There’s a certain quiet sadness in realizing that I was born in a time where interstellar travel exists only in the imagination. My early childhood dreams—of boarding a starship, donning an explorer’s uniform, handheld scanner in hand and weapon on my hip, and stepping foot on alien worlds—were formed in the early 70s, at the tail end of an era when humanity still seemed destined for the stars. Yet here we are. The space shuttle program is gone, and with it, the feeling that we were just at the edge of something greater—on the brink of joining the interstellar neighborhood.
But dreams have their own way of surviving.
The love I have for uncharted alien worlds—the strange landscapes, mysterious civilizations, the quiet beauty of a sun or multiple stars setting over an unfamiliar horizon—burns brighter than ever. And while video games like No Man’s Sky and Elite Dangerous (I play and enjoy both) give us glimpses of this future, procedurally generated worlds only scratch the surface of what exploration can feel like. They offer stunning vistas, but the depth? The story? The life waiting on those worlds is, by necessity, limited. A random crash site, with random loot, a pre-programmed alien character handing out quests, or trading at a base—there’s no true discovery, no breathless realization that you’ve stumbled across something only you can see.
That’s where writing—and role-playing—steps in.
When I sit down at my desk, alone with a blank notebook or the blinking cursor of my ASUS Laptop, I’m not bound by algorithms. I can create anything. My alien worlds aren’t confined to code or texture maps; they grow from questions, “What if?” What if a distant planet had lakes made of liquid crystal? What if its people used light as language? What if a long-dead civilization left behind machines that no one could turn off? And then I take it further—what would it feel like to stand there? To inhale the strange air, to feel the crunch of alien soil underfoot, to hear the hum of something impossibly ancient reverberating through the landscape?
I don’t just build worlds—I visit them.
I admit, sometimes it gets a little personal. I’ve played more than a few solo role-playing games where I become the explorer myself, creating detailed lists of the tools I’d need to survive, the maps I’d use to navigate, the dangers I’d encounter. I even have logs of these Adventures, which are mix of recording the results of random generation as well as my own imagination. When I imagine myself traveling to these worlds, I don’t just fill in the blanks—I fill in the layers. What political tensions exist in this place? What trade goods would a merchant like Kars Vandor bargain for? What rumors would the starport bar's patrons whisper about the ruins beyond the mountains? Who lives there, and what stories do they tell?
A procedurally generated game can’t ask these questions. But I can.
I think that’s why I keep creating. It’s not just escapism—though it’s that, too. It’s hope. Hope that someday, humanity will solve its problems, grow beyond its divisions, and finally venture out there. It’s hope that we’ll become the explorers we’ve always dreamed of being. Because I do believe there’s a neighborhood waiting for us—stars scattered across the dark canvas, planets teeming with life, mysteries so profound they’d make us humble again.
We’re not there yet.
But in my imagination, we’re already on our way.
So I keep dreaming. I keep building worlds with words and sketches and maps. I create uncharted places where humanity hasn’t yet planted its flag, and I walk across those landscapes in my mind. I hope one day we’ll all get to do the same—not just in books or games, but in real life. Until then, I’ll keep telling these stories. Because somewhere, out there, I still believe there’s a place waiting for us.
And we’ll get there, one way or another.
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