Why Sci-Fi Speaks “Human”

In a galaxy far, far away, a spacecraft navigates through a temporal wormhole, emerging exactly three "minutes" later in Earth-time. Wait a minute—or should I say a Xylopian "flibberjig"? Does the concept of a minute even exist in alternate dimensions or extraterrestrial civilizations? Welcome to the paradox of science fiction, a genre that tantalizes us with glimpses of unfathomable realities while conveniently translating them into a language our human minds can grasp.

Let's start with a rather audacious assumption: science fiction is not actually fiction but a translation of an alien manuscript, simplified for human understanding. Now, obviously, that's the good science fiction answer, and by that, I mean a handy narrative tool that helps us make sense of the speculative worlds we so eagerly explore. It's also a clever escape hatch for authors who face the Herculean task of not just imagining alternate realities but articulating them in human terms.

Imagine, if you will, a book where the author invents an entirely new vocabulary for time, space, and even the most basic actions. Reading such a work would require a separate dictionary, an advanced degree in linguistics, and possibly a mild form of masochism. The narrative would be so bogged down in terminology that the story itself might become an afterthought. "I'm sorry, but the protagonist just activated their quantum whatnow?" you'd ask, flipping frantically through your alien-to-English glossary.

So we compromise. We say a ship jumps through hyperspace and arrives "years" later on another planet. We understand that the term "year" is rooted in Earth's revolution around our Sun—a phenomenon entirely irrelevant to a different solar system. Yet, we tacitly agree to suspend our disbelief, allowing these human terms to stand in for concepts far too complex or unfamiliar for us to digest.

That's not to say all science fiction writers take the easy way out. Some do venture into linguistic innovation, inventing new words or phrases to encapsulate alien concepts. Still, even these are often human-friendly hybrids, designed to be grasped by readers who grew up on Earth's physics, sociology, and semantics.

This 'humanization' of alien concepts is not just a literary convenience; it's a psychological necessity. Our cognitive frameworks are shaped by the world we inhabit. A fish might struggle to understand the desert, much as a human mind wrestles with the notion of five-dimensional space. Hence, science fiction serves its stories on a palatable platter, seasoned with terms and concepts we can digest. Even if, in the original alien version, the real flavor is beyond our imagination.

Here's the crux. Some will argue that this reliance on human terms limits the genre's scope. Yet, one might counter-argue that the genre's very charm lies in its ability to make the unimaginable imaginable, to translate the universal into the parochial. It offers us a mirror into worlds so incredibly different, yet so comfortably similar, that we can ponder possibilities that are genuinely "out of this world."

So, should we scoff at the next science fiction story that casually throws around terms like "minutes," "miles," or "emotions"? Not necessarily. These are merely linguistic bridges, allowing us to walk cautiously into the abyss of the unknown. While these "translations" may be rough approximations, they’re scaffolds on which we can build our understanding of alternate realities.

Be skeptically observant, dear reader, and do question the familiar tropes. But also give yourself permission to experience the wonder of the universe(s), even if that wonder is delivered in a somewhat simplified, human-centric package. After all, sometimes the most far-fetched ideas are best understood when they're brought, quite literally, down to Earth.