Research in Fantasy: Yes, You Still Have to Do It (Sorry, Wizards)

Fantasy writers love freedom. They summon dragons, bend physics, invent pocket dimensions, and occasionally give sentience to household objects that absolutely should not have opinions. But even in the most imaginative worlds, research matters.

And nothing proves this better than the slippery, contradictory, occasionally portable concept of Underhill.

🌒 Underhill: Exhibit A in “Why You Should Research”

If you’ve bumped into Underhill in fiction, you’ve probably noticed something odd:

✨ In one story, Underhill is a door.

✨ In another, it’s a dimension.

✨ In another, it’s a magical battery that drains fae.

✨ In another, each fae has their own Underhill like a mystical studio apartment.

So which one is correct?

🧭 All of them.

🧭 None of them.

🧭 It depends on the author.

This is exactly why fantasy writers need research — because even the fantastical things have roots.

📚 What Research Actually Reveals (The Roots)

When you dig into folklore, you discover that “Underhill” isn’t a single codified thing. It’s a modern interpretation of older concepts:

🌒 The síd / sídhe — fairy mounds

🌒 The Aos Sí — fae who dwell beneath the hills

🌒 The Otherworld — a realm connected to ours through mounds, hills, and liminal spaces

Folklore gives you the foundation:

🪨 fae live under the hills

🪨 the hills are portals

🪨 the Otherworld is connected to ours

But folklore does not give you the mechanics:

❌ how portals work

❌ whether Underhill is one place or many

❌ whether it empowers or drains fae

❌ whether it moves

❌ whether humans can enter

❌ whether time behaves normally

This is why every author’s Underhill looks different — they researched the roots, then invented the branches.

🧠 Why Fantasy Authors Should Research (Even When Inventing)

Research isn’t about copying what already exists. It’s about grounding your invention in something that feels real.

Here’s why it matters:

🧱 Research gives your world weight

Even the wildest magic feels more believable when it’s built on recognizable myth, culture, or history.

🌐 Research prevents accidental contradictions

If you know the lore, you can intentionally break it — instead of accidentally breaking it.

🎨 Research inspires invention

The gaps in folklore are where your creativity goes. Underhill is a perfect example: folklore gives you the concept, not the rules.

🔍 Research helps you avoid unintentional plagiarism

If you only read other authors’ interpretations, you risk copying their inventions instead of creating your own.

🧭 Research helps you decide your version

Once you understand the roots, you can choose the branches that fit your world’s logic.

🛠️ How an Author Should Approach Something Like Underhill

Here’s the workflow:

🔎 Research the folklore first

Find the original concept (Aos Sí, Otherworld, fairy mounds).

🧩 Identify what the lore doesn’t define

Those undefined spaces are your playground.

🎨 Invent your version based on your world’s logic

Magic system → cosmology → fae biology → plot needs.

📚 Read other authors only for inspiration, not rules

Their Underhill is theirs. Yours should be yours.

✨ The Big Takeaway

Fantasy isn’t “free from research.”

Fantasy is powered by research.

Research gives you the foundation.

Imagination builds the house.

Worldbuilding decorates the rooms.

And your story lives inside it.

Underhill is the perfect example:

🌒 rooted in folklore

🌒 expanded by authors

🌒 reinvented every time

Research doesn’t limit your creativity — it focuses it.

How a Character’s Name Changes With POV, Dialogue, and Situation

Names in fiction aren’t static labels. They’re emotional barometers, social signals, and occasionally the only thing standing between your protagonist and a very annoyed dragon who insists on proper titles. A character’s full legal name might be William Jason Brown, but that doesn’t mean everyone — or every species — experiences him as “William.”

Names shift depending on who’s speaking, who’s thinking, and what kind of trouble the character is currently in. And in speculative fiction, those shifts can get downright entertaining.

POV Determines the Default Name (Even Across Species) 👁️

Point of view isn’t just what a character sees — it’s how they interpret the world. That includes how they mentally label the people around them.

If the POV belongs to William’s mother, she may think of him as:

• Billy — her affectionate default 💕
• William — when she needs his attention 📣
• William Jason — when she’s irritated 😒
• William Jason Brown — when he’s in trouble so deep he may need to flee the solar system 🚀🔥

But switch POV, and the naming shifts dramatically.

William’s supervisor might think of him as:

• Brown — professional distance 🗂️
• William — polite formality 🤝
• Will — if they’ve bonded over terrible breakroom coffee ☕😬

Meanwhile, the ship’s AI refers to him as Crewmember Brown‑7, because it has 14 Browns on board and refuses to be blamed for the mix-ups anymore 🤖.

And the dragon in Cargo Bay Three calls him Snackling, but that’s a separate HR issue 🐉.

POV determines the default name because POV determines relationship, context, and sometimes species-specific etiquette.

Dialogue Overrides POV (Especially When Social Hierarchies Collide) 🗣️

Even if William’s mother thinks of him as Billy in her internal narration, she won’t necessarily say Billy in every situation.

Imagine a scene in a spaceport:

• She’s thinking: Billy always forgets the docking codes.
• She says: “William, don’t wander off.”
• His supervisor walks up and says: “Morning, Brown.”
• A childhood friend spots him: “Billy? Billy Brown? That you?”
• The dragon rumbles: “Snackling.”
• The AI announces: “Crewmember Brown‑7, your presence is required in Maintenance.”

And when facing a dragon: “Crewmember Brown‑7, sir, please do not antagonize the large fire‑breathing creature.” 🐉🔥 (The AI is consistent. The AI is always consistent.)

Dialogue is performative. People choose names consciously or unconsciously to signal:

• authority
• affection
• irritation
• professionalism
• familiarity
• boundaries
• whether they intend to eat you 🍽️🐉

A character who thinks one name may speak another depending on who else is present.

Situation Shapes Naming, Too (Danger Tightens Names Like a Noose) ⚠️

Names tighten or loosen with tension.

• In danger: “Billy!” 😱
• In formal settings: “William Jason Brown, please step forward.” 🎓
• In conflict: “William Jason, don’t you dare push that button.” 🔴
• In intimacy: “Will, come here.” 💗
• When facing a dragon: “Crewmember Brown‑7, sir, step away from the tail.” 🐉

The situation acts like a pressure valve. The higher the stakes, the more revealing the name choice becomes.

Why This Matters for Writers (Beyond Avoiding Dragon-Related Incidents) ✍️

Using names intentionally does three things:

1. Reveals relationships without exposition If one character calls him “Brown” and another calls him “Billy,” the reader instantly understands the difference in closeness.
2. Shows emotional shifts A mother switching from Billy to William Jason signals tension before she even raises her voice.
3. Adds realism and texture Real people are known by different names in different circles. Fiction feels richer when characters aren’t locked into a single label — especially in worlds where circles include coworkers, family, aliens, dragons, and bureaucratic AIs.

Practical Tips for Using Name Variation 🛠️

• Decide each POV character’s default internal name.
• Decide what they call him in dialogue — and why.
• Use full names purposefully.
• Let naming evolve as relationships evolve.
• Track nicknames across social groups — human or otherwise.

If the dragon adopts him, that’s a whole new naming convention.

A Final Thought 🌟

Names are tiny, powerful character cues. When you let POV, dialogue, and situation shape how characters refer to one another, you create a world that feels lived-in — one where relationships breathe, tensions simmer, and affection shows up in the smallest details.

A character’s name isn’t just a name. It’s a story. Sometimes it’s a warning. And occasionally, it’s a negotiation with a dragon. 🐉

When Humans Get Mistaken for AI

Lately I’ve been seeing more writers accused of using AI simply because their prose is clean, fast, or structured. It’s happening in writing groups, forums, and comment threads — and the emotional fallout is real. I recently shared a short reflection on this, and it struck a chord, so I’m expanding it here for anyone who’s felt the sting of being misread by both people and platforms.

Before I get to the main piece, I want to add something personal.

I’ve been on the receiving end of this kind of misidentification myself. When I was first flagged as “bot‑like,” I cycled through being mad, sad, confused, and frankly a little stunned. One platform never accepted my proof that I was a real person. Another made the verification process so convoluted that I eventually gave up and walked away. It was surreal — and it made me think a lot about how easily humans and algorithms can misread each other.

With that context, here’s the original reflection.

The Post

This thread has wandered through a lot of territory, and I wanted to add one angle I haven’t seen yet — something that sits underneath many of these AI‑accusation conversations.

I’m an editor, and in a mildly absurd twist, last year two of my professional accounts were flagged as “bot‑like” by major platforms simply because of how I work: fast responses, consistent phrasing, and a perfectly ordinary reliance on caffeine. Apparently if you write cleanly and at speed, the algorithms start checking you for serial numbers. For the record, I’m fully human and have the sleep requirements to prove it.

That experience made me very aware of how easy it is for both platforms and people to misread signals. Clean prose, quick output, or an unusual writing rhythm can look “AI‑ish” even when it’s just someone who’s practiced or efficient. Suspicion isn’t evidence; it’s just suspicion.

And the fallout matters. False accusations don’t just sting — they discourage people from sharing their work, especially newer writers who already feel like they’re stepping onto the bridge of a starship without a manual. It also shifts the conversation away from craft and community and into policing, which rarely leads anywhere productive.

For me, the healthier direction is focusing on clarity and transparency rather than trying to guess who “looks human.” Most writers are here in good faith, and the tools we rely on — both social and technical — are far from perfect at telling the difference.

Closing Thoughts

We’re all navigating a strange moment where both algorithms and people sometimes misread the signals we send. But the answer isn’t suspicion — it’s clarity, transparency, and a little generosity. Most of us are here to tell stories, learn, and grow. And that’s still a very human thing to do.