The Fantasy Genre and Cartography of the Imagination

            

            When one opens a fantasy fiction novel and is immersed in the text of the world presented by the narrator, one feels transported to an entirely other world. The world-building of fantasy fiction is open to infinite possibilities, marking it as both the most subversive as well as the most disorienting genre of literature to engage with. Readers find themselves excited to explore these exotic worlds populated by impossibilities, but are also confused by indeterminacies and inconsistencies in the text. Some series, such as the Malazan Book of the Fallen, intentionally exploit this disorientation effect and make it part of the appeal of reading experience, opening the literature up to fan interpretation and theorization. But some readers want the world-building to be consistently and transparently organized out for them by the author. Such organization is literalized in the form of the map or maps fantasy fans have come to expect at the beginning or end of a fantasy novel. 

            

            Like so many of the traditions within the genre of fantasy fiction, maps can trace their origin back to Tolkein with his mapping out of Middle Earth and the travels of his characters upon its textual surface. But what was once considered original with Tolkein has now become a tired trope for the genre of fantasy as a whole. Literally mapping out the narrative of his characters as they traveled across Middle Earth on their quest made sense for the quest narrative he had constructed. But now many authors feel compelled to provide a map to their fantasy world, even when the narrative of that imagined world is restricted to a single geographical location and where location is considered secondary to characterization. Despite the superlative quality of contemporary fantasy cartography, I hesitate to advocate for its abandonment as it remains a rich opportunity for the genre if appreciated beyond its representational utility.

            

            The benefit provided by maps typically cited by fantasy genre fans is that they aid the visualization of the fictional world by laying out its prominent features of geography and civilization. If the act of reading fantasy is akin to navigating a foreign world, it is no wonder readers feel more comfortable with a map in their possession. But fantasy maps are far more than mere visual representations of the fictional world and to limit their appeal to that quality alone is to waste the radical potential they open up for the author and reader. Valued as a purely visual representation, maps fail in comparison to the complexity that can be captured in a detailed illustration. What provides a more immersive visualization of Sanderson’s world of Roshar from his Stormlight Archive series: the map of Roshar or the illustration of his character Shallan herself involved in capturing the world around her through her own artistic talent? I am biased towards the latter for good reason. The illustration is more complex, informative, and naturalistic than a map could ever be; an illustration can represent characters, cultures, landscapes, creatures and events in a way that are categorically impossible for a map.

            

            It is admittedly difficult to imagine the more exotic fantasy worlds of the genre without some form of visual representation acting as a foundation for our imagination to build upon. But this admission only emphasizes the greater significance of maps to the fantasy genre. Since we routinely rely upon maps to navigate our own environment, we expect an analogous representational aid in the navigation of fictional space within the imagination. If we require maps to navigate space, real of fictional, consider the equal necessity of maps to the inhabitants native to a world of fantasy fiction. Such maps are not merely about the fictional world, but they are of it. Mapping out the fantasy world makes it more realistic for the reader, not merely because it visualizes the world for us, but because such visualization is an essential part of our routine experience. The map takes on an additional aura of realism once we identify this experience with that of the inhabitants imagined within the world-text itself. Authors can manipulate their maps to better exploit this reflective effect to explore the possibilities it opens up for their world-building and readers’ appreciation of it.

            We can distinguish within a work of literature between the role of author, the narrator, and the characters, even if these categories overlap with one another and identify the same perspective. In considering the map as text, we can ask from which of these perspectives is the map drawn: is it by the hand of the author, the narrator, or a character within the narrative? This raises subsequent questions regarding the significance of the fictional map and the relationship between the map, the narrative, and the text. Are thematic or narrative elements present on the map? Should these fantastical maps appear as if they belong within the world-text of the narrative? Should they be restricted to the artistic capabilities and geographical understanding of the characters native to the fictional world itself? Or should they reflect an objective perspective of the world from outside of the text itself? There is likely no definitive answer to such inquiry for most contemporary fantasy literature, but that is because most authors have squandered the opportunity to utilize their maps in such a manner.

            

            Maps in fantasy fiction need not be mere representations of the fantasy world, they have the capacity to be representations of how the native inhabitants of those worlds represent their own world. The latter may not be apparent, but it is far more interesting when considered and implemented. Fantasy maps provide an opportunity to present the language, iconography, and implied ideology of a fantastic culture in relation to the reader as if it was a part of a document out of that world. A fantasy map need not be read only under the gaze of an assumed absolute authority. It can be explored with curiosity as if it were a fragment of the fantasy world impossibly transplanted into our reality, containing the traces of its native culture.  It takes upon the aura of an artifact that communicates the aesthetic and linguistic styles and symbols of a given culture. Mapping the fantasy world is not merely an exercise of building the world in the imagination of readers; it is itself a product of the world-building project.

            Any map which intends to take advantage of such an appearance must therefore be created in accordance with the techniques and apparent materials presumed to be available to the people native to the respective fantastic world. This contradicts the aesthetic of the average contemporary fantasy map which reflects a degree of realism uncharacteristic of the capabilities of the native people. Such realism doesn’t map onto the fantasy world itself but rather imposes our world onto that world, restricting its horizons for us rather than providing us with a means of navigating them. It is a reductive approach to fantasy that prioritizes the literal, empirical and natural of this world against the values of the fantasy world, which tends towards mystical and metaphorical representations.

          

            A fantasy map intended to be immersive considers not only the capabilities of its native creators but also their ideological motivations for mapping their world. Ideology can be discerned from the map through objects the map prioritizes and the language and symbols used to represent them. Different cultural and political perspectives will not only utilize distinct phrases and symbols, but will concern themselves with different aspects of the world. An imperialistic culture may be concerned with the cartography of resources and the distinction between civilized and barbarous territories. In contrast, a map drafted from the perspective of a religious minority may focus upon routes of pilgrimage, holy sites and cities of significance to their faith. The world, even a fictional world, is too complex to be credibly depicted on a map. A map is always constrained by the priorities of its creator, and these priorities reflect their ideological commitments. Maps therefore represent an opportunity to communicate these cultural ideals to the reader outside the core narrative of the text, as if they were drafted by members of the culture native to that world.

            If we can distinguish between author, narrator, and character in both narrative and map, we can question whether the narrative and map share the same perspective. For example, the character may be implicated as the creator of the map, but another character is the narrator of the text. The distinction between perspectives entails a recognition in the differences between the ideologies that inform each. The narrator of the text may be a rebel soldier, but the designer of the map may be a member of the imperial hegemony the aforementioned narrator is fighting against. A map is not merely supplemental to the text but it is itself a text, of a sort: it is open to its own interpretations. Being open to interpretation, a map may be intentionally misleading to the reader who expects it directly reflect the world the author has built over the course of the narrative. Remember the cautionary aphorism of Korzybski that “the map is not the territory”. Any self-conscious work of fantasy fiction should be aware of this and exploit it to its advantage; it should allow for multiple interpretations from different, if not conflicting, perspectives. The instability between opposing frames of reference to the world presents the reader with an unreliable narrator and thereby empowers the reader to formulate their own perspective.            

            The potential of fantastic cartography should not be constrained only to imprint the mental map of the author onto their audience. Nor should such an imperialism of the imagination be equated with a realistic or coherent representation of fantastic worlds. Maps authored explicitly from outside the perspective of the text are automatically inferred to be a direct communication between the author and their audience, leading the latter to assume the objectivity of the perspective of the former. A map doesn’t simply provide us with a visualization of the world, but provides the security of how the author visualizes the world, and with it the assurance that this is the true world insofar as fictions can have truth attached to them. There is a seductive danger in diminishing the reading experience by this sense of false security. This is the treachery of images that results in a passive approach to literature, an irresponsibility with art we are not entitled to. There is no assurance that the author is providing us with their perspective, we are imposing our perspective on the author-function to reinforce our own prejudices and excuse the need to critically examine them. This is a failure of the imagination and therefore a betrayal of the potential the fantasy genre presents to its audience.

            

            The contradiction of this approach to fantasy literature goes unrecognized and therefore un-criticized for its inauthenticity. Fantasy literature is associated with the vice of escapism; its fans being accused of seeking false comfort from reality in the confines of a fictional secondary world. Such an accusation falsely assumes that fantasy worlds provide a sense of ideological security to their audience. Whether explicit or not, all fantasy worlds are inherently unstable due to their fictional nature. They are bounded by the limits of the world-building present in the narrative, past the horizon of which they are open to further theorization and interpretation. The narrative itself has its own implicit instability insofar as its fictional content has no real referent against which it can be judged true or false. It is only out of an assumed convenience that readers acquiesce to the comfort of an uncritical approach to the narrative.

            The inclusion of a map does not alleviate the discomfort of this uncertainty, however much fantasy readers may assume it does. Rather it is just another form of unstable dialogue between the imagination of the author and the reader, open to the ambiguities of interpretation and further speculation. For all that fantasy may be applauded as a literature of an unrestrained authorial imagination, its readership often appears inclined towards the codification and confinement of these territories of the imagination. Ironically, the more meticulous and literal a fantasy map is, the less immersive the experience of reading into it is. The more stylistic a fantasy map is, the more it appears to come from the world it depicts, the more the reader is drawn into that world. Fantasy is most realistic, most immersive, when it opens up a world before us to explore without forcing us to walk a narrow path through its landscape.  

            

            A map, despite its depiction of that landscape, is also a part of it, and may be explored and questioned in turn. Unlike “realistic” fiction, fantasy fiction lacks a convenient referent readers can conform to and project their prejudices upon. Fantasy fiction may offer an escape, but it is a far-cry from assured comfort. The world-building and reading of fantasy are not simply the work of the author but constitute a conversation between the author and their audience of readers. As readers of fantasy we are responsible for our every interpretation and assumption, creating the world simultaneously with our exploration of it. Fantasy maps need not define how we imagine fantasy worlds, but rather it is the imagination, of both writer and reader, which determines the significance of a fantasy map. Fantasy worlds are ultimately spaces within the imagination, not reducible to text or map, which are simply ways of navigating us to those uncharted territories of infinite possibility.   

Westworld and the Struggle Towards Self-Conscious Criticism

“You know why this beats the real world?” asks the Man in Black. “The real world is just chaos. It’s an accident. But in here, every detail adds up to something.” – The Man in Black

          

          Watching HBO’s newest show Westworld feels like watching two shows in one. And I don’t just mean this because of the anachronistic juxtaposition between the faux Wild West landscape and the science fiction laboratory facilities. Not exactly. Rather, the show is divided between and against as both an object and a subject of its own narrative. Like the robots it depicts agonizing their way into sentience, Westworld is itself struggling from an entertaining spectacle towards a self-conscious criticism of its own exploitative techniques. It is appropriate then that the title refers both to the HBO show itself as well as the park it depicts (henceforth I will be using Westworld for the show and Westworld for the park). The source material of the show is derived from late novelist and filmmaker Michael Crichton’s movie of the same name. His film depicted a futuristic Wild West theme park populated by robots revolting against the humans they were designed to entertain. But the transition from film to television has entailed redirecting audience sympathies towards the robots themselves, rather than the humans they were designed to serve. The new incarnation of the story also has a decidedly more post-modern approach to the narrative as the aforementioned meta-commentary shows.

          Westworld presents itself as a science-fiction mystery about robots struggling towards self-consciousness against the oppression of futuristic nostalgia. But the subtext revealed to be underneath this exterior narrative is a self-reflective focus upon the anxieties and conflicts of world-building and audience immersion in fiction. Westworld is perfectly designed for our contemporary era of television pop-culture revolving around critical theory-inspired analyses and fan-theorization debates. There is plenty room for such fan speculation regarding the chronology of events, motivations of characters and whether characters are human or machine. It is an adult science fiction show about the idea of adult science fiction shows and the drama behind making them both profound and appealing. The show incorporates post-modern concerns of simulation, spectatorship, pastiche, and performance as existence. Like the best of science fiction, the show occupies an existential position between the fixations of our present reality and the extrapolated possibilities of our future. This duality is exacerbated by the indeterminate amount of time that distinguishes the future of Westworld from our present.

          The world-building of Westworld is equally intricate and impressive, with the mechanics of the park and the robots which populate it being subtly laid out in portions appropriate to each episode. Rest assured, info-dump science fiction this is not. Each episode gives enough information to reassure audiences that there is a logic behind the chaos, but not too much rationale is divulged at once which would extinguish any appeal of its mystery. The show effectively balances between the world-building of an authentic Wild West simulacrum and the park’s science fiction base of operations. True to genre form, the Wild West park provides the action-oriented sensationalism, both for its attending guests and the television audiences watching, while the science fiction setting is a space for more thoughtful commentary and self-reflection. The science fiction setting isn’t just an example of world-building, but is a demonstration of it as well: revealing how narrative and aesthetic designs come together to create an immersive entertainment experience. The world-building of Westworld is the world-building of Westworld as the creators of the park reflect the creators behind the show.

          Much like the minds behind the show of Westworld, the employees of the Westworld park have investors to answer to and an audience to entertain in order to for it to be sustainable. As Emily Nussbaum wrote in his essay on the Meta-Politics of Westworld in the New Yorker recently: “Westworld” is about what it means to take those generic plots and mold them into something modern: a prestige product that satisfies the taboo desires of a niche consumer base. Like HBO showrunners, Westworld’s designers “pitch” plot arcs. They “massage” story lines. They plant backstories to deepen characterizations. When glitches appear, they panic over the need to halt production, much as “Westworld” itself did, when it shut down during shooting for a rewrite.” The financial cost and creative pressure upon the respective teams behind Westworld and Westworld must be immense given the degree of realism devoted to the park’s robotic simulacra and the cinematography and acting of the show. The anxieties of the latter team enter into the narrative and dialogue of the former; audiences are given intimate exposure to the drama of world-building experienced by writers and directors working behind the scenes in the entertainment industry. Such artists must balance not only between the realism of their vision with the desires of their audience, but also with the demands of those capitalizing off of their art. 

          Westworld depicts the drama of  escapism, between providing an escape from reality and a convincing alterative to reality. As one of the Westworld “storyline” writers poses the dilemma: "Ford and Bernard keep making those things more lifelike. But does anyone truly want that? Do you want to think that your husband is really fucking that beautiful girl or that you really just shot someone? This place works because the guests know the hosts aren't real." This is one of those rare moments in fiction where the words of a character speak not only within the context of the material but reflect the material as a whole as well as their revealing the authorial concerns behind it. It isn’t difficult to imagine similar conversations occurring between the creators of Westworld itself as they discuss what audiences want out of their show and how realistic and revealing the sex and violence needs to be. Is Westworld (and by extension Westworld) a careless escape from reality or a brutal confrontation with it? Posing the question from within the narrative itself not only provokes the audiences into considering the question for themselves, but it also offers them the reassurance that the show is also aware of and concerned with this issue.

          Unlike the park after which the show derives its name, Westworld isn’t designed only to offer escapism to its audience, but presents itself a self-aware interrogation of such indulgence. The inclusion of the science fiction setting acting behind the Western one effectively breaks the wall four audiences, but in a very subtle way. The audience is not explicitly addressed by any character in the show. Rather the characters who make the park function act as surrogates for the audience by being the writers and spectators to the events of Westworld. It is a show within a show, where the more one is immersed in the material, the more one is aware of it as a constructed fiction.  Audiences are invited to reflect upon the perilous pursuit of meaning through illusion while still appreciating the beauty involved in the production of such illusions. Westworld is too complex and conflicted a show to entirely approve of or condemn escapism. It instead presents an opportunity to reflect upon the motivations and consequences of being possessed by such a desire, not only for the consumers of such fantasy, but also for the creators behind it.  Such self-conscious exploration of the entertainment industry is rare for television. It is all the more rare and valuable in its apparent willingness to turn its gaze back upon the extravagant and exploitative (sexual) violence HBO can be (in)famous for.

          True to form with the HBO television dramas, such as The Sopranos or Game of Thrones, Westworld is abundant in both sexuality and violence. But in a show concerned so thoroughly with the simulation of violence, is such representation exploitation or condemnation? After only four episodes, it is far too early to provide a definite answer but it remains an intriguing and necessary question to ask with each passing episode. The violence is directed at robotic non-people (albeit played by real people, i.e. actors), but the sexual assault and brutal dismemberment they suffer appear wholly authentic and traumatic. Just as guests enter the park to freely indulge in violence, we immerse ourselves in this drama with every episode, albeit from a more distanced perspective as audience rather than guest. We may excuse our perverse interests as merely being a fantasy, but is that not the very same excuse guests use for their sadistic escapism: that their victims are mere simulations of people and therefore inconsequential. If the art of Westworld is the imitation of life, then don’t the actions taken upon that art reflect back upon life? Escapism, no matter how exotic the experience it offers its audience, is produced in the real world and always requires us to return to reality after it concludes. Westworld forces its audience to question the innocence of being the spectator and participant in simulated violence.

          A more problematic aspect of the show is the sinister significance it apparently attaches to suffering for personal narratives. Not only do most of the storylines designed for park guests appear to revolve around (sexual) violence, but the means by which the robots appear to be coming into self-consciousness is through the traumatic recollection of their repetitive rapes and murders. The Man in Black has offered more than a few comments regarding the importance of suffering to defining what it means to be a person. The danger with all of this commentary is that Westworld is explicitly endorsing a subtext that critics frequently accuse adult entertainment of: the use of rape and murder as catalysts for character development. Most shows try to evade this criticism by arguing that depiction is not equivalent to exploitation, but with Westworld no such excuse could be entirely acceptable given how self-aware it is of the art of storytelling. The writers are not only aware of this misogynistic trope, but have made it an explicit element of the narrative. Rape and murder not only make you a better person, without them you wouldn’t even be a person. 

          The show needs to go beyond merely being self-aware of this trend in adult entertainment, and needs to explicitly condemn it through the robots who have suffered uncountable times. If the robots are only made human by their inheritance of rape and murder and come to define themselves by it, then the show will be entirely guilty of perpetuating and reinforcing a sexist myth. But if the robots refuse to be constrained by such pain and pursue something more noble and beautiful, then the show too will have achieved something greater for the art of television. Westworld will not only have made audiences consciously aware of the ways we rationalize away sexual violence in our escapist fantasies; it will have also condemned such rationalization as a limitation, rather than a foundation, of character development and fulfillment. It isn’t sufficient for Westworld to make connections between audience and actor, violence and art, without offering its audience a narrative that transcends such mutual suffering.

          The initial fun of Westworld (and perhaps Westworld too) is trying to uncover who is human and who is mere machine. But that game is complicated by the robots struggling towards self-awareness: through an apparent corruption or subversion of their programming, the accumulation of memories and gestures appropriated from their past lives and deaths (called “reveries”) is giving the robots a sense of self. While the robots are developing into more complex and sympathetic characters, the humans are for the most part heterosexual white men programmed by base desires of sex and violence. The female hosts are either archetypically whores are virgins, and female guests are either wifely companions to male guests or lesbians coded with the same base desires as men.

          This contrasted simplicity of characterization between machine and man could very well be subtle commentary alluding to the existential poverty of humanity outside of Westworld. The robots are fascinating to Westworld’s guests and Westworld’s audience alike because they were intentionally designed to appeal to individuals seeking escapism from the boredom from their outside lives: amusement parks and television shows wouldnt be successful if they didn't offer something more stimulating than what is available in the "real" world. The lack of diversity among guests could be intentionally commentary about the kind of individuals attracted to the park, after-all, one would hardly expect minorities such as women or African Americans to wax nostalgic about a time period defined by their oppression. But then again, for a show that revels in self-reflection and making explicit the subtext of its narrative, it is surprising that this stereotyping trend hasn’t been called out within the show itself already. If it continues without internal commentary it is safe to assume that it is a glitch in the writing of Westworld rather than an aspect of the world-building intentionally designed as social commentary.

          Paradoxically, the appeal of Westworld is also its most problematic aspect: because the structure of the park is a parallel for the structure of the show itself, our condemnation of the park invariably reflects back upon our own participation as audience. If Westworld doesn’t aspire towards any message beyond the contradictory exploitation and condemnation of sexual violence, it will lose the more reflective members of its audience. There is only so much appeal in indulging in the hypocrisy of watching simulated violence that is critical of simulated violence. For a show so self-aware, with its central theme being the emergence of self-awareness itself, these contradictions appear intentional rather than accidental to its overall design. We anticipate that there is a conspiracy behind the apparent glitch which is leading the robots towards self-awareness and we can only hope that there is similarly a thoughtful purpose behind the self-reflective nature of the show.

          My persistent concern with Westworld is that its moments of apparent meta criticism are less opportunities of sincere self-reflection than they are of anxious self-assurance. The show needs to eventually reflect upon something of deeper significance beyond its own self-reflection; it needs to provide opinionated commentary regarding the complexity of narrative and self-awareness and the concerns of escapism. If is it unwilling to engage with itself any further, it will appear that it was all mere pretension to mislead audiences into expecting something of deeper significance which was never there to begin with. Westworld wants us to question the humanity of its robot characters, but in order for audiences to invest in that inquiry it has to convince them that it is not pretending to be something it is not. As the Man in Black character says, the real world is chaos but inside Westworld everything has significance. That’s the appeal of Westworld too, but it may well be mere illusion. We may be deluded into thinking that this show has something deeper to offer but in the end its self-awareness is just a glitch in its system and what audiences actually receive is nothing more than the robotic gratification of sexual and violent spectacle.

          For all its commentary on the importance of “narrative” and “backstory” to good characterization of the robots and the “storylines” guests immerse themselves in when visiting the park, Westworld makes it apparent to any scrutinizing view that it is very much a story about storytelling. How substantial and entertaining such meta-commentary will be is uncertain, but it is a promising opportunity to approach the escapism offered by television from a post-modern perspective. Westworld continues to entertain me for its intricacy of world-building and instability of intention. It is a show that problematizes my expectations of what adult entertainment can be and what my disposition towards it should be. It forces me to question with each episode whether the show is merely selling the same misogynistic escapism of the Westworld park or whether it will achieve something more profound. Will Westworld eventually escape the confines of escapism offered by Westworld?

The Fan-Art of World-Building: Coviello's Alien Pokemon Creature Art

Golduck

Thanks to the relatively recent emergence of Pokemon Go over the summer, the Pokemon franchise is enjoying a resurgence of popularity across generations. And adults are finding themselves involved in, and obsessing over, a rather childish activity: the acquisition, evolution and competition of strange creatures through their mobile phone. For those fascinated with Pokemon since their youth, some of the appeal of the game certainly lies in its aura of nostalgia. While engaged in the game, mature players are immersed into the memories of their youth as the Pokemon from that time are transplanted onto the world around them. For some the nostalgic pleasure of Pokemon in adulthood may be unproblematic while for others it cannot go without critical examination or rationalization.

In a previous post I explored the strategy of rationalization I refer to as the aesthetic rationalization of Pokemon. This specifically only applies to the rationalization of the representation (specifically the style of the representation) of Pokemon themselves and not any gaming activity involving said Pokemon. Such rationalized representations offer a mature alternative to the cartoonish depiction of Pokemon, thereby elevating them above being an interest acceptable only for the childish. If Pokemon appear more mature, then they are appropriate for a more mature audience. Such an approach presupposes that Pokemon can be considered in abstraction from their cartoon representations, and that said representations are just that: mere representations, not the Pokemon themselves.  

Ludicolo

The challenge of reimagining Pokemon in this way is to ensure that there is enough similarity between the cartoon and realistic depiction of the Pokemon so that they are identified with the same fantastical creature, while simultaneously providing enough flexibility in the image that it does not remain restricted by childish features. The balance between these two requirements entails distinguishing between the essential and contingent features of the Pokemon. The essential aspect of the Pokemon must remain consistent across aesthetic styles to ensure that the two images can be recognized as representing the same Pokemon while the contingent features can be adjusted across styles to better approximate a sense of realism without compromising the identity of the Pokemon.  

In my previous post focusing on realistic Pokemon artist RJPalmer, I distinguished two general styles of the aesthetic rationalization strategy which I referred to as natural reduction and alien extrapolation. Natural reduction entails the representation of a Pokemon according to familiar naturalistic and scientific forms of animal life. If a Pokemon is not easily identifiable according to these criteria, then the artist reduces its form to a more recognizable category. As the naturalistic science of biology does not entertain types of animals which are psychic, plant, rock, steel, ghost, fairy or dragon, Pokemon of these types are reimagined according to more familiar animal forms and categorization. For example, the Pokemon Magnemite is a steel Pokemon and has been variously reimagined as a form of insect or crustacean by artists of the natural reduction approach as there is no real-world equivalent to a steel-based organism. The essential aspect of natural reduction Pokemon art is the form of the Pokemon, not its function, but even then scientific knowledge and categorization takes priority in mediating that form. The more exotic a Pokemon’s appearance or abilities are, the less recognizable it may become from its original incarnation and the more divergent its reimagined appearances may become. If a Pokemon has no close real-world animal equivalent then it is up to the artist to determine the best analog for it, opening up the possibility of artists having radically different interpretations from one another.

The aesthetic approach of alien extrapolation, in contrast, prioritizes the function of a Pokemon over its recognizable form. Each Pokemon has a variety of special abilities, most of which defy biological, let alone naturalistic, logic. This proves difficult when rationalizing through natural reduction as it more often than not requires that their nature appearance and abilities be rendered more mundane so as it fit more comfortably within the categories of our current scientific consensus of the world. The alien extrapolation approach makes no such sacrifices and does not compromise with established categories of biology. If a Pokemon has capabilities which appear to contradict the limitations of their physiology or physics, then the artist imagines ingenious ways in which they appear more plausible if not possible. As the name implies, Pokemon art under this approach often retains an alien appearance but this is not necessarily consistent with the original form of the Pokemon. The form of the Pokemon is dictated by what the Pokemon can do and if its biology is considered inconsistent with its type and corresponding abilities, then it often takes on a radically different appearance. Natural reduction Pokemon art may appear different from its original material, but it is always familiar to its audience. Alien extrapolation often appears utterly alien to its audience, both from the original Pokemon and any recognizable biological category of animal.

Pikachu

The artist who most approximates my conception of the alien extrapolation approach to Pokemon fan-art is Vincent Coviello, otherwise known by his Deviant Art profile as Vincent-Covielloart (the artist responsible to my blog’s beautiful background art). I have already done one blog post on hisalien religion art series, so it is no wonder that his approach to Pokemon would take on an equally alien aesthetic (he has even described them as "xeno-Pokemon"). Coviello is more comfortable deviating from the original form of the Pokemon than Palmer is and is also less forthcoming in providing textual foundations to justify his reinterpretations. But when he does, Coviello usually has a plausible scientific-sounding rationalization for why the features were adjusted. For example, his Pikachu is hardly recognizable as such with its fleshy, furless form. But Coviello justifies this on the basis that furred body would be a disaster for an organism that discharges electricity which a fleshy body may be better adapted to absorb and release electrical energy. Coviello is an artist less devoted to the art of realistic Pokemon interpretations that Palmer, and while his gallery is certainly more limited, it is no less appealing aesthetically and conceptually. Please check it out. I have included below some of my personal favorites in addition to the examples embedded above.

Togetic and Togepi

Chimecho

Jigglypuff and Drilfoons

Chansey

Wobbuffet and Wynaut

Diglett

Abercrombie's Shattered Sea Trilogy Shatters Genres

            I recently completed my reading of Joe Abercrombie’s young adult “fantasy” trilogy The Shattered Sea comprising Half a King, Half the World and Half a War and as with all of his writing, I was thoroughly entertained. But it was the faux-fantasy setting which interested me the most conceptually. Which is ironic since Abercrombie has never been one of speculative fiction’s most interesting world-builders. The trilogy appears to be set within a typical pseudo-medieval world, albeit one with a cultural aesthetic reminiscent of the Vikings and Norse mythology. But through subtle allusions over the course of the series it becomes apparent that the narrative is neither set in an alternative world, nor a properly medieval one. It is in fact set in a post-apocalyptic future of our world where society has regressed to a medieval level of technological development and political ideology following what appears to be a global nuclear cataclysm. Judging by the map of The Shattered Sea, it appears that it is set around the Baltic Sea, particularly in Sweden. This makes the world closer to Mad Max than A Song of Ice and Fire despite appearing the share a stronger affinity towards the genre tropes of the latter.

            The post-apocalyptic nature of the world is never made explicit because the historical perspective of the characters is so distorted. The ruins of our present (or near-future-equivalent) civilization are known to belong to “elves” while guns and radiation are feared as magical phenomenon rather than recognized as technological and natural in kind. And though there is mention of unrecognizable territories such as Gettland, Vansterland and Throvenland, they are simply the new names assigned to territories of a post-apocalyptic Scandinavia rather than independent nations within another world. It is only through the description of the elves, their ruins and “magic” that the reader is able to incrementally recognize that they are mundane artifacts of our future’s mythologized past rather than a fantastical world utterly divorced from our own history. Hence the quotes around my label of the trilogy as fantasy fiction. Despite talk of apparently non-human elves, their forbidden magic and a dead God, the world is thoroughly naturalistic even if the continuity between the future and our present is occluded by the ignorance of the characters.

           

            Stories which are structured around the “feudal future”, “days of future past” or “magic from technology” tropes are fascinating to me because they have the potential to complicate the most fundamental distinction between fantasy and science fiction narratives: historical continuity. Science fiction presupposes its imagined futures (or alternative pasts and presents) as a historical possibility. These visions of the future are mediated by projected scientific discovery and technological ingenuity, hence the genre being science fiction. In contrast, the worlds of the fantasy genre represent a discontinuity with historic possibility, recognizing that such worlds are impossible for the reader to actualize. The paradoxical appeal of the fantasy genre is to take these impossibilities seriously, to explore a world that not only may never come to be real, but never could be real. Fantasy fiction doesn’t lack a sense of history itself (epic fantasies such as A Song of Ice and Fire and The Malazan Book of the Fallen have immensely complicated histories to their worlds), but rather disregards the possibility of actualizing its world over the course of our own history whereas science fiction takes seriously its potential self-actualization.   

The aforementioned tropes are a translation from the genres of fantasy to science fiction by way of projected superstition its demystification over the course of the narrative. The cataclysm of a global nuclear apocalypse in The Shattered Sea series divorces the world-text from the genre of science fiction and reframes the narrative in the recognizable tropes of the fantasy fiction genre. The event of a nuclear apocalypse erases the continuity between the reader in the present and the characters in the future; the world is described unrecognizably to the reader not merely because war and nuclear fallout has reformed the world to a dramatic extent but also because the collapse of civilization has deprived the characters of a modern ideology and vocabulary that the reader would recognize. Characters conceptualize their world in categories reminiscent of a more primitive and fantastical imagination and so the reader is misled along with them into understanding their world to be another world entirely: one governed by magic, elves and gods. Readers accept these elements uncritically at first as indicative of a fantasy world but as the narrative progresses these elements become recognizably more mundane and less mystical. Once it is recognized that the elf ruins refer to the concrete skeletons of modern cities, and elf magic refers to gun-powder weaponry, one is inclined to immediately re-imagine the story as post-apocalyptic science fiction rather than post-apocalyptic fantasy fiction.

            Yet this reversal is not necessary warranted by the world-text itself. There is no explicit identification between the world of the Shattered Seas and our own world that world necessitate re-imagining the series according to the conventions of science fiction as opposed to fantasy fiction. Although the translation of fantasy fiction into science fiction necessarily involves demystification (to the extent that spiritual and magical phenomenon belong to the former and not the latter), demystification itself does not require genre re-identification. It is perfectly consistent to deconstruct superstition from within the fantasy genre itself while consistently identifying with the genre. Magical abilities and supernatural deities are not essential to the fantasy genre; historical discontinuity, the impossibility that divorces the world-text of the fantasy novel from our own world, is what defines the genre. Magic and gods are the most explicit and familiar mediators of this discontinuity but they are not the only techniques. Describing the world as populated with alien ethnicities and animals, bounded by unrecognizable political boundaries and allegiances, and grounded by a history estranged from our own is also sufficient. A Song of Ice and Fire would still belong to the fantasy genre if the White Walkers never came out of the North, dragons never returned from extinction and R’hllor never granted a magical ability because the world-text of that series involves peoples, nations and historical events with no recognizable relation to our own world. It is a world of impossibility, of fantasy.   

What is relevant is whether the world-text in its totality can be identified as continuous with a point in our history or not and by what means this continuity is established. The recognition that the elves of The Shattered Sea are mere humans and magic as mundane modern technology may demystify the world from magical (high) fantasy to mundane (low) fantasy but it doesn’t require us to totally re-categorize it as science fiction from fantasy fiction. The inclusion of modern gun-powder technology in a fantasy narrative is no less disruptive than the inclusion of medieval weaponry and armor would be to a fantasy world. Both are technological artifacts of history and the fantasy genre is not restricted to any historical period since the inherent logic of the genre is anachronistic and distinct from the history of our own world. Fantasy worlds follow their own historical logic of development (or lack-there-of as is the case in the trope of “medieval stasis”) and it could be perfectly natural for a fantasy world to feature medieval and modern technology alongside one another. As it just so happens, this is the case with the world of The Shattered Sea: the majority of weaponry is at a medieval level of development but elf magic weapons (guns) provide immense power to those who can monopolize possession of them. The anachronistic juxtaposition of medieval and modern technologies and lack of an historical awareness (beside a supernatural and superficial remembrance of the collapse of civilization) reflect fantasy fiction’s disengagement with maintaining historical continuing between the reader and the world-text itself.     

            If the distinction between genres depends upon historical continuity or lack thereof, then whether a text is identified as science or fantasy fiction depends upon the narrator of the text having a historical self-awareness relative to that of its reader. The narrator must recognize their self as rooted in the history of the reader’s world if the reader is to recognize the text as the projected future of science fiction rather than the imagined impossible world of fantasy. Lacking any such historical self-understanding deprives the reader of identifying a shared historical connection between their world and the speculative world of the text and therefore the text is more akin to the impossible worlds of fantasy. If science fiction constructs its worlds by projecting the marvelous potential of science and technology through history as a bridge between our world and the future of the world-text, then apocalyptic fiction is the inversion of this. Apocalyptic fiction deconstructs such worlds by projecting the massively disruptive and destructive power of science and technology to retroactively erase history. The apocalypse opens up a space of interpretation for the reader amidst the destabilized boundary between science fiction and fantasy fiction. The apocalypse that occurred in the past of Abercrombie’s series didn’t just shatter the foundation of the world, it shattered the possibility of definitively recognizing that world as our own and as a distinct genre.

            Abercrombie’s series appears to encompass a transition from fantasy to science fiction genres but it is actually more subversive than that. What Abercrombie’s writing has accomplished, whether he intended or even realized it or not, is a subversion of the distinction between fantasy and science fiction itself. This is ironically the complete opposite effect of a surface reading of his world-text. When it becomes apparent to the reader that the elves are merely human and that the breaking of the world was merely nuclear disaster rather than apocalyptic punishment, this does not mean that the world-text transitions genres from fantasy to science fiction. It is a transition from high magical to low technological fantasy, it is an invitation to question and reimagine the conventions of the fantasy genre itself. Why can’t elves just be humans? Why can’t there be nuclear war, concrete architecture, and gunpowder weaponry in a fantasy world? I am more comfortable interpreting Abercrombie’s writing according to the genre of fantasy fiction rather than science fiction because the narrator and characters of his world-text do not understand their world in a way compatible with our own understanding. The apocalypse erased the past of their world and with it the necessary scientific ideology that would ground it as a projected continuation of our own world history.
            

            But simply identifying it with the fantasy genre is inadequate to address the unique indeterminacy inherent in his world-building (or apocalyptic un-building). If fantasy fiction is the speculation fiction genre of the impossible then Abercrombie’s series is fantasy in the ironic sense that it is impossible to say whether it is fantasy or science fiction. It is both, it is neither, it is up to the reader. Determining the genre of his world-text is an act of archaeology, digging through the apocalyptic ruins of his world-text for relics that would allow one to reconstruct the past and thereby recognize its genre. The Shattered Sea trilogy is post-apocalyptic fiction that is post-fantasy, post-genre. It is a work of young adult speculative fiction which asks its readers to mature along with its characters, to grow out of an adolescent understanding of binary genre conventions into the adult complexity of infinite possibilities and impossibilities, and mediate the path between the two for themselves.

Note: the above artwork is the property of Marko Djurdjevic for the tabletop RPG Degensis which I found to be both beautiful on its own and useful in conceptualizing some the world of the Shattered Sea