It's The End Of The World As We Know It (And Dorian Lynskey Feels Fine)

Humans seem to be obsessed with the cause of their own finality. Perhaps because, subconsciously, we want everything to fit into a nice narrative structure that has a beginning, a middle … and an end.

And I hope that you can forgive
us, for Everything Must Go.
(Image via Amazon)

From the dawn of recorded history, there have been stories of the end of days, from John’s Revelations to the Fimbulwinter of Norse myths. And since the enlightenment, the task of providing an original, satisfactory narrative conclusion has fallen to science fiction authors, providing a secular eschatology. Over the past 200 years, apocalyptic fiction has been — under various guises — one of the most robust and popular subgenres of SFF. 

Documenting this prolific output feels like an impossible task, but British journalist Dorian Lynskey has made a valiant attempt in his recent book Everything Must Go. The book — published in the United States in February 2025 — should be strongly considered for a Best Related Work Hugo Award next year.

Beginning with a prologue on various gods and their respective end-times predictions, the book then divides narrative apocalypses into subcategories; meteors, plagues, rogue computers, climate change and the like. The categorization helps break down the subject into slightly more manageable sections, though each of these categories probably warrants a tome of its own. Lynskey’s overarching thesis that catastrophic fiction reflects the preoccupations of its time may not be revolutionary, but his painstaking research and herculean collation is impressive and even, at times, entertainingly presented.

A culture and entertainment beat reporter by trade, Lynskey approaches the subject with wit. It’s a charming book, though sometimes his pop-culture journalism style verges on flippant. Many of his pithiest quips can be found in the books’ introduction and epilogue. As with the best reference works, these sections are essential to understanding where and when to consult the remaining chapters. As stated in the introduction, “Writers of fictional doomsdays all reveal what they love or hate about the world as it is, and what they fear. Such stories are the ice-core data for dating the life cycle of existential concerns.”

Everything Must Go is clearly a labour of love. The relentless criticism of the many works that descend into fascistic reveries about the world made anew required unusual stamina. The subtext apparent in survivalist fiction, in particular, is put under the microscope. “The post-apocalyptic trope of rebirth from the ashes overlaps, often unintentionally, with fascist notions of regeneration achieved through virility and violence,” he writes.

In the face of apocalypse, The Bed Sitting Room
encourages us all to put on our best and go out 
in style. 
(Image via IMDB)

Some chapters, particularly the chapters on “impact fiction” (i.e., meteors, comets, etc.) and “zombies” become a bit scattershot as Lynskey lists countless works and goes off on tangents about the relationships between them and real-world events. The eight-year gap between Terminator 2 and The Matrix is related to Gary Kasparov’s chess match against a machine and then to the UFO cult Chen Tao in Texas. The cavalcade of references is overwhelming. At times it feels like Lynskey wants to include every single apocalypse in this book — which results in just under 500 pages, including copious endnotes and a 30-page index. (We would add that even in this, there is a certain joy for those who are deeply invested in the genre to see references to old and obscure books that they've read.)

As Lynskey explains, the genre is rarely about the end of all things, but rather about what happens next for those lucky few who withstand the cataclysm. While the cause of the end of the world might be uncertain, one thing we can rely on is that humans will be writing about it until it happens. Everything Must Go provides a foundation from which future documentarians of the apocalypse can build from. To paraphrase Billy Corgan, The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning. 

Worldcon In An Age Of American Truculence

The World Science Fiction Convention — as it has existed for the past seven decades — is a reflection of the “consensus” that has been post-war international relations.

That consensus is over. Fandom needs to be asking: “What’s next?”

The Peace Arch in British Columbia represents
how easy it has been for citizens of the USA
and Canada to cross the border.
(Image via Chilliwack Progress)

Although the first ‘World’-cons were held in the 1930s and early 1940s, the handful of pre-war events were set in the United States and the number of attendees from elsewhere minimal. When Worldcons resumed in 1946, they did so in an era governed by an uneasy consensus of US-centric international relations that fostered cooperation, stability, and collective security. This enabled international organizations built by the new world order to thrive. Increasing international mobility for travellers, greater trust between nations, and a relative sense of communal good made international conventions more common.

The scope and reach of the event grew massively from the first post-war Worldcon which reportedly had a “handful of Canadians” as the international contingent, to the last pre-pandemic Worldcon (2019 in Dublin) that boasted attendees from more than 60 countries. Worldcon thrived as it became increasingly globalized, but never lost its abiding connection to the country in which it was born. The World Science Fiction Convention remains a predominantly US event. With the sole exception of the 2023 Worldcon in China, US citizens have made up the largest single contingent at every single Worldcon.

The ties Worldcon has to the United States are deep; as a volunteer-run and volunteer-organized event, it takes an enormous amount of goodwill and institutional knowledge for a Worldcon to happen. There are pools of volunteers in the United Kingdom, Canada, and in China who would be able to put together a Worldcon every few years if called upon, but it seems unlikely that they could do so every single year. In the United States, there are communities of con-runners scattered across the nation; West Coast, Chicago, Midwest, New England, and more. Even with the greying of a core of US fandom, these communities account for the majority of Worldcon expertise and volunteer hours.

In light of recent political events, and the destabilization of the post-war consensus, it seems likely that the era of growth in its country of origin is over for Worldcon. Travel to and from the United States is declining rapidly. Countries such as France, Germany, and Ireland have updated their government websites advising a degree of caution in planning trips to the country. There are concerns about the low number of international fans registering for the upcoming two Worldcons (Seattle in 2025 and Los Angeles in 2026). Some non-US finalists for this year’s Hugo Awards have indicated they do not feel safe attending the ceremony in person.

Many of the disruptions that Worldcon currently faces are tied to decisions made by the current US administration. But even if there is a change in power in the next four years, international trust will remain precarious. Travel plans remain contingent on the whims of a mercurial electorate. Holding a Worldcon within the United States will consequently be challenging.

Worldcons in challenging locations are not a new phenomenon. The 1951 Worldcon in segregated New Orleans shouldn’t have happened. The Worldcon in Chengdu in 2023 received a significant amount of criticism. Bids to host Worldcons in Saudi Arabia, in Israel, and in Uganda have all been floated — and greeted with skepticism by many.

Of course, it will never be possible to host a Worldcon in a location where every science fiction fan can attend. Every Worldcon that is in a physical location will be exclusionary to some degree. As such, there is a great value in having Worldcon hosted in as many different and disparate locations as possible in order to ensure that as many different people as possible can attend. Travelling to China in 2023 may have been off the table for a lot of US fans, but those fans had US-based Worldcons for the two previous years. If Rwanda’s Worldcon bid succeeds, it would provide African fans — who often have troubles getting travel visas for North America — the chance to attend a Worldcon. There is an enormous value in giving a variety of local communities of fans their turns.

Not every passport will get you into every country
in fact, so every Worldcon location is a choice
about which fans are welcome to attend.
(Image via Boundless.com)

And this presents the dilemma at hand: On one hand Worldcon cannot be a ‘World’ event if it is limited to the United States, and on the other the majority of the volunteer base that makes Worldcons possible is in the United States. There is no Worldcon without the world, and Worldcon doesn’t work in the long term without the US and its fans.

In the past, the World Science Fiction Society (which governs Worldcon organizing) employed a rotation system. The convention was supposed to be held in three different zones on a rota. One year would be the West Coast of the US, the next would be the East Coast, and finally a Worldcon would happen in the central US. (Non-US bids could fit anywhere in that rotation.) Given the sparsity of Worldcon bids some years, the intention was difficult to realize. But it’s a premise that has merit.

Because of the voter base, institutional knowledge, and enormous fan base, US Worldcons will and should always occur. But perhaps there should be an increased willingness among fandom to support overseas conventions in locations that present logistical hurdles for North American travellers. If we may be so bold, perhaps we as fans should encourage the practice of having a Worldcon outside of North America every second year.

In an age of US truculence, Worldcon needs to embrace friends and allies around the globe without turning its back on the generations of fans and volunteers who have built it as an institution.