Turn, Turn

When you jump into a new fantasy or fiction series, it’s not quite like any world you’ve come to know before. It can dance so close to our world it may seem to be a clone. Time reveals more and more aspects of the setting, what rules this world is playing by. Trying to understand, in the beginning, is all you can really do. Bumping against walls looking for any clear sign of where you are. As the author, it’s my job to slowly feed that information to the reader, layer by layer, without overwhelming them. Easing them in to a time and place removed from their current life. My focus on worldbuilding today is the important element of when the story is taking place.

I’ve written before about how important it is for your technology to match your story’s setting, but the era, both in feel and function, matters just as much. How much autonomy does the average person have? What kind of communication exists? Does the technology empower people or control them? These questions help define not only your world’s logic but its emotional and political stakes. Different points in history shift these factors. An ancient era might be more concerned with basic survival, whereas a more modern era might wrestle with the consequences of its own sprawl.

For my story, the world exists at a turning point. The points in-between very distinct eras are where a lot of chaos can occur. Society has pushed forward in technology and magic to a degree that the old systems simply can’t hold everything in place anymore. If people continue to operate under the status quo, they’re essentially enslaving themselves to outdated powers. But to push forward into something new requires massive risk and a willingness to let go of the known world. These kinds of transitions exist all throughout real history: industrial revolutions, collapses of empires, and world wars. I was especially drawn to the period between early industrialization and modern warfare—a time when machines had been built, but the systems to manage their power were still catching up.

What if, in a fantasy setting, you skipped some of the clunky middle steps? What if your power source wasn’t steam, but a magic-infused energy like Aether? You don’t need giant smokestacks when a conduit crystal can power a factory. But just because the machines are advanced doesn’t mean the society around them has caught up. That’s the tension I’m playing with: a world full of possibility being stifled by tradition and isolation.

This setting opens the door for modern conveniences that often get skipped in high fantasy. I want machines that can help with tailoring, shoemaking, transportation, not flying cars for everyone, but enough development to suggest that airships could exist, even if only a few organizations have access to them. The climate of my story is mostly tropical, and while the structures of government and power take some inspiration from medieval European societies, the environment forces practicality. No one’s walking around in wool cloaks and heavy armor under the hot sun.

The political structure, too, is shaped by geography. The world is a vast chain of islands and archipelagos. Communication between islands is limited, no radio towers or magical internet, so information spreads slowly. That kind of lag breeds tension. People on one island may live in comfort while another suffers, and the outrage never reaching across the waves. Just like in our world, progress is often uneven. Empires consolidate power where they can, while trade guilds and merchant fleets prefer fragmented rule. The result is a world on the edge divided. On the cusp of something bigger but not necessarily better.

The blend of Aether and machinery becomes another layer in that tension. Aether started as a raw power, something that enhanced humans physically and spiritually at first. Equivalent as a force such as fire or as important as the wheel. As technology advanced, people began to channel it into machines. Certain metals conducting and repelling it, forms of life that could process Aether in different ways, all to the effects it had on the way things grew. Machination occurred similarly to our history but it had a big helping hand from Aether. That meant fewer blacksmiths hammering iron by hand and more workshops powered by Aether-driven gears. Fewer workers needed for the hard labor. Less time needed to complete a task opened up time to try new things. One person using a simple Aether tool might replace five with shovels. That speed up in production propels societies forward, but it also widens the gap between those with access and those without. Add on top of that, the isolation of islands, different regions developing different techniques, styles that are unique, and these machines become cultural and fiercely guarded.

As technology accelerates, so does consolidation. Groups begin absorbing the best ideas and talent from smaller factions. The powerful get more powerful. And the space between the elite and the everyday person grows. In that gap lies uncertainty. Who gets to shape what’s next? Who holds the keys to progress? Who has the ability, and the right, to decide what comes after? Are those that can really the ones that should?

That’s the part that fascinates me.

It’s easy to make sense of change when you’re looking backward. History becomes bullet points. “The machines were built. The power shifted. The empire fell.” But living through it? That’s chaos. You don’t know which thread matters most. You don’t know if this moment will change everything or be forgotten next week. That’s where my story lives.

I don’t know the full picture of my story yet. I know where some arcs will go, and I know what kind of change is coming. But until it’s all written, I can’t fully see the pattern. I know the start and the end but there is so much in the middle up for grabs. I’ll take inspiration from real history, where change took years, not minutes. Where revolutions brewed quietly in cafes and factories long before a banner was raised. I want the shifts in my world to feel earned. Not instant. Not emotional decisions made in a vacuum. But slow, painful, meaningful change.

Because if someone’s going to risk their life to fight for something, it better be more than a spur-of-the-moment decision. It has to be something they’ve lived with, struggled through, and come to believe in, even when it’s hard. That’s how real change happens—one conversation, one invention, one hard choice at a time.

At the end of it all, if I’ve done my job right, then when readers step into this world, they’ll feel the weight of that moment in history. A world on the brink. A people torn between comfort and evolution. The engine of change waiting for someone to spark it to life.

One turning point at a time,
K