Worldbuilding: My Former Frenemy Turned Reluctant Ally

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Art of Accidental World Creation

I have a confession to make.

Once upon a time, I hated worldbuilding.

Not a little. Not in a polite "not my strength" kind of way. I mean, deep, eye-rolling, please-let-this-tree-description-end kind of loathing. You know the kind. The kind that makes you skim pages. The kind that makes you question if the tree in question is going to sprout legs and go on an emotional journey of its own (spoiler: it didn’t). That one tree in that one book, so lovingly described, and yet so completely irrelevant, ruined the entire flow of the story for me. I was out. Emotionally evicted. And thus began my long-standing suspicion of worldbuilding.

I thought it was pretentious. Tedious. Possibly overrated. And when I decided to write my fantasy series, I made a quiet vow to myself: There will be no 40-page expositions on weather patterns, politics, or the shimmering bark of mystical flora.

I kept it simple in the beginning. Just...write. Write the scene, the character, and the tension. Make it clear. Make it feel real. And, above all, don’t bore myself...or anyone else.

And honestly? That worked for a while. I leaned hard into characters, emotions, relationships, and personal stakes. That was my happy place. Worldbuilding? That was for the map-makers and lore-spreadsheet lovers of the world. I was here for the people, not the architecture.

But then something strange happened.

While editing my second book, I started noticing...patterns.

Tiny threads of consistency. Themes. Symbols I hadn’t consciously intended to weave, suddenly shimmering through the background like, well, like that tree wished it could. So I paused, out of curiosity more than anything else, and skimmed through my first book.

That’s when I saw it.

The Ethereal Valley. The mansion of the Sins. The way I used light and dark. How the brightness was always almost too bright, the shine suspicious, the way glamour could distract you from what was lurking beneath. How territories were laid out in ways that reflected the people who lived there. I didn’t plan any of that in an outline. It just happened. Naturally. Quietly.

Worldbuilding, it turned out, was not a loud lecture on tree leaves. It was a whisper of meaning behind a setting. A metaphor folded into a mountain range. A little architecture of the soul, disguised as geography.

I realized then: worldbuilding doesn't have to be a chore. It doesn’t even have to be planned to be effective.

Sometimes, it just lives in the details, you feel more than forced. And while I’m not here to deliver hundreds of pages of lore, I’ve come to respect those who do. I now see worldbuilding as a silent partner in storytelling. Not the star. Not the showstopper. But the one holding the spotlight steady for the characters to shine.

Am I still a character-first writer? Absolutely. Give me a messy protagonist over a city blueprint any day.

But now? I’m proud of my worldbuilding. Because it works, it serves the story. It’s textured without being overwhelming, and intentional without being rigid. It lives.

So to the tree that ruined my reading experience once upon a time...I see you. But I raise you a glowing valley with secrets beneath its roots.

And I built it myself.

J.F. Monroe
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