If you think the world is mundane and ordinary, you don’t get out enough.
We get to live on Earth. A place teeming with life and possibility and water, a place of soaring mountains and deep seas and hydrothermal pools of sulphur located atop volcanoes whose craters stretch further than the eye can see. A world of ice and fire that puts Westeros or Faerun to shame, where life - beautiful, diverse, and often seemingly impossible - inhabits everything and everywhere. Where only decades ago we were finding a whole new domain of life, as distantly related from both us and bacteria as we are from bacteria.
Seven billion people. Stop and consider that. Seven billion people with lives and goals and dreams and stories. The biggest works of fiction have a few hundred at most. The video games I grew up loving and still praise the stories of have mere dozens. Seven billion humans, living and loving and finding joy and sorrow and friendship and hatred and achieving goals and falling short and some of them scrambling to survive in the worst places and others living so well that they can’t imagine the sensation of hunger. How could the worlds created by the minds of one or a dozen or a hundred people possibly match the wonder of a world created by five billion years of air and fire and water and life, where the very mountains rise then are worn away to rise again elsewhere, and that is now shaped by the dreams and thoughts and actions of seven billion humans?
I love my fictional worlds. When I need to smile, I know which to turn to. When the real world hurts to much to take, I’ve fled to them. They help me to know the people who make them and the other people who love them. I’d like to visit some… a brief vacation.
But I don’t want to live there. There’s still to much to learn and see and explore here.