Setting a scene versus building a world

Some thoughts for writers, and for those who love learning about the writing process

World-building in fiction is most often mentioned in reference to sci-fi or fantasy novels – two genres that clearly need distinctive and well-developed worlds within their stories. However, such worlds can also be found in some of the best crime, romance and historical fiction. A completely realised world is one that is fully integrated into every aspect of the characters’ experiences, relationships and behaviour, and it also influences every facet of plot.  One way you can spot a well-constructed fictional world is that it readily offers up sequels, spin-offs and fan fiction – because, unlike a narrative driven by a specific scenario, at the end of each story there is a tantalising sense of continuation, as the world offers up so many possibilities to explore.

I rarely get asked about world-building, and until I wrote The Hush (which channelled my love of suspense thrillers into a near-future dystopia) I hadn’t fully engaged with the concept. My contemporary psychological suspense novels were based on scenarios that required me to set up the world as far as the characters and plot required it, but I didn’t think much more about the world per se. In these stories there was no need for me to define such a world, because I knew my readers would recognise it as having the same features, laws, rules and customs as those in real life. Even so, I’ve always been aware that the best settings often become characters in the story, bringing distinct features and feelings to a narrative – for example, the imposing house and estate of Manderley in Daphne du Maurier’s classic Rebecca (1938). But while du Maurier constructed an enduring, absorbing setting, Rebecca doesn’t rely on world-building in the same way as her contemporary Margaret Mitchell does in Gone with the Wind (1936), where the story is integrated with the ongoing circumstances and effects of the American Civil War. In Rebecca, the world is invited in only as far as it is relevant or useful to the story and characters. In Gone with the Wind, the world is an integral part of the story. Despite this difference, they are both enduring classics, because both authors so brilliantly executed the type of story they wanted to tell.

My recent trip to the UK made me think more about the significance and effects of world-building. We took a tour around the Warner Bros. Harry Potter studios, which houses an incredible array of sets, props, costumes and memorabilia from the seven-part movie franchise. Then, a few weeks later, we watched Rowling’s enthralling two-part stage play The Cursed Child - nearly five hours of theatre in one day, which kept my ten-year-old as captivated as my husband. (I found it incredible to think that so much of what we had seen and experienced in both the studios and the theatre had originated in the imagination of just one person!) During our downtime, I was also immersed in the new series of Bridgerton, which is Netflix’s smash-hit historical romance set in an alternative and racially equal society of the early 1800s. It’s always a joy to get lost in author Julia Quinn’s and producer Shonda Rhimes’s stories of mismatched and love-struck suitors working it out (and romping it out!) via a succession of extravagant social occasions. And while the Harry Potter and Bridgerton series seem to have little in common on the surface, the reason they both have such long-term devoted fans is because the strength of each author’s original world-building has allowed them to continually expand the stories and give their readers and viewers more.

All fiction authors must, to some degree, build a world for their characters to inhabit, but when an author constructs a detailed world, it interacts with and affects every aspect of the story. It’s not so much about coming up with a thousand pieces of information, but more about pinning down a central theme that can be used repeatedly in different ways to continually re-establish the overall sense of how it feels to exist in such a time and place. In Harry Potter this theme is magic. In Bridgerton it’s the proprieties, decadence and sumptuous excess found in each location and costume (Queen Charlotte’s hair!) and the smouldering glances at every ball. In Star Wars it’s the different kinds of creatures we come across on all those unique planets. In The Hunger Games it’s the contrast between each district and the Capitol.

If we think of reading a novel as akin to visiting a house, then the different stages of scene-setting versus world-building become clear. If the author is simply setting a scene, the reader is invited in and shown around the place – while the author tells them everything they need to know about what they’re witnessing. However, if setting is offered up as an additional character, the reader is encouraged to get to know the feel of the place for themselves: to touch and interpret each item, sit on each chair, open the drawers and read the notebooks found inside. Finally, in world-building, readers gradually learn the way that everything in the house fits together and why it is there, both in its contemporary and historical context: as well as how each aspect and key object of the house can impact the relationships of its inhabitants, by connecting or dividing them. Note that I said ‘key object’, because it’s easy to get lost in extraneous detail during the process of world-building, and while the superfans might love it, most narratives get bogged down if there’s too much information to absorb - so certain non-essentials might be better saved for the behind-the-scenes extras.

What do you think? Which fictional worlds have stayed with you and why? As writers, whichever genre we’re working in, it’s worth taking time to re-examine the way we present the settings or worlds within our novels, and to reflect on how other authors have made their stories work so well. There might be more we can do, through clear decision-making whether world-building or scene setting, to help our readers immerse themselves in our stories, wherever we choose to take them.

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