to have a CD of 70s hits that one of the mission’s astronauts took with him (before the astronauts deserted Mark on Mars, thinking him dead). He plays the songs while working on various projects in his hab. While fixing a particularly dangerous oxygen leak, he plays the Bee Gees song, “Staying Alive.” Every reader has heard this song. Not only is its subject matter funny at a dire moment of survival in the story, but its sound rings in the reader’s head, once again steering us into the familiar.
These three works by outstanding authors, one of whom is presumably God, offer only a small sample of how scientific and fantastical explanations are handled in science fiction. And yet, they already provide many takeaways: include a profound concept, project a current issue into the future, use specific numbers, employ repetition, take a wild guess, exaggerate in figurative form, give characters superpowers amidst flaws, use humor, be lighthearted in a serious situation, and reference the familiar. A combination of these aspects in science fiction make the descriptions “just right,” and lead me to be excited about writing in the realm of this genre, no matter how much I try to tone the genre down to make it more like “real” literature. And so, as I sit here in South Park with the hot sun having already been stolen by Carl the Fog, I cannot wait to make my characters and their world a product of all that I’ve learned from these great works of science fiction.
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