Fantasy, Science Fiction and the Many Worlds Theory

Before the Many Worlds theory, the separation of fantasy and science fiction was clear. If a story was based on science and scientifically plausible yet not currently possible, it was science fiction. If a story had elements that weren’t based on science and that were not scientifically plausible—like magic, dragons, vampires or ghosts—it was fantasy. The division was clear, and which shelf every book belonged on was simple.

Then along came science fiction writers who used some of the elements of science fiction but sometimes fudged the facts or went beyond what was scientifically possible. So science fiction was divided into hard and soft science fiction. Hard science fiction stuck with what was scientifically possible, and soft science fiction went into the realm of the scientifically impossible. Both were still based on science, but where they went from there on was different.

As time went by, the science in some science fiction became softer and softer, to the point where it was given different labels, like space opera, sci-fi, speculative fiction (or spec-fic or simply SF), or science fantasy. Star Trek, at least after the original TV series, is science fiction. Star Wars, though, is a space opera. Science fiction movies and TV shows that are very weak on their science are generally considered sci-fi. Speculative Fiction tends to be more literary and deal more, as the name implies, with “What if?” rather than what could be. And science fantasy is fantasy with science fiction elements, like Doctor Who. Doctor Who has had episodes with ghosts, vampires, werewolves and so on, usually giving pseudo-scientific explanations for them. You can’t argue that things in Doctor Who are scientifically impossible, because it’s not meant to be science fiction. Stick a bunch of planets in the Earth’s sky without gravity on Earth going haywire, and that’s fine. It’s science FANTASY, so it doesn’t have to follow the laws of science.  

But let’s step back in time a little before all this was going on. In 1957, Hugh Everett formulated a theory that reconciled the indeterministic behavior of subatomic particles with the laws of physics. This theory, which he called the theory of Universal Wavefunction, was later renamed by Bryce Seligman DeWitt and popularized as the Many Worlds theory. According to the Many Worlds theory, our world is one of many—perhaps even an infinite number of worlds—that are like our world but different in ways both big and small. Expansions of the Many Worlds theory have taken this even further by saying that many of these worlds might not even follow our laws of physics.

I repeat: according to expansions of the Many Worlds theory of physics, there are many--perhaps even an infinite number of--worlds out there that don’t follow our laws of physics.    

The Many Worlds theory was both troubling and exciting for the science fiction community. It was exciting because it opened up so many new possibilities. There could be alternate histories, like 19^th century worlds with 21^st century technology, or to put it another way, there could be steampunk. Time-travel paradoxes no longer existed, because instead of traveling back in time to a world where you weren’t meant to exist yet, you would travel sideways in time to an alternate world to which you were always meant to have time traveled. In a scene near the end of the most recent Star Trek movie, the two Spocks are having a laugh at Kirk because the older Spock managed to convince Kirk that his meeting with the younger Spock would cause a time-space paradox, which according to the Many Words theory couldn’t happen. But the meeting of the Many Worlds theory and science fiction was also troubling, because how do you define hard science fiction as being different from soft science fiction, science fantasy, and even fantasy if EVERYTHING (except for paradoxes) is scientifically possible?

I think the distinctions between fantasy, science fiction and science fantasy remain the same, but with one exception: fantasy that uses science to explain the fantasy in it can be science fantasy or even science fiction.

Back when I was in college, I fell in love with a science fantasy series by Gene Wolfe: The Book of the New Sun (Shadow & Claw: The First Half of 'The Book of the New Sun'). This series starts out as a pure fantasy novel--or at least it seems to--in a world similar to our middle ages but with other-worldly magical elements. As the story progresses, there are hints that this is not a fantasy world based on the past, but a future world based on our own. In one scene, the main character, Severian, is served what appears to be coffee from an office coffee cart. Because he doesn’t know what this is, he gives the coffee and the cart different names, but we can tell from his description what it is. In another scene, he comes to a path with broken bits of black asphalt. Again he doesn’t know what this remnant from our world is or why it’s there. The reader, however, recognizes this as a hint that long ago this world had paved roads, so long ago that anyone encountering them would not even be able to recognize one as a road. It takes four books, but by the end of the series, we know that this isn’t a fantasy world based on the past but a future world, a science-fiction world in every sense.

The novel I’m currently editing, Toren the Teller’s Tale, is a fantasy based on a literary interpretation of the Many Worlds theory. Because if the Many Worlds theory and its expansions are true, every story--no matter how fantastic--could also be true. They might not be true here, but they could be true on alternate worlds. And if they are true on alternate worlds, then that makes stories spyglasses to those other worlds.

But what does that make the storyteller, the person who lets you see through that spyglass? Some sort of bridge to that other world, perhaps, but a limited one. The storyteller can only take you there in your mind, not physically lead you there. If the storyteller is a filmmaker, he can also show you that world in a way that lets you see and hear it, yet physically you still remain in this world.

But what if--those two favorite words in speculative fiction--what if there were a storyteller who could read and retell physical objects, and even people? What if there were no difference between a word that storyteller told and the object, a story she told and the world that story was about? What if a storyteller could be an actual bridge to the worlds of her stories? What if?

That is the question Toren the Teller’s Tale attempts to answer. It’s the Many Worlds theory in literary terms. It’s metafiction--as in fiction dealing with fiction--but what else is it? Is it a fantasy novel? Is it science fantasy? Or is it a work of speculative fiction? I leave it up to the reader to decide. Opinions may change as the series progresses, because this is meant to be the first book in a trilogy.

Whatever shelf you decide to put it on, I hope you enjoy it.  




Toren, from the soon to be released Toren the Teller's Tale by Shevi Arnold

Is Fantasy Truer Than Fiction?

If you’ve read any fantasy novel—such as Alice in Wonderland, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Harry Potter,  The Lord of the Rings, or Twilight—you knew it wasn’t real. Cats that vanish, leaving behind only a smile? Flying monkeys? Young wizards and witches casting magic spells with wands? Hobbits and dragons? Vampires? How could any of that be real?

And yet . . .

And yet, there’s a magic in these stories, a spell they cast over their readers. If you’ve ever felt it, you know. That magic is real. It’s the magic that takes you to strange and wonderfully magical worlds. It touches your heart. It makes you cry. It makes you cheer. It makes you feel.  

That magic plays a more obvious role in many of my stories, never more so than in Toren the Teller’s take. It’s the topic of discussion in this scene from my soon to be released YA fantasy epic, Toren the Teller’s Tale. Toren, disguised as a boy and a storyteller’s apprentice, is at a tellers’ gathering. Between stories, the tellers discuss their craft:

“Yes,” said another apprentice. “And what about made-up stories, ones about fantastic things that could never be true? Where’s the common starting point, and where’s the greater truth?” 

The elder master said the answer to this question was obvious, and he turned it over to us. No one else spoke, so I asked if I might be allowed to. He nodded.

 
“We all have common hopes and fears,” I said, “from the lowliest peasant to the king. We dream of someone who will love us more than life itself. In her dreams, every maiden is a princess longing for love; in his dreams, every youth is the one who will win her heart. Even the king’s hopes and fears are as common as our own.”

“And what about fantastic stories?” the elder master asked me.

“My master’s story was fantastic,” I said. “And yet it’s true. A man wants a son to follow in his footsteps and may be blinded to a truth he doesn’t wish to see. A woman may know the truth and be afraid to speak it. And a child may suffer for not being what the world demands her to be.”

The elders smiled at my answer, but one of them shook his finger.

“Although what you say is true,” he said, “I believe a story’s truth is even greater than that. One day you’ll see. You’ll think you are telling a story, but the truth of it will take over, and you’ll realize the thing you thought you created was always there, not in this place and time but somewhere in the infinite universe and as true as your own existence. We tellers are bridges from the past to the present, from the present to the future, from distant lands to here, and from here to everywhere.” 

“Of course we are bridges,” the man to his side said, “but only to imaginary worlds.”

“On the contrary!” the first elder shouted. “All worlds are equally real! You may think of stories as mere entertainment, but they are so much more. We spoke of how the audience must shape the story, but responsibility we tellers carry.”

The other elders were silent. One rolled his eyes. It was a man in front of me who dared to speak what was on everyone’s mind.

“The worlds of our stories already exist?” he mumbled. “Old coot’s gone senile.”

A murmur of agreement rose from the crowd, followed by laughter.   

“It is rather ridiculous, isn’t it?” Giddy asked me. “That would make everything imaginable real, and you know that can’t be right, can it, Tor?”

I laughed, but inside I wondered. Of course it did sound impossible.

And yet . . .

  

Is the first elder truly crazy?

 

The reply Toren gives above is the sort of thing Ursula K. Le Guin wrote about in The Language of the Night: Essays on Fantasy and Science Fiction. Fantasy deals with universal human experiences. Its archetypes are familiar—not from our day-to-day lives that differ from one person to the next, but from the dreams we all share. There is one language we all know, and it’s the language of the night. It’s what Carl Jung referred to as “the collective unconscious.” We all have similar hopes and fears, and they come out in our dreams—and in our fantasy and science-fiction stories.    

And that's why fantasy fiction is more honest than realistic fiction: because fantasy fiction deals with archetypes without the pretense that they are more than--or less than--archetypes. You know that Harry Potter isn't a real, living, breathing person; but you also know that his universal need for a family is real.  You know it because you've felt it too.

But this only fits what Toren says about the nature of stories. What about the first elder teller? Could he be right? Could there be a truth in fantasy that goes beyond touching upon our dreams and nightmares?

 

According to the Many Worlds theory of physics, the answer to this is a resounding yes.

 

Our world is one of many, many worlds that are like ours but different in ways both big and small. Expansions of the Many Worlds theory say that there are even worlds out there that don’t follow our own laws of physics.

 

Do you realize what that means? Disappearing cats, flying monkeys, young wizards and witches casting magic spells with wands, hobbits and dragons, vampires: they could all exist. Every story you’ve ever read—not matter if it’s realistic, science fiction, or fantasy—could be true. Not here, of course, but somewhere out there in our amazing universe.

And our dreams and our stories can show these fantastic worlds to you.

Toren, however, can do so much more. She can build bridges from her world to the worlds of her imagination, and she can take you along for the journey.

Which magical world would you like to visit today?  

And now I'd best step down before someone calls me a crazy old coot.