The etymology of the English word “lord” is interesting: In Middle English it was laverd or loverd, which derived from the Old English hlaford (“master of the house”). But before that it was hlafweard, which meant literally “one who guards loaves of bread” (hlaf meaning “bread or loaf” and weard meaning “guardian, protector, or ward”).

On the other hand, a lady was hlafæta (“one who serves the house”) — or, more literally, “one who gives the loaf”.

In other words, an English lord was one who protected the food and an English lady was one who was responsible for distributing the food (presumably in a fair and efficient fashion).

I think this tells you a great deal about the English tradition of nobility.

You can also find similar etymological roots for other familiar titles: A duke is literally “one who leads”. An earl, on the other hand, was literally a “warrior” or “brave man”. (But it’s even more interesting to note that “earl” was an Anglo-Saxon term. It was equated with the French title of count when the Normans arrived. The term “count” derives from the Latin comitem, which means “companion”. Tells you something about the clashing traditions of nobility in England post-1066, eh?) In Old English a sheriff was the “chief of the shire” (scirgerefa, from scir– meaning “shire” and –gerefa meaning “chief, official, reeve”).

One of the things I enjoy doing while creating a fantasy setting is to create original titles of nobility and position. Not a lot of them (because nobody is really interested in turning a gaming session into a fictional language lesson), but just a few scattered here and there. Think of it as spicing or emphasis… or just a touch of the unnatural.

For example, a number of small nations and city-states in my campaign are ruled by syrs. For example, Dweredell is ruled by Syr Arion. This title is derived from the Draconic word for “lightning” and originally referred to the equivalent of  “duke” or “governor” in an ancient empire that once dominated wide swaths of the world. The empire used “lightning” as a title because the syrs ruled through the threat of destructive power. (Which tells you a great deal about the empire.) When the empire fell, the local syrs were in a position to consolidate power.

There are two tricks to introducing terms like this: Moderation and context.

First, don’t use a lot of them. And introduce them at a very slow pace. (I average about one every 20 sessions.) These things are spicing. And like all spices, less is usually more.

Second, introduce them through the simple and expedient means of using them in context. For example, the first time a group of players entered Dweredell they went looking for the leader of the city. After a Gather Information check I told them they could find Syr Arion at the Twin Keeps, and off they went with nary a question.

Another group started a campaign in the city-state of Amsyr and when I said “you receive an invitation from the syr to attend upon him at the palace”, one of the players asked, “What’s a syr?” And I said, “A local title, like a duke or a prince.” They said, “Oh.” and off we went.

Similarly, in my current campaign, nobody even batted an eye when I started referring to female knights using the title Sera. (Thus, Sir Kabel and Sera Nara.) (Why not use “dame”? For a variety of reasons.)

In both cases the term sort of settled into the common vernacular of the group. And when some of those players later learned that the term nainsyr meant “let there be lightning” (because it was the command word for a magical sword), maybe some connection was made (either consciously or otherwise).

Or maybe not. It doesn’t really matter: My mission was already accomplished. I had already leveraged them a little further away from Generic Fantasy World #961.

The concept of “genre” can be a fairly slippery one, but allow me to propose that genres of fiction can be broken down into four categories:

(1) Setting
(2) Plot
(3) Tone
(4) Target Audience

Which can roughly be explained like this:

(1) If a book is set in the 14th century, its historical fiction. If a book is set on Mars, its science fiction. If a book is set in a magical fairy kingdom, its fantasy. And so forth.

(2) If a book’s plot is significantly based around solving a crime or puzzle, then it’s a mystery. If a book’s plot is significantly based around two people falling in love, then it’s a romance. And so forth.

(3) If a book is supposed to make people laugh, it’s a comedy. And so forth. (This one is a bit harder to get your thumb on.)

(4) If a book is meant to be read by children, it’s a children’s book. If it’s meant to be read by teens, it’s a young adult novel. If it’s not meant to be read by people younger than 18ish, then it’s a mature novel.

You can freely mix-and-match between the different types of genres (a historical children’s mystery comedy). Mix-and-matching with another genre of the same type is bit trickier. I think the only genre which is truly exclusive is setting.

In Understanding Comics, Scott McCloud carefully constructs a very detailed and specific definition of what the term “comics” really means. With that definition in hand, he goes on to explore the incredible depth and breadth of the art form without any preconceptions or biases.

I first read Understanding Comics when I was fourteen years old. This approach to critical analysis had a profound effect on me. Forever after I understood the importance (and power) of having precise definitions.

Which brings me to the definitions for the various genres of speculative fiction which I devised and then perfected over several years of participating in discussions of science fiction in the rec.arts.sf.written newsgroup and at various other places face-to-face and around the ‘net. If you, like me, are heartily dissatisfied every time you read someone quoting Damon Knight’s definition of the genre (“science fiction means what we point to when we say it”), then this should be right up your alley.

SPECULATIVE FICTION: A form of fiction in which the story takes place in an imaginary world which exists as a result of one or more “what if?” questions.

SCIENCE FICTION: A form of speculative fiction in which the “what ifs” which define the imaginary world are based on science and/or technology. Usually this setting is an imagined future, but this is not always the case.

FANTASY: A form of speculative fiction in which the “what ifs” which define the imaginary world are based on the existence of magic. Usually this setting is an alternate reality or an imaginary epoch in Earth’s ancient past, but this is not always the case.

MAGIC: The term “magic” can be applied to any ability, effect, phenomenon, or creature which cannot be explained through the rules of science as they exist in this universe. This does not include theoretical future revolutions in scientific theory, the technology which those revolutions make possible, or authorial mistakes. If a work explicitly refers to an ability, effect, phenomenon, or creature as ‘magic’ (or synonymous term), then the ability, effect, phenomenon, or creature should be considered magic, regardless of its other characteristics.

SCIENCE FANTASY: A form of speculative fiction in which the “what ifs” which define the imaginary world are based on magic and speculative science and/or technology. In other words, any work which meets the definitions of both science fiction and fantasy.

ALTERNATE HISTORY: A form of speculative fiction in which the “what ifs” which define the imaginary world are based on hypothetical changes in the way that history actually played out.

And a couple of clarifications:

First, certain technologies (like non-relativistic FTL and most time travel) are grandfathered into the SF genre. By this, I mean that they have become so traditional within the genre that it is no longer necessary to actually invoke the speculative science necessary to justify them. Thus, if you have someone using a jumpgate, stepping through a time portal, or using psionic powers, it’s not necessary to launch into an explanation of the speculative scientific revolution which made them possible: The reader will simply assume that such an explanation is lurking under the covers.

Second, there are a few works in which characters will describe something as “magic” even though the author’s intention is for the reader to recognize that the “magic” in question is actually science or technology that the characters don’t recognize as such. Even though the definition of “magic” might lead one to classify such a work as fantasy, they are more properly classified as science fiction: The characters may be referring to it as “magic”; but the work is not.

This, of course, is all my opinion. But, in my opinion, these definitions do a better job of matching “science fiction” and “fantasy” to the stuff which is actually labelled as such on the shelf than any other objective definition I’ve seen.

Final thought for the day: It can be argued that there is a continuum between fantasy and science fiction, and the line between “speculations with magic” and “speculations with science” is a fuzzy one. But for the sake of argument, let us call this division the Clarke Line, in honor of Arthur C. Clarke’s famous Third Law.

Go to On the Definition of Genre

Before scientific experimentation disproved it, most people believed in the spontaneous generation of life (also known as equivocal generation). For example, it was believed the maggots spontaneously generated out of rotting meat. That places of darkness spontaneously generated all manner of crawling things (as could be seen upon lifting up a rock). Worms arose from dirt and even frogs were once thought to come from the mud.

This was a universe literally teeming with life energy.

For the purposes of fantasy, I find it particularly fascinating how many of these theories revolved around places of filth, putrescence, and decay giving rise to vermin: Maggots from rotting flesh, rats from excrement, and so forth.

So when we look around our fantasy milieus and see monstrous forms of vermin — dire rats, giant spiders, and the like — could we use such theories of creation as their basis? I think we can. In the vile places of the earth — the places were the very form of the world itself has begun to decay — such creatures are given form out of the darkness. And thus our dungeons teem with life.

Another interesting facet of the theory of the spontaneous generation of life is that, like many pre-scientific beliefs, it was not extinguished by scientific thought — rather, it retreated before it. Once it was proven that maggots are the larvae of flies, for example, the theory simply moved to become the spontaneous generation of bacteria out of the “life force” of the air. It wasn’t until Louis Pasteur rooted out the last of its hiding places that the theory finally died.

I bring this up to suggest that we can just as easily turn the dial in the opposite direction. We can even add a metaphorical (or perhaps metaphysical) component to the theory.

For example, John Wick’s Orkworld postulates that orcs are actually photosynthetic. But we could just as easily say that the orcs spontaneously arise wherever civilization is not: When empires fall, tribes of orcs appear in the ruins.

And we could elaborate upon further upon the themes of this theory: Mice were known to physically reproduce, but they were also thought to spontaneously generate out of moldy grain. Ergo, our orcs can both spontaneously generate out of the lack of civilization, but also reproduce.

Further, we could build upon this by considering the ideas of Lamarckian evolution — that life, once spontaneously generated, strives to become more and more complex. Thus we could postulate that all humanoid life has its origins in the primordial generation of orcish life from the absence of civilization — orcs, goblins, hobgoblins, and beastmen of all sorts appear spontaneously, but then some among them will breed and improve.

This doesn’t even necessarily need to be true, but it would certainly be an interesting religious belief. For example, your dark elves might believe that orcs, humans, elves, and dark elves all exist along a continuum of improvement. (It might be even more shocking if you made this a secret belief among the elves: They look at humans the same way that humans look at orcs… they’re just too polite to say it.)

You could root all of this cosmology in the apeironic weave of creation. Where that weave becomes weakened, spontaneous generation occurs. When weakened by decay, filth and vermin appear. When weakened by the loss of civilization, orcs appear. When weakened by vile death, undead appear.

Such a cosmology could have interesting implications for how summoning rituals or the creation of undead work. For example, Jean Baptista von Helmont had a receipe for mice: “Place a dirty shirt or some rags in an open pot or barrel containing a few grains of wheat or some wheat bran, and in 21 days, mice will appear.” Magical spells like create undead could directly manipulate the apeironic weave in order to cause undead to appear; but you could also open things up by allowing non-magical manipulation of that weave (through ritualistic murder, for example).

You could also flip the whole conceit of “weakening the weave” on its head. Perhaps clerics and living saints appear in those places where the weave has been strengthened. Perhaps the gods themselves are nothing more than those places where the weave has been unnaturally strengthened through the power of belief or sacrifice or chance.

Julia Nunes rocks my world.

Ms. Nunes plays a variety of cover songs and original works in YouTube videos. And she is simply delightful. There is something effervescent in the palpable joy that she brings to her music. You can see it in her face and hear it in her voice. It’s a joy that’s infectious. It leaps from her voice and into your heart.

Let me show you the two videos that turned my into a raging fanboy:

Every time I watch the video I’m impressed anew by the fact that, after starting the song with the wrong lyric, she simply starts again. It’s not just about her self-confidence as a performer in that moment — it’s about the entire atmosphere it creates: “Hey, I’m gonna play some music. Wanna listen? I like this song. Let’s have some fun.”

No matter how many times I listen to that song, in that moment I always accept her offer: I start having fun.

Convinced? Good. Come join the rest of us. We’re having a marvelous time.