Science in Fiction: Do the Facts Matter?

I am a scientist. In my field, everything must be accurate. In fact, if you’re not a stickler for accuracy as a scientist, your credibility and your reputation can be seriously impugned.

But I also write novels and short stories—both fiction genres. Fiction, by definition, is all made up…

The dilemma is obvious, the conflicts inherent. When you want to include scientific details in, say, a historic novel, or a thriller with a scientific bent (science-in-fiction, a term created by Carl Djerassi to distinguish it from science fiction)—how far can you let your imagination soar? How creative can you be before your story morphs into wild fantasy?

For example, you’re writing a mystery where a pesticide is the murder weapon that killed the cheating husband, or a romantic novel set against the backdrop of a hospital ward—do the scientific facts behind the story really matter?

The short answer is, it depends (you probably guessed that). As to the more elaborate answer, here are four points to consider:

Whatever amount of science you chose to sprinkle into your fiction, make it sound authentic.

If you describe a specific molecular event, or an astrophysical experiment, or a surgical procedure that you think is important to the story, the facts had better be accurate or you risk suspending the reader’s belief (not to mention those embarrassing reviews). If you write more generally, you may fan out your creativity and give free rein to your imagination as long as the science part sounds credible. Ask yourself: Is what I describe theoretically possible (even if it is off-the-wall)? A classic example is Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park. The scientific details about re-creating dinosaurs from blood-cell DNA preserved in amber-embedded mosquitoes are kept nebulous, but the overall concept is brilliant because it sounds authentic and convincing. The author elegantly skips those parts (do-ability, feasibility) that would be major challenges to explain in scientific terms. And guess what? Nobody cares.

Dear Reader likes to be put in the right mood, but doesn’t want a lecture in science.

Most people who become engrossed in a medical thriller (e.g., by Tess Gerritsen or Robin Cook) enjoy it because the biomedical setting appeals to them emotionally and sets the stage for the characters and the plot. It is often about a life-or-death situation. The stakes are high, conflict is imminent, the suspense mounting. Readers like being immersed in the world of a drug company, a surgical suite, or a nuclear research facility but they want to absorb the atmosphere and mood, not be bombarded with technical details.

Think about it. Does everyone (or anyone) really want to learn how an MRI functions, or understand the physiology of the pituitary gland? Unless it is crucial to the story, such scientific excursions should be kept to a minimum. Don’t drop your reader into a biochemistry class, drop them into the setting, action, and suspense of your story.

Yet certain essential story details need to be explained. A common pitfall for authors is to let the protagonist explain something complicated to another player. Unfortunately, this technique is often mistaken for an elegant way to educate the reader; if anything, technical dialogues sound artificial, stilted, and one hears the voice, not of the protagonist, but of the author. Too much lecturing, let alone the use of scientific jargon, is a no-fail recipe to lull the reader to sleep.

Hide the details if they are not important.

Certain details may be hidden, remaining unexplained, provided they are not themselves significant. This technique, called a MacGuffin (originated by Angus MacPhail, adopted by Alfred Hitchcock) is widely used in thrillers and mystery/suspense novels and movies. For example, when the good guys are chasing the bad guys around the globe, it is not important for the reader to learn what exactly is in that black box they’re threatening to detonate over Manhattan. In fact, most readers are much more interested in the conflict between protagonist and antagonist, the interhuman relations, and the emotions the threat evokes than the technical details. A great example is Allegra Goodman’s Intuition. Although set in a laboratory environment, the brilliant descriptions of the characters (all scientists) rather than the details of what happens in the lab are what make the book unique. The precise scientific details that trigger the human drama are less important.

Avoid clichés and stereotypes.

Scientists are normal people like you and me. There is no need to describe the character who abuses gene-altering technologies for illegal purposes as a nutty, absent-minded egghead with fuzzy hair, exhibiting asocial behavior. Not all doctors are icons in a white coat. Avoid the stereotypes; create your own characters with all the flaws and positive traits of a regular human being.

As to clichés, many of them are not scientifically correct if examined under a microscope, although they’ve gained currency. For example: Bile rose in her throat. You feel the woman’s anger—but it’s stomach acid that rises in her throat, not bile, unless she has a rare medical condition. Important or not important? Splitting hairs? You decide.

The eerie sound made his hackles rise. Are we talking about a person or a dog?

Best to avoid clichés. Use your own words rather than copy and paste such hackneyed phrases.

Specific scientific facts in a story do matter, and they need to be accurate. General scientific concepts can be woollier, less clearly defined provided they sound credible and authentic. My advice as a writer and a scientist: Don’t get entangled in too many scientific details unless you understand them. If you are not an expert yourself, ask one—they will be happy to help.