Beyond Escapism: Writing Sci-Fi That Resonates

Today on the blog, author Christian Hurst discusses writing YA sci-fi books that resonate and his series Lily Starling.

Beyond Escapism: Writing Sci-Fi That Resonates

When we open a book, we leave Earth behind, and through the powerful engine of thought we hurtle into faster-than-light futures and alien worlds. As a lifelong science fiction fan, that thrill is one of my favorite escapes from life’s grind. But one of the reasons I love science fiction is that even in the escape, we can be edified, enlightened, or nourished. The best science fiction isn’t an escape pod from life. It’s a starship that carries us home with something new in our hands.

So how do we craft a story that isn’t just escapism? How does one infuse deeper meaning into their work? For me, it always begins with a theme—a question that won’t leave me alone. What does it mean to belong? How do we hold onto identity when the universe tries to erase it? What happens when chaos can’t be controlled, only endured? Once I have the question, I build the story to test it. And then I let the characters do what characters do best: surprise me.

In my Lily Starling series, the adventure is as big as space opera can get: storms that swallow ships, time-displaced stations, telepathic wars. But beneath every chase and battle lies a quieter gravity. Lily’s amnesia isn’t just a mystery to solve; it’s an entry point for the reader, a metaphor for how we all rebuild identity after loss. Xynn’s struggle against her culture’s caste system reflects every institution that insists we can’t choose our own worth. And Leviathan, the titular storm in book two, isn’t simply weather in space—it’s chaos made visible, the reminder that control is often an illusion.

That’s the alchemy I chase: story as spectacle, theme as mirror, characters flawed enough to feel unmistakably human. Thrills on the surface, meaning in the pulp.

Writers sometimes ask how to make their work “more meaningful” without turning it into a sermon—more substance, less soapbox. My two cents:

Start with theme. Ask yourself: What do I want to say? And why does it matter to me? It has to matter to you first, not just to the plot.

Pressure-test it. This is where story does the work. If your theme is connection, put your characters through loneliness, exile, or loss. If it’s power, strip them of it, or drop them into systems where power corrupts.

Drop your characters in without a lifeline. Don’t force them into tidy lessons. Let their choices—honest, flawed, messy—drive the answers. And let the consequences feel real—even when they surprise the audience.

Balance the noise with the quiet. Space battles are lit. But the quiet moments are the real fire. When someone admits fear or takes another’s hand, you give readers permission to feel. Those are the scenes they remember.

Move forward. None of this grinding one chapter until your eraser is flat. Keep going. Life doesn’t let us go back and fix the past. Write your way out of problems instead of trying to make everything line up neatly. It makes the story feel more real.

This kind of storytelling is deeply meaningful to me. I grew up often feeling like an outsider looking in. That perspective can be lonely, but it also brings clarity. Misfits notice things others overlook. That’s the heartbeat of my work.

I’ve been shaped by a thousand influences—space opera’s morality plays, Le Guin’s wisdom, Butler’s unflinching humanity. But at the end of the day, I write because I believe stories can be both refuge and revelation.

Escapism is wonderful. But science fiction can also remind us who we are, and who we might become. It can say: you belong here. Your choices matter. Connection is possible.

That’s what I hope readers find when they get on board with my work—not just escape, but empathy. Not just spectacle, but heart.