I’m not a mind reader. Presumably, neither is anyone else. As humans living our own lives we often are overwhelmed by the bias that inherently comes from being us. In contrast, fiction lets us take a step back from our lives and launches us into another universe, into a world with complicated motivations and emotions that swirl around to produce a story. I believe in the power of fiction, and its ability to create emotional connections from the real world to a fake one.

I like to think I have a busy life. And sometimes I neglect to think about others simply because I don’t stop, don’t pause to consider them. I just see things from my perspective, see the driver cut in front of me, see the waitress make a mistake on the order, and see the cashier making me wait forever. I’m repeating a cliche here, a cliche that a lot of people ignore, including myself. You can’t just tell someone to remember to change their attitude and expect anything to occur. Instead, let them experience someone else’s perspective.

The power of stories is that they create a world where you live in a different perspective. I had been taught in school the importance of a second story, by someone named something like Chimimanga Adidas. At that time I and everyone in the class said to themselves: “I already know this, this is stupid.” And then we went along our merry way.

And then I took the role of an amnesiac trapped in a haunted mansion, in an old fashioned time period, forced to watch as occupants of the house across time were tortured by a vengeful spirit. I watched as a witch ruined their lives in maniacal fashion. I understood the plight of the protagonist and sympathized with the stories I found behind the doors of the mansion. They were trapped by a curse, their souls destined to agony for eternity. I was set up to detest this antagonist, to wish death upon them. I watched as the protagonist was skewered, punctured, and flayed to death thousands of times, his blood spilling throughout the steps of an endless tower.

And then the whole truth behind the witch’s actions was revealed – the abuse and betrayal that she suffered from those we had cheered on, and the absolute despair that she must have felt. Her vengeance was perfectly reasonable – a little girl, heralded a saint, exploited for her supposedly holy blood with cuts all over her body. She was locked up for most of her life and deceived by those she trusted the most, by the people that I had come to sympathize with, people that now seemed like treacherous scum.

But the story continued, taking care to discover the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. No matter how ugly it became, I was taken through through it all. I learned why those who I now considered scum had made their decisions, whether from fear, insecurity, or lack of self-control. And I learned how these humans trying their best in this world made so, so many mistakes.

I don’t come close to detailing how beautiful that tragic tale was, a tragedy that I never would have encountered in real life.  Never would I have gotten the story of all of those involved. Never would I have even bothered. But from fiction I gain a new perspective on those who I might consider antagonists in my story.  From fiction I learned an unforgettable lesson from a fake universe, a fake narrative that ultimately impacted reality. And that’s why I believe in the power of fiction.