One of the biggest shortcomings I see in the science fiction genre at large is the overabundance of exposition. Fellow geeks will know what this looks like: in the midst of an intense interstellar firefight, the narrator pauses to let you know how a given weapon works: Then, in a blazing array of light, the starships fired their lambda cannons. Intensely focused gamma particles lanced across space, powered by individual microfusion generators, target-controlled by artificial intelligences, and tore into the defenseless colony …
Another common expository technique is to temporarily possess a character and give him/her/it (one can not always be sure of the proper pronoun in this genre) “talking head” syndrome. When done poorly, this is generally accompanied by key phrases such as “of course” or “as you know.” As in, “as you know, the emperor of this planet, who technically operates under the mantle of the Galactic Commonwealth (GC), but is actually in the pay of the Star Thieves, plans to hold an enormous banquet in his court tomorrow evening at six,” or, “There’s a sunstorm approaching! Fortunately, of course, the thick rock of this asteroid will protect us from any harmful radiation, and we shouldn’t experience anything more than some brief communication difficulties.”
Hollywood, lacking the novelist’s luxury of plenty of words, often turns this into the complex-line-of-reasoning-in-thirty-seconds scene: the moment where the dashing archaeologist recalls to his buxom blonde companion a condensed history of this temple complex, the beliefs of the tribe who built it, and why retrieving the golden mummy head from inside it is the only possible way to prevent an ancient curse from destroying Great Britain.
Sometimes exposition fills a necessary role–giving critical information to string the reader/viewer along through the plot. This can sometimes be left out, though it may result in the audience becoming lost and/or feeling stupid (this means you, Primer). A common and more subtle solution is to include a character which serves as a sort of “exposition excuse”–the outsider to whom things must be explained. Simon Tam, for instance, often fills this role in that pinnacle of television sci-fi, Firefly.
Generally, though, exposition is pretty obvious, and often times it results more because the writer can’t help but let you in on all these cool ideas he’s had and all the hard research work he’s done. Sure, the way a city’s waste disposal system works might not exactly be necessary to the plot, but, as Victor Hugo no doubt thought before writing the chapter on the Paris catacombs, it took so much work, dammit! And then of course there’s that point in Atlas Shrugged were John Galt gets his hand on a radio transmitter and spontaneously ad-libs a philosophical treatise the length of a short book.
But every once in a while, you find a book where the exposition is ubiquitous, but, by Jove, it’s good exposition. By “a book” here I mean specifically all of the works of Robert Heinlein (you were wondering when he’d turn up, weren’t you?).
Heinlein’s works are, for the most part, good, active stories heavily padded with complex ideas that changed the face of science fiction. Read Starship Troopers and you get a war story, yes, but also a full, detailed picture of an entire society based on military service and social responsibility, a technological description of advanced far-future warfare, speculation on the possible nature of alien life, and the everyday problems of life that might face members of the military in an advanced spacefaring culture. Stranger in a Strange Land is the story of a man who grew up with Martians, yes, but it’s also a detailed critique of western society and utopian picture of an alternative way of life. The Moon is a Harsh Mistress is a good, bracing tale of revolt, but it’s also an entire political outline for a new free-market, minimal government society, made possible with technologies were in their fetal stages when Heinlein wrote it.
And half the reason we read it is because of all of those details crammed into the exposition. For instance, take a look at a fairly typical paragraph spoken by Professor Bernardo de la Paz, Heinlein’s political mouthpiece in The Moon is a Harsh Mistress:
“You have put your finger on the dilemma of all government— and the reason I am an anarchist. The power to tax, once conceded, has no limits; it contains until it destroys. I was not joking when I told them to dig into their own pouches. It may not be possible to do away with government— sometimes I think that government is an inescapable disease of human beings. But it may be possible to keep it small and starved and inoffensive— and can you think of a better way than by requiring the governors themselves to pay the costs of their antisocial hobby?”
Exposition? Yes. Interesting reading? Most certainly. Victor Hugo and Herman Melville were literary giants both, but let’s be honest: if I wanted to know about the scientific classifications of whales or the entire history of the Paris sewer systems, I’d look it up. If exposition is absolutely necessary, writers would be wise to look to Heinlein for how to do it well.
If you’re an aspiring science fiction writer, though, take care. Lengthy exposition is rarely necessary, and almost never fits well in a narrative. When you read Heinlein, think of it like those trick driving videos, with a big warning: “Method conducted by expert writer with proven education and intelligence. Do not attempt at home.”
