Discovery vs. Appropriation: Worldbuilding With Integrity | A Comment Response Blog
- Bair Klos
- May 13
- 17 min read
Updated: May 25
This blog post was inspired by—and is a response to—a comment I received on my “De-Westernizing Creative Worldbuilding” blog post.
To the commenter: thank you so, so, so much for such an insightful, inspired, and deeply thoughtful response. Your comment was the kind of comment a blogger can only hope for—one rooted in curiosity, challenge, and a genuine desire to understand. I appreciate your questions, your openness, and your willingness to dig into the murky, complicated places.
In the spirit of that conversation, I wanted to reflect—honestly and expansively—on the questions you raised. Not as a rulebook, but as a living meditation. A continuation.
Because the longer I do this work, the more I believe: fiction isn’t freedom from responsibility—it’s an invitation to hold it more carefully.
Here were the questions that sparked this post:
What counts as cultural appropriation in fantasy?
Can we borrow from ancient traditions ethically?
How deeply do we need to understand a culture before drawing inspiration from it?
And how much of ourselves must we confront along the way?
So with that, let’s get into it :)
Question #1: Can a fantasy culture ever be “immune” to cultural appropriation?
Short answer? No. A fictional culture doesn’t automatically exempt us from real-world ethics.
Longer answer: The intention behind a worldbuilding choice does matter, but it doesn’t erase impact. If a story or invented culture borrows from real-life traditions—especially ones that have historically been exoticized, erased, colonized, or commodified—then you’re entering sacred terrain. And with that comes responsibility.
Borrowing becomes appropriation when:
It detaches an element from its context, purpose, or meaning.
It reinforces stereotypes or power imbalances.
It reduces the element to aesthetic, plot device, or “vibe” while erasing the people it came from.
Even if you’re not trying to be accurate or directly represent a culture, readers can still recognize influences. That means your work doesn’t exist in a vacuum—it enters a cultural conversation. So the real question isn’t just, can I do this? but why am I doing this, and who might it affect?
Question #2: Is it “yours to emulate”? Do we have that right?
We don’t “own” anything as creators. We are part of a long, generational ecosystem of stories, influences, rituals, and relationships. Some elements of that ecosystem are meant to be shared. Others are not. So when you ask, "Do I have the right?" My answer is, you have the opportunity. But with opportunity comes ethical weight.
If a tradition, symbol, or practice is sacred or deeply rooted in the survival and identity of a culture, then you must:
Learn its meaning before transforming it.
Ask yourself if your story deepens or distorts.
Consider if your voice is the right one to tell that story—or if you should step back and amplify someone else’s instead.
I've often ask myself: Is this my story to tell? For example, I want to better understand the horrors of oppression and slavery—how systems of dehumanization shape identity, culture, and legacy. But as a white-presenting woman living in a relatively liberal state, I’ve never feared for my life because of my skin color. I’ve never been systemically targeted or brutalized because of my gender. So no, that legacy isn’t mine. And I don’t pretend that it is.
That doesn’t mean I’m not fascinated by history—especially the darkest parts we’d rather not look at. I believe deeply that history should not be forgotten or repeated. And as a writer, I learn best through empathy: by stepping into other people’s lives, perspectives, and emotional realities. Writing is one of the few ways I know how to do that.
But I don’t take that lightly. If I choose to engage with these themes in my work, I do so with reverence. With humility. With the understanding that my lens will always be incomplete. Which is why I will always—always—seek out sensitivity readers, beta readers, and critical feedback from people with lived experience. Not to get a stamp of approval. But to be held accountable.
Because writing beyond yourself isn’t inherently wrong. But doing it without care, without collaboration, without listening? That’s where the damage happens.
Question #3: Would using a Hula-like dance in a warlike slave-owning culture be objectionable?
Yes, absolutely. Here’s why: Hula is not just a movement or performance. It is sacred and deeply connected to the Hawaiian culture. It holds history, prayer, genealogy, spiritual lineage, among many other things. To transplant it—to strip it of that important meaning—into a context that mirrors systems of oppression and inequality, especially if that culture is coded as “savage,” “other,” or “barbaric,” can easily become a form of narrative violence.
Expansion on the Hula Example
Expanding on the commenters example of using a dance based on Hula in a fictional culture that’s warlike, individualistic, and oppressive. They proposed that if they gave the dance “new roots” in their story—if they explained how it evolved in their fictional world and changed its symbolism—then it would no longer be Hula, and therefore wouldn’t be appropriation.
That’s an understandable instinct. But here’s the nuance: Changing the context doesn’t change the visual language.
Even if you invent a new origin story for the dance, the audience will still see Hula—especially if the movements, rhythm, or aesthetic are visibly similar. The deeper cultural meaning may be gone, but the association remains. And that association can’t be so easily erased or rewritten just because it’s in a new narrative.
You’re right in saying that the dance would no longer be Hula, in the literal sense. But that’s also kind of the problem. It becomes a hollow mimicry—something that looks like Hula, but has been stripped of its original spirit and transplanted into a context that may directly contradict or disrespect the values it was born from. Hula is sacred. Again, it holds ancestral memory, oral tradition, spiritual meaning. It’s not just “a dance” to borrow and bend—it is a living, breathing aspect of cultural identity.
When you change its roots, especially without honoring or acknowledging its real-world counterpart, you risk erasure. And if the new fictional culture is oppressive, warlike, or violent—then you also risk associating that sacred cultural practice with values it never represented.
This isn’t just about “bad optics.” It’s about whether we’re reinforcing narratives of dominance, misunderstanding, or flattening real traditions into fantasy set pieces.
So, What Does It Mean to Truly Give Something New Roots?
Giving something new roots in worldbuilding doesn't mean just tweaking its origin story. It means:
Reimagining it from the inside-out, not the outside-in.
Drawing inspiration from the function and emotional resonance, rather than the form or aesthetic.
Asking, “How does this element make sense in this culture’s worldview?” not “How can I make this look familiar to readers?”
If you’re drawing from Hula, you might instead ask:
What is this culture’s relationship to rhythm, movement, and storytelling?
Do they believe dancing is sacred? Communal? Reserved for rituals?
What values are embedded in their performance practices?
The result might feel spiritually resonant with Hula—but it will be born from within your world’s logic, instead of imitating the surface of someone else’s.
If you want a dance to carry weight in your fictional culture, it must come with new roots and new meaning—ones that are internally coherent, emotionally resonant, and crafted from the inside-out. It can’t be a reskinned version of a real-world sacred act just because it “looks cool” or adds flavor. That’s surface-level writing at best—and extractive at worst.
Question #4: So how do we learn about cultures authentically, without living there?
Mmmm, this might be my favorite question—both to be asked and to explore. Because this is where we, as creatives, get to be inventive and let our imaginations run wild. It’s where we try to step out of our own shoes, approach the world with as blank a canvas as possible, and open our eyes to new perspectives and lenses.
For me, this is the heart of worldbuilding. The challenge isn’t just to invent—it’s to understand. To stretch beyond our defaults. To approach each fictional culture not as a reshuffled version of our own, but as a distinct worldview shaped by its own logic, values, and lived experiences.
So how do I begin that process? Here’s how I approach it…
1. Multiple Points of Contact
Primary Voices: Seek out writers, artists, and scholars from that culture. Preferably multiple perspectives.
Folklore & Philosophy: These reflect worldview, moral values, and how a culture defines beauty, truth, and justice.
Spiritual & Historical Texts: What does this culture hold sacred? What has it survived?
Contemporary Media: Not just what the culture used to be, but what it is becoming.
2. Personal Curiosity with Communal Humility
No single person speaks for an entire culture. But people do speak from lived experience. Approach conversations with care. Ask questions not to confirm what you think you know, but to listen to what you don’t.
3. Study Your Own Lens
Perhaps most importantly: study your own culture and assumptions. That includes your philosophical inheritance—Western metaphysics, Christian morality, Enlightenment rationalism—as well as your narrative defaults: the hero’s journey, individualism, good vs. evil binaries. These often go unquestioned because they’re invisible to us because we've grown up with them. We inherit them as if they are truth, when they’re really just perspective.
The commenter that left an essay in my comments section mentioned something that stuck with me—that even our desire to understand everything through logic is itself a cultural lens, not a universal truth.
To be frank, I know very little about Nietzsche. But I do know a bit about Apollo and Dionysus and their symbolic dualities. I hadn’t consciously considered that the impulse to rationalize, define, and categorize could be a Western trait rather than a human one. Their commentary intrigued me—especially what they said about how Western thought tends to overvalue logic and restraint. That really resonates with me, particularly when it comes to creativity and storytelling.
Our Western, modern culture teaches us to distrust the wild, emotional, unexplainable parts of life. But in my experience, that’s where the most meaningful stories are born.
And while I haven’t studied Nietzsche deeply, the Dionysus vs. Apollo framing—the tension between the chaotic and the ordered—has always rung deeply true to me. Dionysus’s wildness, that surrender to mystery, has always felt right in a way I can’t fully explain. Some truths, I believe, are meant to be sought. Others are meant to be wondered at. Not solved, not tamed, not put into neat boxes. Just felt.
That’s something I’ve come to accept in both life and storytelling: that not everything is meant to be understood. That some questions in my novels can be left unanswered to leave my readers wondering. That some of the richest experiences—the most meaningful, the most transformational—are the ones we can’t name. They don’t hand us answers. They leave us with questions. And those questions shape us. One of my favorite quotes on this comes from Patrick Rothfuss in The Wise Man’s Fear:
It's the questions we can't answer that teach us the most. They teach us how to think. If you give a man an answer, all he gains is a little fact. But give him a question and he'll look for his own answers... That way, when he finds the answers, they'll be precious to him. The harder the question, the harder we hunt. The harder we hunt, the more we learn.
I, personally, have made peace with the fact that I am mortal, that I will never know everything, that I will never understand everything, and I don’t need to. That not everything will resolve. And that’s okay. That’s good, even.There’s beauty in mystery. There’s reverence in not-knowing.
On a more personal note—especially as I’ve leaned into what some call the “feminine” qualities of instinct, emotion, and intuition (not because they’re inherently feminine, but because our society often labels them that way)—my stories have grown richer. My characters feel more alive. And I’ve felt more at home in myself. I want to write more about that—about Yin and Yang, about balance, about how surrender and softness can be just as powerful as structure and striving. But for now, just know this: I don’t believe stories are only born from logic. Some stories live in the wild places. And I’m learning to listen for them there.
Question #5: Is it worth the time to do all this learning when I just want to write a book?
Yes! Because worldbuilding isn’t just set dressing—it’s a worldview. And when you build a culture in your story, you’re also inviting readers to imagine what’s possible.
In Brandon Sanderson’s online creative writing class on YouTube, he explains that when it comes to the worldbuilding iceberg, it’s all about creating the illusion that your world is fully fleshed out. You don’t need to live abroad for two years to write a culture authentically. You just need to know what specific elements you're pulling from—and understand them deeply enough not to accidentally fall into racist or reductive portrayals.
(This is where the two-layer method of worldbuilding comes in—a technique I explore more in this blog post. In short, every cultural or magical element you include in your world should have both a surface explanation (what the reader sees) and a deeper, internal explanation (what that element means within the logic and worldview of your culture). This layered approach creates the illusion of infinite depth—you don’t need to answer every possible question, but offering just one extra layer of “why” is often enough to make your world feel coherent, emotionally resonant, and alive.)
Not to mention: this kind of research doesn’t just improve your writing—it sharpens your mind. You become more informed, more reflective, and yes, you’ll probably surprise people with unexpected facts and niche insights. You might even trick them into thinking you’re smarter than you are (which, honestly, is a power move).
No, you don’t have to be an anthropologist. But you do have to be willing to do the uncomfortable work: to slow down, to challenge your own assumptions, to read more deeply than a Wikipedia summary.
And I promise: what you gain in narrative richness, in emotional authenticity, in unexpected complexity—it’s so worth it.
If you build with care, your story becomes an act of respect, even restoration.
Is It Possible to Culturally Appropriate a Dead Civilization?
In writing this responsive blog post, it led me to ask the question: Is it possible to culturally appropriate a long-dead civilization and culture, like the ancient Romans or Greeks? Even the Aztecs?
My findings were as followed:
Technically speaking, the answer is usually no—not in the traditional sense of cultural appropriation. Cultural appropriation, as most people understand it, requires a living culture to be taken from—often by someone from a dominant group who profits from, misrepresents, or exploits elements of that culture. When there’s no living community to be directly harmed, the dynamics change.
Ancient Rome, Greece, and the Aztecs were imperial powers in their own right. They were colonizers, not colonized. Borrowing from them doesn’t carry the same punch-down power dynamic that appropriation often involves. And their imagery, philosophies, and myths have been so thoroughly woven into the fabric of Western history and media that they now exist more as public intellectual property than as culturally “owned” systems.
But that doesn’t mean anything goes.
There are cases where it still gets ethically murky:
Some ancient civilizations still have cultural descendants, like the Nahua peoples of Mexico (descended from the Aztecs), or modern Greeks with deep historical continuity.
It becomes ethically fraught when a writer uses sacred or symbolic elements irresponsibly—especially if the portrayal exoticizes, flattens, or romanticizes violence (like conquest, slavery, or human sacrifice) without proper context.
And we must be cautious of turning ancient peoples into fantasy caricatures for aesthetic purposes without depth. Treating “the ancients” as if they were one-note, mystical, or savage can reinforce colonial worldviews even without intent.
So it’s not cultural appropriation in the classic sense, but there is still responsibility involved. When drawing from ancient civilizations we must be transparent about our inspirations, do the research—not just into what they wore, but what they believed—and acknowledge that parts of these cultures may still live on in the traditions, spiritualities, and languages of modern descendants.
All of this is incredibly important for me because I am drawing inspiration from several ancient cultures and peoples in my novel The Glass Dagger that have been gone for thousands of years, like the Romans and Greeks.
(So, to my dear commenter, thanks again for inspiring this post because I wouldn't have considered this more deeply if you hadn’t given me an essay in my comment section.)
Symbols Don’t Exist in Isolation
We often think of symbols—dances, garments, rituals, songs—as aesthetic choices. As if we can pluck them from one culture, reskin them, and plant them into our fantasy worlds without consequences. But symbols aren’t decorative. They’re cultural shorthand for deeper systems: of belief, of value, of memory. They live within cosmologies, spiritual frameworks, social structures, and histories of resilience or trauma.
A ritual dance isn’t just movement. It might be a prayer, a protest, a mourning, or a celebration tied to ancestral survival. A particular garment might not just be “pretty”—it might signal age or coming-of-age, spiritual protection, status, gender, protection, or class hierarchy. A myth isn’t just a story—it’s a coded system of values. When we borrow the surface without understanding the root, we reduce symbols into “vibes” and risk erasing the real-world richness that made them meaningful in the first place.
This doesn’t mean you can’t be inspired or borrow. But it means you have to do the digging, to go deeper. Where did this symbol come from? What role did it play in its original context? If you’re reinventing it—are you honoring its spirit or simply using its shape? If I’m going to transform this, am I honoring what it was while building something that feels alive within my world?
Symbols are powerful. Use them with reverence.
Curiosity as a Worldbuilder’s Compass
Let’s be real: worldbuilding can be overwhelming. There’s always more to learn, more to question, more to refine. It’s tempting to stick to what you know or stay shallow because the depth seems endless. You may even start researching burial rites in 10th century Persia and somehow end up reading a thesis on precolonial water symbolism in Southeast Asia. And the deeper you go, the more you realize how much you don’t know. But the truth is, curiosity is the compass that gets you through.
Not mastery. Not authority. Just curiosity.
You don’t need a PhD in anthropology to write respectfully and richly. What you need is the willingness to ask better questions. To listen. To ponder. To slow down when something feels “off.” To wonder why a custom exists, not just what it looks like. And to let yourself be changed by what you find. The best worldbuilding doesn’t come from rigid rules—it comes from fascination. When you approach worldbuilding from a place of curiosity—not perfectionism—you start building cultures from the inside out, not just the top down. From the moment you realize you’re not just inventing a culture… you’re discovering it.
The result? Worlds that feel lived in. Cultures that feel coherent. Characters shaped by something deeper than backstory—they’re shaped by belief too.
Philosophy as a Tool for Worldbuilders
Philosophy isn’t just for professors or pretentious dinner parties. For worldbuilders, it’s a goldmine.
Every culture you create—real or fictional—is built on assumptions. About justice. About truth. About power, community, gender, morality, beauty, death. Philosophy helps you see those assumptions and decide whether to recreate them, question them, flip them, or remove entirely.
Studying even basic philosophical questions—What is the good life? What makes a person “free”? Is justice objective or collective?—can radically change how you construct a fictional society. Again, you don’t have to be an expert. My commenter suggested listening to podcasts like Philosophize This! as a great starting point as a way to help others start noticing their own assumptions… and building characters who wrestle with theirs.
Philosophy doesn’t give easy answers. But it’s not supposed to. It’s a toolkit for complexity. And great worldbuilding thrives in complexity. So let your cultures have contradictions. Let your characters grapple with what’s “right.” Let your gods be flawed. Let your truths be uneasy. The point of philosophy in storytelling isn’t to sound smart. It’s to ask what your world, and the people in it, believe.
A Note On Nuance
When it comes to nuance in your own writing, yes—some of it will inevitably be lost. But often, it’s implied nuance. That’s where the balance lies: part of our job as writers is to offer nuance intentionally, but the rest is about trusting the reader. Leaving space for interpretation. Letting them bring their own context, experiences, and emotional insights to the work.
Not every nuance needs to be spelled out. Some of the most powerful moments live in what’s unsaid—in the silences, in the ambiguity, in the spaces where the reader gets to participate in meaning-making.
Again, it comes back to leaving your readers with questions unanswered, so that they may carry your work with them—thinking, feeling, and pondering something deeper long after the final page.
Beyond Binary: Escaping the “One True Way”
Much of Western storytelling leans heavily on binaries: good vs. evil, logic vs. emotion, body vs. soul, now vs. forever, chosen vs. forgotten, sacred vs. profane, etc etc etc. And often embedded in those binaries is the idea that there’s a singular truth, a perfect world, a divine blueprint we should strive toward. Everything else? Flawed. Broken. Temporary.
This belief—the "true world" theory—shows up everywhere. In chosen one narratives. In post-apocalyptic redemptions. In magical systems that define “purity.” And in heroes who ascend to become something “higher.” But I’ve grown wary of this thinking. I’ve written stories that push against it. Because what if… that wasn't the point?
In The Glass Dagger, the pursuit of immortality and divinity is deeply flawed. And how once immortality is reached and "accomplished," it becomes not liberation, but burdensome—a personal hell you can never escape once acquired. In The Song of the Crows, the past isn’t something to be restored—it’s something fractured, uncertain, yet still whispering through the trees. Both stories push back against the idea that there’s a single, clean answer. They live in multiplicity. In fractured timelines. In personal mythologies. Sometimes, the only truth worth chasing is the messy one that lives in the moment.
Because the truth is: not everything needs to be fixed. Not every world needs a savior. Some stories ache not for perfection—but for presence, connection, and honest complexity.
Escaping binary thinking in worldbuilding opens space for nuance. And in that space, we might find the kinds of truths that can’t be spoken—but can still be felt. We build stories where mystery, presence, and multiplicity are not flaws. They’re freedom.
When In Doubt, Hire Sensitivity Readers
Now… No matter how much research one does, we’re all still going to have blind spots. That’s where sensitivity readers come in.
What are sensitivity readers? Sensitivity readers are individuals—often writers themselves—who read your work through the lens of their lived experience or cultural background. They offer feedback on potentially harmful, inaccurate, or stereotypical representations related to race, gender, disability, religion, or other identities.
They’re not censors. They’re collaborators. Their goal isn’t to shame you but to help you write with integrity and awareness.
Hiring a sensitivity reader shows that:
You care about the people you’re representing.
You’re willing to do the work to get it right.
You understand that good intentions aren’t enough—impact matters. Remember: Impact always outweighs intention. Even if your intentions were good, the effect your words or choices have on someone else can still be harmful—and that harm is real, whether you meant it or not
If your story includes marginalized characters or draws from cultures outside your own, a sensitivity reader is one of the best investments you can make. Not only will your writing be more authentic and respectful, it will resonate more deeply with readers across the board.
Don’t let fear of “getting it wrong” keep you from telling meaningful stories. Let that fear become a reason to slow down, listen, and get support.
Concluding Thoughts
Thanks again to the commenter who left an essay in the comments section of my "De-Westernize Creative Worldbuilding" blog post—it genuinely meant a lot. I hope this response blog offered meaningful insight, clarified lingering questions, and maybe even sparked some new ones.
What stood out most to me in your message was the desire to understand. That, to me, is what makes a great worldbuilder: curiosity without entitlement, reverence without rigidity, creativity rooted in awareness.
That’s the kind of storytelling I believe in. And if you’re here, reading this, I imagine it might be the kind you believe in too.
Let’s keep building better worlds, enriching both the world at large, and our own small worlds within ourselves :)
Happy worldbuilding~
—Bair✍︎
Where epic fantasy meets philosophical ponderings of the self.
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