Worldbuilding 101: Three Ways to Make a New World

The first law of writing is that there are no laws

The worst possible thing that beginner writers can do is find an overly prescriptive ‘rule book’ of fiction writing and try to follow it meticulously, even when it clearly clashes with their own processes. Different people do things in their own ways and that’s right and proper. Doing it the way that makes sense to THEM is the only way it can be done.
So when I talk about three ways to make a new world, I’m not telling you which one is best, or which one you have to pick, or even that these are the ONLY three ways. Repeat after me: any way that works for you is valid.
What I am doing here is describing three roads into the worldbuilding country. You’re welcome to make experimental trips on all of them and pick the one that best suits you, or else take a sharp right into virgin woods and bushwhack your own way to your destination.
I’m offering you a road map, an atlas. Not necessarily directions.

The Lego Method

One way to build a world is brick by brick. To build any wall, you need a solid foundation. There will be plenty in this world that might never see the light of day in your actual story – your worldbuilding is done as a precursor to your story, and then, while you’re writing the story itself, it’s a process running in the background while you’re actually telling the tale.
You may be creating a full secondary world – which is where a process like this is particularly valuable – and you need to know all the fiddly little details which you know by instinct in this the ”real” world but which may run quite differently in the one you are building up.
You need to know what is valued, and valuable; what is treachery; what is beautiful; what aspect of something might cause prejudice, or envy; how things are measured; where the ‘decent’ people live and where the ‘badlands’ are.
You need to know that there may be concepts or places or occurrences for which your world’s language may have words – because they are common enough for them to need a name, or because they are so rare that the few times that that thing has occurred has acquired a semi-mythical named status. Your world may have a language that you might have to invent, or at least partially invent.
All of these things are now Lego bricks. You start stacking them up in a way that seems coherent to you in order to construct an edifice.
It is extremely easy to find yourself sitting in a pile of AMAZING Lego bricks, and so overwhelmed by them all that you are completely incapable of putting them together in a manner that is meaningful to anyone else who claps eyes on your construct. Many a writer has sat there and gibbered at all their wonderful ideas and found themselves utterly bereft of a vessel which could bear them. It takes a strong mind and a solid focus to keep all this under control – sometimes you need to be a scholar in your discipline, like Tolkien, who created the languages of his Middle Earth and entire realms and histories and mythologies to go with them before he pulled you into the Lego castle he called Middle Earth. That’s one example of where this worked magnificently.

The Orchard Graft Method

It is possible to graft a piece of a fruit tree onto a fruit tree of quite another kind or even species, and have the host tree and the graft tree produce entirely different fruit, but they are now an insanely chimaera-ed construct which is at the same time BOTH the trees, and NEITHER.
This can escalate. There is even where different grafts from a number of different fruit trees produced a tree that bore plums, pears, peaches, apricots and apples all at once.
What I’m saying here is that you have something to start with – something solid, and old, and something that’s been there for quite some time – something recognizable, and valuable because of that recognition factor, but then you come in, the master gardener, with something rich and new and exotic and you graft that in and then you watch each of those things change the other, the old tree and the grafted branch.
Do it well, and you have something amazing. Do it badly and all you have is a withered graft on a wounded tree. Proceed with caution, and make sure you know what you are doing, in other words.
An excellent example of this method is the whole Harry Potter phenomenon. J K Rowling took a hoary old tree – the British Boarding School story – and she grafted onto it the Wizarding World magic. That it worked, you know already – she is one of the very few writers in history to have been written into the Who’s-Who of the Very Rich.
But one successful graft is not a guarantee that a second will take. Rowling’s attempt to upscale her word from the graft that she knew well and obviously did properly – the British setting, the British school, the British characters – to North America did not fare so well. Rowling didn’t know her material here. She wasn’t familiar with that graft. Trying to force it onto the old tree… just didn’t end well.
Handle with care. When it works this one works beautifully. But make a fatal error in the grafting, and the whole thing withers. There is no way back from that. You cannot save a living thing that is already dying.

The Mirror Method

You hold a mirror up to the “real” world, and then you write about what you see – about what you CHOOSE to see. The advantage to this is that you start with something that your readers will already know and you don’t need to start from absolute scratch – if you are setting your story in a certain geographical locale on planet Earth and you say it is June or January your readers will have a very good idea of what the weather is like outside, for instance. What you are doing here is pulling out details and making them (subtly or radically) different – the big picture can still be utterly recognizable but those details that you have changed will make it look and feel rich and strange.
For an example of this type of worldbuilding, think of Margaret Atwood’s “The Handmaid’s Tale”. Aspects of her world were instantly and viscerally recognizable to her readers. But the spin she put on her world made it very disturbing – and prophetic. The details Atwood changed to create Gilead are things we are slowly recognizing with horror in our own reality.
This is a very good method to use when you are writing the Idea Book, a story which concentrates on exploring in some detail a What If situation where you tweak something in “our” world and then wait to see what small changes that big change has pulled in its wake, and how different a world can be when those small changes start to accumulate. You don’t need to invent anything here, it’s all in the changes that you make. Then you follow where you’re led – and you WILL be led.
You are part of society – you know how society works given a certain set of constraints – and you will be able to extrapolate with a reasonable degree of accuracy how a society will change to accommodate a new set of rules which you are imposing on it.
This is completely true when you are writing about human beings – they are in the end predictable creatures and you will be able to predict their actions because you yourself are human. You may not sympathize with or even remotely approve of certain actions that your characters will end up taking – but on some fundamental level you will completely understand them, and so will your equally human readers.
If you’re writing non-human characters like eves and dwarves and orcs, or Little Green Men from a distant planet, there will certainly be characteristics which will differentiate them from humanity – and here perhaps a tiny bit of the Lego method might creep in – but in the end you can’t make them TOO different because otherwise your human audience will fail to understand them or to care about what happens to them. What you’re doing even here is… holding up a mirror.
What might be reflected in it could be a deeply alien creature – on the face of it. But what you have to also see in that mirror are the ways in which it is similar to your readership, not just how different it is.
There are other ways to build a world and you’re the best judge of how to proceed. You are standing at a crossroads, and there are signposts pointing in particular directions. Pick a road and try it out and see if it suits. You may end up travelling on different roads for different stories – or on shortcuts between them – but worldbuilding is the only thing in your writing process that isn’t a destination. It’s a JOURNEY.
Take notes as you travel, and good luck.
This essay was first posted at my Patreon. You can check my page HERE


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