Ingroups, Misfits, and Outsiders in Speculative Fiction
In this world, or any other, there are essentially three types of people: insiders, misfits, and outsiders. Some individualize — others merge with the formless mass. The journey of each reflects our own relationship to society.
Worldbuilding: It’s All About Angles
Authors tend to build imaginary worlds with an implicit “point.” Speculative societies draw from subtle, real-world phenomena — the kind that require thesis statements and lengthy arguments to convey — and transform them into “tangible” landscapes where ideas can be explored to their fullest. The attention economy becomes an intracranial microchip delivering non-stop advertisements to the minds of everyone (Feed). The vague sense that corporations lead our lives askew becomes a corporate-mandated trip to the future (Ocean of Minutes). Gender-oppression dynamics become Gilead in Handmaid’s Tale. Worldbuilding has the power to take abstract ideas and translate them into a visceral, concrete realm to explore.
But as interesting as fiction’s highly intentional landscapes are the kinds of people who inhabit them. Authors don’t stop at just making Big Brother (1984), or a so-called utopia without color and history (The Giver), or bottled fetuses produced in a factory (Brave New World) to get a point across. As in all stories, it’s the animate people of these imaginary universes, who must inhabit and respond to their environment, that give these societies their depth.
Having picked up a number of speculative reads in 1) an ongoing search for life philosophies 2) a lingering attempt to define the genre, I’ve noticed that three types of characters populate such speculative worlds: 1. Insiders 2. Misfits 3. Outsiders.
Actually, the more I think about it, no other category of person seems possible — in fictional societies, or otherwise.
Though there are variations, I’ve found that each “type” of character, thanks to their point of view, offers a unique perspective into a landscape. Moving from the mind of one to another is not unlike moving a mirror to opposing walls of a separate room. The same scenario takes on a very different appearance — and, patterns of growth vary. Like a particle that can take multiple states, their starting position allows for a number of emotional trajectories to develop.
- “Insiders ”exemplify the status quo. Sometimes they become free-thinking individuals; sometimes, they become a narrative technique: a high-def, surround-sound representation of what is wrong with the world.
- “Misfits” possess some inherent trait that distinguishes them from other people. Their weirdness usually drives them to discover an identity separate from social expectations. Their emotional trajectory, when healthy, mirrors the Jungian process of individuation.
- “Outsiders” are, simply, those from somewhere else. Their distance from a culture allows them to perceive its strangeness with fresh eyes. These characters form some kind of relationship to the place they’ve visited: rejecting it, becoming subsumed by it, embracing it, determining they will never understand it, or something else.
Regardless of the book, each character “type” — insider, misfit, or outsider — is uniquely positioned to offer insight into the world at play. Though we are probably not fictional, we, too, have experienced all three perspectives in some shape or form. And we’ve had the choice, as these characters have, to evaluate the status quo and choose which parts of it we can accept.
“As you start to walk on the way, the way appears.” — Rumi
1) Sheep (In-groups)
Many protagonists in speculative fiction novels start out as perfect victims of the attitudes that pervade their society. These are people who, at least toward the beginning of the story, take little issue with social norms and fit into them naturally. They are sometimes compliant to the point of being exemplary. In 90’s high school films, they are those sitting at the central table, fulfilling the definition of exceptional normalcy. To offer a more literary example, in The Great Gatsby, Daisy Buchanan is the ultimate in-group character: she embodies the ideals of the 1920’s —problematic materialism, ditziness, complacency. She embodies the era’s ideals so well that Gatsby’s pursuit of the American Dream is inextricably tied to his pursuit of her. In Harry Potter, Malfoy is the sheep of Slytherins, trying to appease his rich dad and join the death eaters. These characters exemplify, or else strive to fulfill, what is socially acceptable within their environment, without asking why.
Since in-group characters “fit in,” they don’t experience much friction with their surroundings. That is, until some eye-opening event leads them to question the way of things.
Some of these characters — victims of their environment — collide with troubling facts, granting them the opportunity to change their outlook.
This technique is used in M. T. Anderson’s Feed, a YA set in a speculative future where in-the-brain advertisements dominate and control behavior. Titus, the protagonist, starts out as the perfect consumer: illiterate, wealthy, feeling bad about himself when he’s not buying things or partying. But, after he falls for Violet — his external stimulus — who suffers brain damage due to the feed, Titus must ask himself the big questions: is the feed’s control of human activity, to the extent that there are Clouds(TM) and School(TM), actually productive? Should everyone spend all their time spending money? Should all actions be dictated by advertisements? The deteriorating environmental landscape, rapid circulation of arbitrary trends, state of the earth, and lack of autonomy in the face of the feed, suggest not. As the feed withers Violet’s cognition, Titus comes to terms with the troubling nature of the feed’s monopoly. It takes someone he loves being nearly killed (or, “denied service”) by the Feed company for him to digest that the corporations that control humanity are not interested in the wellbeing of their customers; the chip is merely a vehicle for profit and is not, ultimately speaking, an optimal way of life. Though coming to terms with the bitter truth frustrates him, he exits the story with a clearer outlook. He is willing to face facts, even when to do so is impossibly weighty.
The story he tells Violet as she sleeps in a coma — a story about them — encapsulates his change of heart:
It’s about this meg normal guy, who doesn’t think about anything until one wacky day, when he meets a dissident with a heart of gold [. . .] Together, the two crazy kids grow, have madcap escapades, and learn an important lesson about love. They learn to resist the feed. (58.14) — Titus, aka M. T. Anderson
Of course, as in life, not all characters evolve. Some never have cause to change their mind, or choose to turn a blind eye. Instead of evolving, such characters epitomize the failings of a given social system. They remain — perhaps as Titus would have remained, had he never met Violet — illustrations of how their society has failed.
Take, for example, Scythe, Neal Schusterman’s YA trilogy set in a future where humanity has become immortal. In the Scythe universe, there is a medical cure for death. Exempting an unlikely visit from a Scythe (grim reaper who can legally kill you and let you die), dying takes up minimal cognitive broadband. To simplify life further, a near-omniscient supercomputer, the Thunderhead, has finally solved the bulk of humanity’s physical discomforts such as disease, scarcity, hunger, economic instability, and more. Removing physical problems, death included, makes way for much commentary on mortality, what it grants us, and what we lose without it.
The downside is this: in an immortal state, no singular event, want, endeavor, relationship, or accomplishment calls for bold, inspired action. As seen in the immortality episode of Love Death and Robots (Volume 2, Ep 3), twenty years are a drop in the ocean, and can be spent perfecting an opera solo, as there is no rush. Scythe’s characters comment that the emotions portrayed in mortality-era opera, books, and music are unrelatable to current audiences, due to their all-or-nothing intensity.
Tygar, Scythe Rowan’s dull party friend, illustrates the emotional consequences of mortality through his character. Tygar “splats” (jumps off buildings to become “deadish”) for thrills and parental attention. Perhaps this is as close to death as he can come, and a brush with mortality thrills him — we aren’t told, exactly. His absurd body-smashing, a trend among teens in the Scythe universe, shows how the search for meaning that’s central to human nature is still pursued, albeit frustrated, when mortality is taken off the table. Characters like Tyger, who suffer at the hands of their society, show readers where utopias can go wrong. Much of the depth we derive from our experiences, Schusterman argues, comes from the knowledge of our own mortality and the temporality of the things and people we love. By constructing a world where all things promise to continue on essentially forever, Schusterman also shows that life becomes less intentional when there is unlimited time. Tyger's dramatic listlessness is a shadow of the ennui many of us experience when we are guaranteed physical comfort and nothing else.
2) Misfits/Individuals
Where there are in-groups, there are also misfits, weirdos, marginalized persons: those who, for whatever reason, embody some difference — intellectual, experiential, or physical — that distinguishes them from the masses, often sending them on a journey of self-discovery. These are characters who, unlike my so-called sheep, do not fit in, even when they long to. Some innate, unshakable distinction plants the seed that inspires them to develop a worldview of their own, independent from social expectations.
In Louis Lowry’s fifth-grade classic, The Giver, protagonist Jonas’s unusual sensitivity drives him away from the “sameness” of the Community. Lowry illustrates Jonas as more sensitive to his environment than others. From the beginning of the story, he “sees beyond” the restrictions and rules imposed on him by the community. In a black and white world, flickers of red on an apple are perceptible to him. He even breaks The Rules, taking the apple home with him. Later, he defends his friend, Asher, when other kids make fun of the way he talks, even though language is of vital importance in the Community. Jonas’s sensitivity, empathy, and ability to see beyond the constraints of the Community lead him to being placed in the most honored, confidential position a twelve-year-old can be entrusted with: the Receiver of Memory. The onslaught of history, emotions, dark and luminous human experiences he “remembers” strengthen his individuality and will to know the truth. As his character evolves, he breaks rules to discover that his sick younger brother, and babies like him, are to be “released” or killed because they are imperfect. The book, as we know, ends with Jonas fleeing the society with his brother, both of whom the Community would have deemed unmanageable. Jonas’s gradual inquiry into the greater truth behind the monochrome veil stems from his nascent perceptiveness, sensitivity, and willingness to look beyond.
In some cases, being “different” in a negative way allows one to question the ideals of one’s society. When someone does not “fit in,” they begin to evaluate what is so spectacular about belonging to an ingroup in the first place. To return to a template of speculative fiction, there is Bernard from Brave New World, an Alpha Plus whose slight difference in height from other Alpha Pluses separates him from the mass. Near the beginning of the novel, Lenina, a “pneumatic” Beta, is criticized for showing an interest in Bernard because of his unseemly tendency to spend time by himself. Of all things a person can be in Brave New World, to be “alone” is among the worst. In fact, the three rules of state declare so: no privacy, no family, no monogamy. All three open doors to a dangerous, unrestrained inner life. As Bernard tries to avoid the soma narcotic, does not court enough women, and enjoys long, solitary walks, Mustafa Mond (the Director) threatens to send Bernard to Iceland lest he displays a “proper decorum of infantile behavior” and comply with the customs of his society. Though Bernard later turns on his own word, indulging in the promiscuity, soma addiction, and entertainment he once criticized after being temporarily deemed a hero, he eventually finds himself exiled to the Islands, where he physically and, most likely, emotionally separates from his society; one he likely would never have questioned if he felt that he belonged there.
The Director presents the Islands as a kind of graduation from a limiting scheme, a lifestyle for those who have seen the weaknesses in their society and come to advance beyond it:
“Whereas, if [Bernard] had the smallest sense, he’d understand that his punishment is really a reward. He’s being sent to an island. That’s to say, he’s being sent to a place where he’ll meet the most interesting set of men and women to be found anywhere in the world. All the people who, for one reason or another, have got too self-consciously individual to fit into community-life. All the people who aren’t satisfied with orthodoxy, who’ve got independent ideas of their own. Every one, in a word, who’s any one. I almost envy you, Mr. Watson.” — Mustafa Mond, i.e. the Director
A more complete, healthy arc of individualization is presented with another misfit seen later in the novel: an intellectually advanced Alpha-Plus marketing man, Helmholtz, who appears to have succeeded in all aspects of life — career, relationships, social influence, etc. Having slightly more intelligence than most Alphas, he hides his secret love of writing poetry, as indulging this emotionally and intellectually involved interest — two faculties condemned in this world — would surely exile him. Ultimately, Helmholtz follows the urgent need to become more than accepted and accepts his fate amidst the islands, where he says there will be “better weather” for writing.
Finally, there is also Violet from feed, whose upbringing sets her apart from others. Unlike most kids, Violet did not have her capitalist microchip installed at an early age; her father, an English professor did not purchase a chip for her until she was eight. He also did not have the money (or philosophical incentive) to provide her with the excess that most kids in her environment experience. Violet’s worldview, which was informed by an early childhood without the feed, allows Titus, the idiot, to see what people would be like separated from the installation. In their first interaction, Violet is transfixed by juice floating in low-gravity, as a child would be; unlike the rest of his friends, who decide the moon “completely sucks,” she enjoys the moment without seeking additional dopamine hits. As the damage from her feed worsens, Titus is pressured to question his faith in the feed’s nonstop promotions that merely distract from and monetize off of global problems. Violet and Titus’s evolution is a mutual one, triggered by Violet’s inability to fully accept the absurd consumerist lifestyle promoted by the feed company. Violet is another example of someone who, because they are strange, must leave or reject their society, albeit in a more tragic/physical form.
Jonas, Violet, Bernard, and Helmholtz all demonstrate how the unique aspects of our personalities, not necessarily prescribed to us by our societies, facilitate self-distinction and the uncovering of our individuality, necessitating an examination of who we really and what we believe.
Jung calls this the process of individuation, where hidden, unique characteristics— the repressed parts of oneself, that likely would not be accepted by society — are consciously thought about, considered, and integrated into one’s outlook and way of thinking. To individualize, a person must form a sense of self that exists independently from social expectations. One must embrace one’s complexity and examine it to an end, making choices as a free-thinking person who is not intellectually bound to a fixed identity.
All of us, to some extent, have sought to form our own opinions and sense of self. Mental illness, minority gender or racial identity, or even just a slight sense of dissatisfaction with the norm, are enough to send anyone in pursuit of thoughts and opinions that exist beyond the shores of the mainstream.
3) Outsiders
Finally, among the inhabitants of these unwieldy worlds are total outsiders. These are the unlucky scientists on other planets, attempting to “study” the whims of an alien ocean (Solaris); the savage who witnesses “civil” society for the first time, as John does in Brave New World; a time-traveler stepping into an unknown future, per Thea Lim’s Ocean of Minutes; the alien on Earth inhabiting a mathematician’s body and life, as seen in Matt Haig’s The Humans; or, vice versa, a human waking up aboard an alien spaceship 250 years in the future, per Lilith in Octavia Butler’s Dawn. From a critical standpoint, these characters provide a detached, fresh-eyed view of the civilizations they are observing. Their liminality makes them sensitive to the dynamics of a new land; they can honestly comment on the bizarre, inexplicable nature of traditions one enmeshed in such a society would consider normal. As outsiders, their progression involves forming an alternate perspective to the place that they have visited. Solaris’s ocean changes, in Dr. Kalvin’s mind, from comprehensible to incomprehensible; humanity proves to be deserving of existence to an alien who once deemed the human race irrational and destructive; Lilith falls under the oppressive sway of an alien civilization, bending to their ways; John commits suicide after visiting that Brave New World, because he cannot escape. These trajectories are all, to some degree, the formation of a relationship to a place and its ideology.
In Matt Haig’s The Humans, an alien inhabits the body of a mathematician to stop him from sharing the Reimann hypothesis, a mathematical theory the aliens know would drastically evolve civilization (technologies that, according to aliens, humans are too immature to receive). As an alien, the protagonist comments extensively on human civilization: for example, the boringness of human architecture (a shrine to the rectangle), the oddness of having to wear clothes (he gets arrested), the locality of news (ideal human news would be about things happening on one’s immediate proximity), the lack of breaking mathematical theorems playing on the television. Most importantly, he observes that humans care for each other, despite being violent and selfish, in a way that the logic-driven aliens on his planet do not. Because of this character’s outside perspective, the reader sees humanity in a new light: we are reminded both that we are intolerable, war-starting mongrels motivated by self-interest; but we are also loving, and therefore more than hopeless. Such an open-minded value judgment can only be made by an observer from somewhere else — an alien.
To return to my favorite template of speculative fiction, John the Savage in Brave New World is another such outsider looking in. His story ultimately shows how problematic the Brave New World is — after all, he cannot survive in it, and is lead to suicide when its paparazzi follow him into solitude.
As an outsider whose upbringing involved Shakespeare, native rituals, and no deliberate psychological or mechanical conditioning, John cannot fathom the corporate motives and callousness of the civilized world, a place where his mother is permitted to die of a soma overdose and is deemed useless to society; and, where his true love, Lenina, rejects him when he tells her that he loves her and wants to engage in feeling romance, not distracted sexual entertainment. Being hunted down by filmmakers who lure him into a soma (drug)-ridden orgy, even when he has taken all measures to escape, convinces him that society is inescapable; so, he exits through the lighthouse.
John’s suicide shows how an emotionally aware, unconditioned outsider might react to a world as economically motivated and sparse of thought and feeling as Huxley’s, how far from our natural want for depth and meaning a consumerist bizzaro-land seems. Through the eyes of such outsiders, the reader comes to experience the madness of these other lands in their totality — John, Lilith, and the rest respond to these foreign civilizations without the buffer of familiarity and conditioning to restrain their judgment. Seeing their responses makes us question what should be “normal,” how our society influences us discreetly, and if the behaviors we accept as ordinary are truly optimal or healthy. In Huxley’s case, the argument seems to be that they are not.
Misfits in the Real World
Though I’ve given a rough outline of the types of characters who come to exist in speculative fiction, any society, culture, or group contains those who belong, those who do not quite belong, and those from elsewhere looking in. Thinking about the concept of “normalcy” across a span of novels reminds us that acceptable behavior depends, largely, on the place that we inhabit; there is likely no such thing as ordinary from an ultimate standpoint. What is “good,” then, is something for us to decipher as individuals.
I personally think of reality as a photo to look at, consider, and select from. Whatever our environment holds, it can provoke us to try and deduce — from an independent point of view — what we think is truly the best way to live.
