My love for sci fi is as deep as it is long-lived.
One of my first encounters with this genre was through the book series Animorphs, which fascinated me with its group of young friends who, after being gifted the power to morph into animals, are drafted into the service of stopping a parasitic alien race from conquering Earth and its inhabitants. Over the course of 54 books (a fact I did not have to research), there certainly exists a heavy dose of such classic sci-fi elements as spaceships, time travel, and laser guns, but ultimately it was a story about bravery, loyalty, sacrifice, and friendship/love. Each book, each adventure or mission, would have unique physical or mental challenges, and these six friends would have to lean on each other to survive and succeed. More than a decade has passed since I last read (and cried over) these books, but I remember Jake, Cassie, Rachel, Tobias, Marco, and Ax, and could still tell you their personalities and their fates. In this way, Animorphs embodies what I love most about sci fi: that this genre has all the tools of nonfiction—rich character development, detailed settings, emotional stakes—but on top of that, adds futuristic or supernatural elements, the only limit being the writer’s imagination.
Now, so as not to offend genre purists, I will stipulate that I am (purposefully) conflating sci fi and fantasy. Those who would strictly differentiate between the genres would likely point out that science fiction is founded upon possible or explainable advances in science or technology, while fantasy transcends reality and makes no such effort to explain its inner workings within the laws of our known universe. Take Iron Man versus Harry Potter—one can fly because he built himself a metal suit with thrusters, and the other can do so simply because he has a magical broomstick; one is conceivable given what we know about the laws of science, and the other is a wand-wielding, mythical-creature-befriending wizard. Sci fi vs fantasy is akin to human aspiration vs imagination, science vs supernatural, the possible vs the impossible. (Of course, this distinction is not always so clear, and considering that superhero and Star Wars-inspired flicks are so often intertwining elements from both genres, the distinction is often altogether ignored.) But for the sake of this post, I would argue that what’s more important is what these genres share—they both exist under the umbrella of speculative fiction (SF), creating stories from “what if” scenarios and using elements and/or settings that do not currently exist in the real world.
And because I love this genre, it bothers me that SF’s unreal elements are what can sometimes make it the subject of derision or dismissal, the misunderstood comic-con coming to us via page or screen. Some people believe the only reason fans like the genre is because it’s escapist, trivial, imaginative nonsense for children, not realizing that SF tells meaningful, human-centric stories like any other genre, just from a unique angle.
One of my favorite advocates against this interpretation is fantasy writer Neil Gaiman. When paraphrasing an idea of fellow author G. K. Chesterton, Gaiman included in his epigraph to Coraline the following phrase:
"Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."
Think about that. What he means to say is that as humans, we all have seemingly insurmountable fears, worries, and challenges in our lives—things that scare us so much, they might as well be giant, flying, fire-breathing monsters. What creators of SF do is give such preposterous-seeming fears a face; they take the worries at the back of our minds (of antagonists, of failure, of change) and embody them so that they can be confronted, demystified, or defeated.
In fact, if you track down the original quotation, Chesterton writes more concretely, saying that fairy tales aren’t responsible for our notions of fear or evil—it is our world, our reality, that has made those things known. What fairy tales are responsible for, then, is introducing limitations to fear and evil. Fairy tales show children, like the broader SF genre shows adults, that we can overcome. (In fact, historically speaking, the sci-fi and horror genres were created in response to humans’ fears of technology and change, and the supernatural and the unknown.) These genres let us vicariously face our fears or dream our dreams, and in so doing, give us the courage and hope to slay our own dragons. And you better believe that SF TV series are up to the task.
I would categorize my affinity and respect for SF into two arguments: one is scholarly and the other more… personal. Let us start with the more academic answer.
I. A Scholar's Delight, or The tech whiz sidekick's long-winded and technical answer
It’s no wonder that true stories, nonfiction narratives, have an innate pull to them, a literal realness that makes us consider the actual possibilities and limitations in our own lives. (The growing popularity of the true crime genre is a case in point.) They inspire or teach us because the stories they tell really happened; people actually succeeded, failed, or simply lived in some way worth sharing.
But SF offers us a pull of its own, a pull to examine our world’s conceptions and limitations by purposefully going beyond them. SF allows us to play out both common and far-fetched “what if…” scenarios: What if we could live forever? What if we had superpowers or magic? What if time travel existed? What if we lived in outer space? Yet through these seemingly impossible scenarios—after plopping characters inside and having them interact with their world and one another—such SF stories actually go on to explore age-old questions: Who am I? What is my purpose? What is “good”?
A primary way that SF does this is through allegory. SF creates worlds that are different from our own, yet suffer from the same types of societal problems, or have characters that share the same types of hopes, fears, and doubts; usually these allegories are used to present a solution, promoting a way forward or cautioning against a way backward. For instance, the current fourth season of Supergirl is as unsubtle as ever in its plot involving alien refugees being targeted by “children of liberty” hate groups. When writing about a scene in which Supergirl urges rival protestors to talk rather then fight, resulting in her holding an American flag in front of the White House, AV Club writer Caroline Seide observes, “It’s great to see Supergirl take advantage of one of the best things about genre storytelling—the ability to comment on real-world issues through the prism of metaphor. The inherently earnest, empathetic, justice-minded tone of Supergirl make it a strong fit for this kind of allegorical storytelling.” Indeed, this season we’ve seen portraits of how the fear of being victimized leads people into becoming aggressors—how unexamined fear turns to hate, and hate to violence, even when all sides would rather live peaceably. We’ve seen Supergirl struggle to understand this spreading hatred and oppression, and then struggle with how to combat it while keeping both sides safe. (So far, earnestly appealing to people’s better natures in critical moments has been moderately successful, though I’m going to go ahead and predict that mutual understanding will be the key.)
Off the top of my head, I can think of a great many SF TV shows that confront the issue of oppressed minorities through allegory. The Gifted, an offshoot of the X-Men series, has its plot founded on the mistreatment, oppression, and mistrust of “mutants,” or humans born with enhanced abilities. Like Supergirl season 4, this show seeks to explore extreme ideologies; after barely surviving being hunted in the first season, season 2 sees the core cast splitting into two groups, with the Mutant Underground fighting to change minds through peaceable means and the Inner Circle through more active and violent methods, all while the government’s sentinel services as well as citizen militant groups bear down on all mutants alike. (Sound like any real-world issues yet?) Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. has had a similar ongoing plot involving the fate of inhumans, another genetically enhanced population whose powers make them targets for fear, violence, or exploitation. And still other powered characters in Heroes, Alphas, iZombie, The Flash, and Jessica Jones (not to mention movies like The Incredibles) are at times met with the same issues—blamed or feared for being different, even as most of them try to use those differences to do good.
But racism and xenophobia are far from the extent of SF’s discourse. There are also shows like Firefly, Continuum, and Killjoys (not to mention movies like Snowpiercer) that deal with classism; whether through the lens of imagined interplanetary systems or dystopian futures, an extreme wealth gap is often shown to be the cause of eventual mass protests and violence. Allegories can be episode-specific, too. The Orville commonly tackles close-to-home issues through SF; its third-ever episode, “About a Girl,” concerned itself with a debate over an alien newborn’s proposed sex-change surgery, citing arguments of tradition, societal acceptance, the right of choice, and ethnocentrism. Such types of thinly disguised allegories for modern debates over tradition, religion, government, and justice are commonplace in this show, and in SF at large. This genre even has the liberty to take such modern debates to extremes, and play out future scenarios or dystopias, like those caused by climate change (like in Netflix’s film Io) or our overuse of technology (like in Person of Interest).
But even social commentary isn’t all SF has to offer. Like fairy tales, myths, and legends, SF teaches more generic lessons and morals. It creates stories in the spirit of David vs Goliath or King Arthur, showing that confidence, perseverance, and a belief in doing good can make anyone a hero. Any time a plot involves characters being given a quest, a destiny, a prophecy, or special abilities (more often than not to “save the world”), SF imparts lessons of responsibility and selflessness. Any time a plot involves a post-apocalyptic setting, where survival can be a question of savagery or supportiveness, SF means to explore our capacity for empathy and hope.
And more than anything, the SF genre gives assurances to thinkers, dreamers, and outcasts of all kinds (see side bar)–the so-called “nerds” who follow their curiosities and eccentricities to become scientists, engineers, or writers. These are the people who aren’t content with the world as it is, who dream and strive to leave it better, or at least different.ꝉ For it is only in those far-off, made-up landscapes, those “what ifs” with no real answers, that liminal space between what is and what could be, that our imaginations can run rampant and/or certain truths can be revealed.
Some weeks back, I found myself nodding enthusiastically to the words of writer/director Vera Maio, who was discussing her love of genre storytelling and The Matrix as a guest on the podcast Switchblade Sisters. After first specifying that she applies the term “genre” loosely, grouping horror/sci fi/fantasy, she said,
“I love being able to really grapple with these big themes and big ideas, without having to kind of skirt away from it, because we have the wrappings of genre. It gives us the freedom and the license—we go into genre to imagine different scenarios, different worlds, different endings, different consequences, different sorts of rules of existence and reality. Right? And so, to me, that’s just free range, to really be able to play out the questions that are burning for us, to really imagine how those might actually [develop]… in a different scenario or into the future. […]
“If you were to take The Matrix and its theme—that we are mindless, we are agents of the state, we are sort of mollified by consumption—and to say that freedom and liberation comes from the painful extraction from that machine, and it’s a lonely, uphill existence, but it is true freedom. Right? I think that if you were to put that into a straight drama, everyone would laugh that movie out of existence as being too on-the-nose, too heavy-handed. Whereas in [The] Matrix, you can just give over to it… And that’s what I love about genre, and that’s why I think there’s such a strong tradition of really working through the big issues, the big problems, the big ideas. […] [Even] small movies, small genre films that might seem [like] small stories, are still able to grapple with huge ideas, because of the element of the fantastical, because of the element of the 'not real.' It gives us license. And it’s why I love genre so much.”
These words so precisely capture my feelings about the SF genre. SF explores what it means to be human, to be real, to be good, by putting us in situations and introducing us to people that are not. It transmogrifies, it exaggerates, it resituates all the things that are real to us, from the air we breathe to the regrets, doubts, and hopes we carry, to get to the truth of who we are. By presenting a world that doesn't (or even couldn't) exist, we can explore ideas outside of the confines of reality or reason, and begin to question what we are truly capable of. And besides, isn’t it easier to create a world, a story, where fantastical things actually happen, than to show someone just thinking or talking about it?
Consider another Wachowski creation, the TV show Sense8, which explores the power of intercultural sharing, bringing together people from every walk of life to explore how we can share knowledge and skills in order to help each other, even against powerful threats who want to destroy that connection. Doubtless, nonfiction has tackled this theme time and again (most recently in the film Green Book), often with a feel-good, kumbaya mentality. But Sense8, through SF, takes it one step further, literally connecting (AKA clustering) these people’s thoughts, feelings, and abilities across the globe. By adding that element of fantasy, Sense8 earns itself a chance to reexamine this same theme without being too “on-the-nose” or “heavy-handed.”
Of course, SF often crafts its most meaningful messages through exaggerated situations or traits, which is in turn done by bringing fantastical elements or dreamscapes into literal being: What better way to test the depths of humanity’s resilience than to actually undergo an apocalyptic event? [The 100/The Rain] What better way to display human vulnerability than by giving a character super strength? [Jessica Jones] What better way to question one’s purpose or identity, than by having a character discover they are a clone, or the result of a scientific experiment? [Orphan Black/Dark Angel/Killjoys] What better way to demonstrate how power corrupts than by showing the world literally torn to pieces by an overly super-powered being? [Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (s5)] What better way to contemplate what it means to be human than by making viewers empathize with characters who turn out to be robots? [Westworld/Humans, Ex Machina/I, Robot]. And what better way to show the power of love, than to make it responsible for saving a defenseless baby from an all-powerful, homicidal wizard? [Harry Potter]
The list goes on… But my point is that if these stories weren’t set in imaginary worlds, with their own rules and possibilities, their messages would be too blatant, clichéd, or ridiculous (and okay, some still are). But the stage of SF, the trappings of the genre, allow such ideas to be explored in this at-times outrageous or hyperbolized way. SF thus allows us to think about things from a new angle, and invites a sort of WWYD introspection, like when it comes to life-altering decisions (a task the new Sabrina knows something about) or making a sacrifice for the greater good (it’d probably be easier to list the shows that don’t incorporate this…).
Moreover, just by exploring human nature and its many facets—by watching or thinking about these series—we are practicing empathy. As the last piece of my scholarly argument, consider writer Jaime Green’s retrospective on the work of SF author Ursula K. Le Guin, in her article “The Word for Empathy is Sci-Fi: On Le Guin, Kress, and Kindness” (originally published on the Unbound Worlds website):
That’s what made Le Guin’s work so powerful to me: the entanglement of imagination and compassion. Because what else is compassion but the rich imagining of another person’s inner life? Of their pain, their hopes, their desires, their love, with no concern for their differences. Le Guin imagined her characters’ inner lives and their strange worlds with equal vividness—the two weren’t even separable. She imagined vivid, human hearts in alien situations, and that was part of her great gift to us.
An outsider…comes to a strange world and, through his or her or their eyes, we see a new facet of humanity. Because, as alien as the subjects may be, that’s always what human writers are writing about in these stories. By imagining another way to be people, human or not, we learn a little more about what it means to be people ourselves. [...]
All science fiction is work of imagining. Empathetic imagining, though, is the real gift.
All this is to say, SF expands our scope of what is possible. It makes us question how we live and how we can change. And not to over-philosophize, but at its best, SF can indeed challenge our very conceptions of reality, sentience, and truth.
II. In Laywoman's Terms, or The harried hero's response of "in English, please!"
Now onto my personal reason for loving SF. Sci fi isn’t all allegories and social commentary and empathetic imagining. Sometimes it’s just plain fun, the way engaging one’s imagination is in any regard. That’s why LOTR, Harry Potter, Star Wars, and now the Marvel CU are so popular; that’s why 8/10 of the highest grossing movies of all time are SF. I mean, people flying around outer space or casting magic spells may not be the most enlightening facet of SF, but it certainly is a major draw.
It’s fun to put yourself in an SF character’s shoes as they gain powers, develop their moral code, and/or embrace their destiny—just like it’s intriguing to watch a show’s mythology unfold. For those times we are watching, we can be that brave, that strong, that important. Plus I rather enjoy the whimsy and humor that so often comes with a genre that is based on imagination. My favorite SF shows are those that don’t take themselves too seriously—they play up the wackiness rather than focus on the feelings of fear and dread that the genre is based on. These are the shows that have über noble, larger-than-life protagonists with quippy one-liners at the ready. They inspire amusing yet fundamentally intellectual debates. They sell the soundtracks to their musical episodes (that I may or may not but definitely do own). And they give me cause to say phrases like “well you see, Dutch was brought into existence out of a communal alien memory pool by the original but corrupted version of herself” or “oh of course Wynonna didn’t want to dispatch her long-lost sister, but that’s what happens when you’re brainwashed by a demon for 13 years only to have your memory erased by a spiteful witch on the eve of your curse-inheritance birthday!”
From Xena to the Halliwell sisters to Clone Club, I am down for a fantastical romp as well as the more serious explorations of human nature. And luckily for me, SF has both. For every serial, cerebral Westworld, Dollhouse, or The Handmaid’s Tale, there’s a more entertaining, case-of-the-week procedural, like Tru Calling, Haven, The Listener, Merlin, or Santa Clarita Diet.
SF can be campy like Wynonna Earp (above), it can be heartwarming like Sense8, it can be thrilling like Stranger Things, adorable like Pushing Daises, or adventurous like Legend of the Seeker. It can be as mysterious as Orphan Black, badass as Killjoys, trailblazing as Buffy. It can be a mix of all these things, and more. And as a bonus, we get to have spaceships and superpowers and elixirs that bring people back from the dead. People who talk (sorry, whisper) to ghosts, who secure supernatural artifacts in warehouses, who travel through time, who fight demons, vampires, Wesen, werewolves, witches, revenants, zombies, aliens, governments, and sometimes even gods.
Along the way, they inspire us, entertain us, take us on journeys we (literally) could only dream of. And of course to various extents, they all have a larger meaning, a larger message. They show us that good triumphs over evil, or at least that karma, morality, and honor matter. They show us that the best things in life are those worth fighting for, and that victory rarely comes without sacrifice. And they show us that leaning on your team is always better than shouldering a burden alone, because compassion and community are our real superpowers. So while it’s not always true that a given character’s heroism directly correlates to my life and choices, it is true that those moments provide a jumping-off point for both my daydreams and my more serious contemplations about life. And isn’t that what SF, and storytelling in general, is all about? As YouTuber JustWrite says to conclude one of his videos, even when you don’t like the direction a series has taken, it is still true that “the joy of loving stories, and the most constant source of meaning, isn’t just in experiencing them but in thinking about them.”
I don’t know (and hope not) that I will ever tire of comparing stories’ outcomes, characters, and plot points large and small, especially when those stories are created with elements of the imagination. For my sake, this blog is truly the tip of the iceberg when it comes to contemplating, say, the morality of Jessica Jones or the philosophical potential of Westworld.
What I do know is I’m happy to have SF, a genre that gleefully partakes in and provides fodder for random, weird thoughts, and piques my curiosity for things real and imagined. I’m grateful to have the books, movies, and yes, TV shows, that build us these new worlds with new possibilities, and ask big questions that have no definitive answers. Because really, deep down, that’s what SF invites us to do: not to watch, but to wonder.
ꝉSF does its part in imagining a better, or at least more equal, world by showing us futures or alternate realities that transcend modern societal prejudices. For instance, in the final pages of her novel Hidden Figures, Margot Lee Shetterly writes of the landmark moment that was the premiere of Star Trek, which featured “a multinational, multiracial, mixed-gender crew." Along with African communications officer Lieutenant Uhura, there was "Chekov, the Russian ensign; Sulu, the Japanese American helmsman; and the half-human, half-Vulcan first officer, Mr. Spock, [who] added an interstellar touch of diversity." Taken together, this diverse crew "opened viewers’ minds to what a truly democratic future might look like." Similarly, the current Syfy show Killjoys uses its futuristic, outer space setting to transcend not just inter-human racism but sexuality as well, through the not-discriminated gay barkeep/warlord, Pree (though to be fair, these issues are replaced with species-based racism and classicism).