Our culture is full of blatant references to a future inspired by the tech from science fiction pioneers. The most current example of this trend is Facebook’s rebranding as Meta, now on a mission to build the “metaverse”. Taken directly from Neal Stephenson’s highly influental Snow Crash, the metaverse is an evolution of the internet where access is restricted by a corporate monopoly. To maintain control, the corporate magnates release a hybrid computer / physical virus that causes a player’s brain to shut down. They “crash”, and are no longer able to communicate.

With references to these science fiction tropes so pervasive throughout our culture, it’s no wonder that the genre is often ignored or dismissed as too “futuristic” or “irrelevant”. Most of us can probably agree that Mark Zuckerberg’s dreams for the future are not based around what might be best for society, especially when the “metaverse” is marketed as a vision of the future for connection and communication, and when the technology in Snow Crash was so clearly intended as a warning against the social structures that could place control of such technologies in the hands of a company like Facebook.

For forward-thinking and hopeful individuals, aversion to immersing oneself in dark, apocalyptic visions of the future is a valid reason for avoiding science fiction. Where are the visions of a hopeful future we all strive for? Is it necessary to imagine such calamity and self-destruction when we dream about the future?

Becky Chambers’ A Psalm for the Wild-Built is a playful and optimistic riff on human potential. Set on a small moon orbiting a far-off planet, the story paints a picture of a lush world that has emerged from the follies of our extractive society into a relationship of balance and harmony with the natural world. Cities, jobs, and technology all exist, but feel as if they are purposefully designed to be in service to the needs of humans. Computers are built to last for decades and be repaired with simple tools, and not intended distract people from everyday life. Structures utilize renewable energies and materials, and are intentionally built to decay, and be reimagined over time. Humanity prides itself on living in harmony with nature, and prioritizes questions of meaning and fulfillment over progress and production.

There is a utopian tone to the description of society that can’t be missed. Solar panels cover buildings with living roofs, gender and sexual equality are fully realized, and social mobility is as simple as deciding on how an individual wants to use their time. While this future can feel a little too perfect at times, Chambers artfully reminds the reader of humanity’s destructive past, and how much social and environmental pain was endured to reach a state of harmony with the natrual world. Relics of the factory age dot the landscape, left as toxic, decaying reminders of humanity’s dark past. Much of the world has been left to nature, with the domain of human impact restrained to allow for balance to emerge. The presumed extinction of the cricket and the desire to hear its chirp for theirself is what sets the main character’s journey in motion.

The storyline follows a young monk named Dex on a quest for personal meaning and purpose. Without the need to define themselves by a job or status, the questions of what it means to live a good life and how to relate to others become the central theme of the book. Dex takes on the role of a Tea Monk, and makes it their purpose to provide comfort and warmth to anyone that needs the company and attention of authenticity to brighten their day. Chambers makes it obvious that even without the pervasive narratives of cultural clash and political upheaval, the everyday struggles people endure would still be present, and are the central theme of lives unmarked by war and trauma.

As we follow Dex on their quest of self-discovery, an unlikely meeting with a robot sets up the philosophical heart of the book. Sometime in the distant past robots became self-aware, and humans gave them the choice of participating in human society as equals, or forming their own. The robots chose to live amongst nature, completely isolated from human contact and interaction for several centuries. In a moment of existential doubt, Dex sets out on a dangerous trek through the wilderness in search of purpose and the elusive sound of crickets, only to encounter Mosscap, a robot who has been tasked with establishing contact with humans again. Mosscap asks a shocked and frightened Dex: “What do you need, and how might I help?”

As a character, Mosscap deepens the sense of discomfort in Dex about their own purpose in life. While the robot accompanies Dex as their guide and protector on their quest for crickets, their shared “humanity” emerges, and it becomes obvious to Dex that consciousness is not solely a human capacity, and doesn’t make us special or unique. Mosscap is intrigued and troubled by Dex’s lack of self-worth, and goes out of the way to provide comfort and solace to their new friend by sharing their own understanding of life, beauty and experience.

The climax of the book centers around the central theme of meaning and purpose. While Dex is despondent and exhausted, Mosscap asks “What’s the purpose of a robot, Sibling Dex? Why do you have to have one in order to feel content?”

Dex responds, “because we’re different [from robots]”.

“Are you? You’re an animal, Sibling Dex. You are not separate or other. You are allowed to just live. That is all most animals do.”

“Then how,” Dex said, “how does the idea of maybe being meaningless sit well with you?”
Mosscap acknowledges, “because I know that no matter what, I’m wonderful”.

In Dex’s struggle, I easily found myself. The sense that I’m supposed to be special, and that my life has to mean something has haunted me in fits and spurts throughout my adolescence and adulthood, and is a central pillar of many religious traditions. Challenging us to grow beyond our sense of individuality is provoking, and touches some of the deepest core beliefs of modern Western society. In Chambers’ gentle invitation to look beyond our assumed need for privilege and place in the universe, I found existential release, and permission to unburden my soul.

Chambers opens the book by dedicating it to the reader: “For anybody who could use a break”. That’s the spirit and tone that cradles us as each page is slowly and lovingly turned. You feel held, as if Chambers is touching our hopelessness, and lamenting the loss of the sacred here and now by reaching out to the future, with a whisper that all is not yet lost, and that we may yet find our place in this world.

A Psalm for the Wild-Built is the first book in the Monk and Robot series. I look forward to the second installment in Summer 2022.