The Writer’s Guide to Dystopian and Utopian World-Building is designed for curious minds. Explore nuanced societies, from bleak dystopian nightmares to radiant utopian harmonies. Using forty interwoven factors, this manual reveals how to measure the distance between paradise and ruin. Each factor is mapped on a dynamic scale, from good to bad, or bad to good, illuminated by real-world, literature, and film examples. Along the way, tailored writing prompts help you shape compelling worlds and layered character arcs.
Whether you’re crafting speculative fiction or simply rethinking the world around you, this manual is your compass for navigating the grey space between extremes. Packed with philosophical insights, narrative tools, and cultural parallels, PJ Mackintosh invites you to dissect the architecture of society and imagine what lies beyond. Paradise isn’t a place, it’s a question.
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Literature is skewed to dystopian stories rather than utopian. This is because dystopia offers a ready-made goal, something for the protagonist to strive for. Utopian stories are only written about when it is threatened or there is a sinister underbelly. If nothing changes in a utopian story, there is no story – everything is perfect and the world is rather ‘dull.’
In all stories, there are three outcomes:
- Escape: (Run away) Usually from dystopia to a supposed utopia
- Change: Either through revolution or changes in the character’s circumstances
- Death: The ultimate way out
The writer’s guide to Dystopian Utopian World Building offers a framework that enables analysis of a society or, at a more intimate level, a character. The short stories below attempt to demonstrate this contrast. We should also remember, ‘One man’s freedom fighter is another man’s terrorist.’
Dystopia: Male 98456
At five in the morning, the work siren blares out to start the working day. Male Number 98456 is rudely awoken in his tiny coffin cubicle, just big enough for him to lie in, but so small he can’t turn around. Like normal, he hasn’t slept well due to the noise of the machinery next to the housing unit. Combined with the freezing temperature, he’s exhausted, and the day is yet to start. He climbs out of the thin, dirty, itchy brown bed sheet and goes to the broken window. The wind turbines cause the dim sunlight to flicker as the blades turn.
He heads to the compact, dirty, communal bathroom with tiles that are painful to walk on barefoot. Cockroaches scurry around on the floor and up the walls. Not to mention the strong odour of shit. In the broken mirror, 98456 picks at his rotten teeth. With a bit of effort, he yanks one out that has been unbearably painful. Next on the daily routine is to shave his head, maintaining his bald look. Followed by shaving his stubble that has grown overnight, along with any other body hair. He doesn’t earn enough coin to have hair. He takes a shower in muddy, polluted water for his allotted three minutes per month. Getting dressed, he puts on his brown, unwashed, itchy boiler suit and ragged boots with holes in the soles.
In the mess hall, he goes to the counter and is served in a rough metal container, grey slop with soft, lumpy white bits. He fills up a small grey plastic cup with brown, smelly water to drink. Breakfast doesn’t fill him, nor does the small cup of water quench his thirst, but that’s all he has been rationed with.
He leaves the rundown housing unit owned by the corporation. Looking up along the road, towards the edge of the compound where there is an electric fence, no man’s land, and a thick forest beyond. 98456 sighs deeply. There’s no point in even thinking of escaping; his outlook, along with everyone in the compound, is bleak. Since the war, long before 98456 was born, things have got worse every single day. There is no way for someone like him to change things. The only upside is that the recent floods have washed away the crap on the streets.
On each of the tall, rough, windowless, concrete buildings are black and white banners of the dictator, giving a stern look of hardship with the phrase work makes you free. 98456 shakes his head.
The air is thick with soot, so fine that it goes straight into your lungs even if you put your hand over your mouth. It makes 98456 cough, and on his hand, there are small spots of red blood.
98456 puts his hand in his pocket to pull out the only coin he has. His only savings. His only treasure. It has taken him over a year to save so much. He rubs his fingers over the golden surface of the engraving of the dictator.
Abruptly, a horn sounds. 98456 jumps out of the way to let a motorcade pass, surrounded by police. In the car window, he spies a brief look at a lavish woman dressed in green silk adorned with gold jewellery. The dictator’s wife. How the other half live…
As he heads to the power plant, it begins to rain. Rain that burns your skin, leaving a blistered mark. 98456 hurries towards the grinding noise of the powerplant. Today, he’s put to work scrubbing the exhaust vents. It is dark, hot, smelly, confined and difficult work – scrubbing the interior of the metal stack.
By midday, his stomach churns, expecting a meal that will never come. Workers are only fed twice a day, unless they use coin, but hardly anyone earns enough to splurge on lunch. At least they are allowed a few minutes off for what should be lunchtime. A long-forgotten tradition.
98456’s boss inspects the morning’s work. With a stern expression devoid of any hint of kindness, he yells, “Is that all you’ve fucking done!”
He approaches 98456 and, with his whip, strikes him across the face. His fellow workers burst out in laughter. 98456 has little trust. No, that’s not right, he has no trust at all. No one is on his side. No one cares. He’s an irrelevant human. Holding his hand to his face, he can’t help but sob a little.
“Pull yourself together! You fucking waste of space!” he huffs and slaps himself hard across the face. If only he could escape to the forest and away from this godforsaken compound. If only he could get a message to his sister.
After the short fifteen-minute break, 98456 returns to work. The day drags on. 98456 is covered in filth and in need of a wash, but he does not want to waste his only coin on the decadence of a shower. Suddenly, the wooden ladder he is standing on gives way. 98456 plummets down the stack with a deafening scream. He lands in a pile on the floor. His arm is broken, the bone sticking out of the skin. The boss approaches, “Fucking hell. You’ll be docked coin for not completing today’s work. Get yourself off to the medical bay.”
98456 scrambles to his feet, holding his broken arm. It’s agony. Tears roll down his face as the pain is unbearable. With effort, he manages to get to the medical bay. A smartly dressed nurse at the reception desk asks, “Can I help?”
“I’ve broken my arm.”
“Oh, do you have insurance?”
“No, I can’t afford it.”
“Do you have coin?”
“I have one coin. Will that do?”
“No, we require five coins to see a doctor, then treatment is additional to that. We can’t help you unless you have insurance or coin. You could sign up for a medical trial. Current survival rates are about 3%. But, as you’re damaged, you won’t qualify. If there is nothing more, I cannot help,” The nurse says. and swivels on the chair, turning her back to 98456.
98456 shakes his head and walks back to the housing unit. The one hope he has is to find a sympathetic controller to bribe. That’s the dream, the only dream he has. Back at the housing compound, two guards are waiting outside 98456’s coffin cubicle. “What’s this about?” 98456 asks.
“You don’t have the right to talk to us. We are the only ones to ask the questions, got it?!” The guard snaps, holding up his fist. “What’s with that stupid accent? You sound like a simpleton. And you fucking stink!”
98456 bows his head, legs trembling.
The guard grabs 98456 by the neck and scans the barcode tattooed on 98456’s forehead. “Level 1? Jesus, you’re such a retard?”
“I tried my best,” 98456 sighs.
“You’ve been damaged,” the guard says.
“I had an accident at work.”
“Can you be repaired?”
“If… if I had coin, yes.”
“Hum… you’re a reject,” the Guard says.
“NO… I will get better! I will!” 98456 protests.
“You don’t have a choice,” the guard says with a wry smile. He sucks on his drug tube and coughs a little. “You’ll be given as fodder to the games. One thing is for sure: I won’t be betting on a scrawny thing like you. I’ll be surprised if you last a minute. You’re not even worthy of being used for breeding stock. All you can hope for is biowaste.”
The other guard pats down, 98456. “What’s this? Coin. I’ll be having that.”
98456 screws up his eyes, wanting to cry. There is no hope. His fate has been sealed. He wants to die, and die he will at the games. All he can hope for is a swift death, but even that he will probably be denied.
Utopia: Simon Jacobs
Simon Jacobs wakes in a nice, fluffy, white, clean, scented bed sheet with a high thread count. He turns to see his wife, Sarah, who is sleeping peacefully next to him. He gently kisses her on the cheek. She wakes, “Morning, you,” she says with a gentle smile.
“Morning, my love,” Simon smiles.
Simon gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom for a hot shower fed from the pure spring water of the hillside. He dries himself off using a freshly washed, white, fluffy towel. He brushes his pristine teeth and admires himself in the mirror. He plaits his long blond hair into coils and secures them with a hairpin. Heading back into the bedroom, he pauses to look at the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the valley and the sea beyond. He never gets tired of the view. He puts on a fluffy pink dressing gown.
In the kitchen, Sarah lays the table for breakfast. A lovely odour of freshly baked croissants, black currant jam, and steaming hot vanilla coffee fills the kitchen. At the table, whilst eating breakfast, Simon uses his phone to scroll through the day’s work offers. A waiter, a stylist, admin work… the list goes on.
“Anything grab you?” Sarah asks.
“Nope, I don’t feel like working today,” Simon replies with a broad smile.
“Well, I fancy doing a few hours in the salon this afternoon. I need to keep my skills up to get the proficiency certificate,” Sarah replies.
“Jolly good, I’m sure you’ll get it in no time,” Simon says.
Simon proceeds to check his coin balance. As scheduled, his weekly universal coin allocation has been deposited into his account. Since the war, long before Simon was born, the world was redesigned for everyone to receive a universal income and a place to live. This helped eradicate many of the ills of the prewar society.
Simon turns on the radio. “This is the nine o’clock news. The senior and junior senates are launching a new app to monitor happiness. Rather than an annual survey, this year, a reminder message will be sent out three times a day for the next two weeks, asking for people to rate their happiness with a sad, neutral or smiling face. It is hoped that this system will do away with bias and inconsistency. Where happiness is low, either by time or geographic area, a more detailed survey will be carried out to determine the reason for unhappiness. Once completed, an action plan of improvements will be developed and implemented.”
After breakfast, Simon gets dressed in a multicoloured tie-dye shirt, corduroy trousers, a finely hand-stitched jacket and comfy trainers. The outfit is completed by a simple rose gold chain that was his great-grandmother’s and a pair of hooped earrings. He applies some simple, natural-looking makeup.
Next is for Sarah and Simon to take their pet dog, Stan, for a walk. Outside, it is a lovely early autumn day. The air is crisp, sweet and pure. Each house they pass is unique. Some are brick, and some are wood. Each of them is individual and inviting. They all have lush green gardens. The road is lined with trees. There is the occasional community pod car that silently drives past, and several cyclists. Every person they pass, they say good morning. It is a perfect morning, and the day can only get better.
After the walk, they return home. As soon as they get in, Simon’s phone rings. It’s his sister. “Hey, Fee. How’s it going?” Simon asks.
“Guess what?! She said yes. Helen said yes! We’re getting married!” Fee gushes.
“That’s brilliant news. I’m so happy for you! Have you told the rest of the family?”
“Not yet, I wanted you to be the first one to know. I’ll call the rest of the family after the call,” Fee replies.
The conversation continues. They agree to meet up later in the week for Simon to help with the wedding plans. After the video call, Simon sets about with one of his many hobbies.
Today, he is painting a picture in oils of the view from their house. Having spent years in art school, he is a talented artist who gives his work away rather than for coin. The universal income is more than enough.
At lunchtime, Simon prepares some club sandwiches. While he cuts the bread, he accidentally slices his hand; it’s not a big cut, but enough for it to bleed. “Crumbs, I’ll call the medical pod,” Sarah says. In a matter of minutes, a medical pod arrives with a medical android who treats Simon’s hand without question or payment.
At the end of the day, Simon and Sarah sit down with a bottle of red wine whilst watching the Olympic Games. Despite the injury to his hand, Simon has had a lovely day and is looking forward to what tomorrow brings.
