The Role of Setting in Storytelling: Creating Vivid Worlds
Close your eyes. Imagine your favorite story, recall a cherished fable from childhood, or replay a scene from a top-five film in your mind.
Chances are high that the setting or world-building of that story was one of the first things to take shape in your memory, if not the very first thing. Not only does setting make up the building blocks of any great story or character, it is also what shapes them, sets the tone, and often what makes them unique. Imagine Star Wars without the desert waste of Tatooine, or Lord of the Rings without the enchanting paradise that is Rivendell. How could we properly appreciate the stakes in Dune or Game of Thrones without the historical implications driving the narrative?
The world-building of a story shapes its characters, the plot, and conveys the culture intertwined through it all. It’s as subtle as a meal, and as glaringly obvious as a mythological being spewing prophecies. A story without a clearly defined setting is like a crew without a ship. All the players are there (the crew) ready to sail the ocean (the plot), but without a vessel (the world-building), they are going to flounder, and many will drown. But if your ship is too big and flashy, if it dwarfs the ocean and swallows your characters, that’s not much of a story either. Like most things, crafting a solid setting and weaving the right amount of it into the story is a precarious process. But when done right, it yields excellent results.
Now, I wouldn’t dare compare myself to Tolkien or one of my modern-day favorites, N.K. Jemisin, but I spent a great deal of time crafting the land of Quinaria until I could taste the Beridian Moonlight and dip my toes in the Khitamic Ocean off the northwestern coast of Neharem. I then spent even more time dropping in bits of it here in there, allowing it to shape the narrative, the characters, all while avoiding info-dump mode (or so I hope). What follows is a brief overview of my process and how it shaped my narrative and characters.
The world-building comes first. Now, this is partially a lie because, ultimately, the story idea itself comes first, doesn’t it? That burning question, that spark of a conflict, that character that just won’t leave you alone. However, once I embraced my story idea and sat down to work through it, the first thing I tackled was the world. Without knowing the societal norms and expectations, I couldn’t assess my characters’ dreams and fears. Without understanding the world’s history, I couldn’t determine sources of conflict. Without mapping out the terrain, I couldn’t understand what people ate, how they dressed, how they acted.
I began my process with simple questionnaires I found online, cherry-picking my favorites and throwing them together in a giant Word Doc. Some were as simple as, “are all the inhabitants in your world human?”, while others delved into matters of religion and history. From there, I expanded my brief answers, turning them into essay-style responses that eventually grew into a document the size of a novella. I spent nearly two months world-building alone, and only once I felt comfortable with the world I created did I dare to delve into the story itself. Everyone uses their own approach, but for me, I would’ve never done my story justice without this step.
What I found fascinating, however, is how my world-building continues to grow and change throughout drafts. Even now, as I work on book two, I find myself learning even more about the world. It drives the narrative, and the narrative enriches the world-building. The setting helps me better understand my characters, and my characters teach me more about their world. In a way, world-building is fluid for me. While I must strive to ensure it never contradicts itself, everything within those boundaries is fair game. Every question from a beta reader, every interesting tidbit I read in a non-fiction book or catch in a documentary, adds more depth and more believability. It’s a never-ending process, at least until the series ends. And by doing it organically and allowing it to play off the other storytelling aspects, I believe it inserts itself organically. I didn’t need a prologue dedicated to the history or setting because the story itself is those things, woven into the tapestry of the tale.
But you be the judge. Take a stroll through Quinaria sometime and let me know if you find yourself lost in her. If, for even a moment, I can transport you to an alternative reality, then I’ve done my job. I’ve given you escape from this world so you can better process it through the lens of another.
Until then, farewell.