Reader frustrations, authorial choice, and an assumed narrative framework
Introduction — Why isekai naturally imposed itself
I did not choose to write an isekai because it was fashionable.
It imposed itself on me as the most natural response to my frustrations as a reader and to my ambitions as an author.
Before writing, I spent a long time reading and watching fantasy, especially works from Japan. Without realizing it at first, the stories that left the strongest impression on me were already isekai. I discovered them while searching for fantasy, but something in their structure and in the way they told their stories clearly set them apart.
When I finally understood what the term isekai truly meant, I had not yet written a single line. But I already knew that what I was looking for went beyond classical fantasy. It was not just a change of world, but another way of thinking about storytelling, character growth, and the relationship with the reader.
A conscious choice, born from reader frustration
My move toward writing did not happen by chance.
During the COVID period, I read and watched an enormous number of stories. I felt that I had explored what genuinely interested me… and then started going in circles. Some stories began very strongly, only to lose momentum later. Others were solid, but excessively serious, almost oppressive.
At that point, I asked myself a simple question:
Why does everything have to be serious, all the time?
A large part of Western fantasy, science fiction, and classical novels that I encountered left little room for lightness, humor, gentle romance, or emotional breathing space. Everything had to be grave, solemn, dramatic.
Japanese isekai, on the other hand, appeared to me as a more flexible narrative space—one capable of making gravity and lightness coexist, tension and softness, without sacrificing coherence.
It was this frustration as a reader—more than the search for a specific genre—that guided my choice as an author.
What isekai allows that classical fantasy makes more difficult
When used properly, isekai offers powerful and immediately readable narrative tools.
The character arrives in a new world with:
- prior experience,
- a different perspective,
- sometimes a cognitive or cultural advantage,
- and above all, the possibility of not repeating exactly the same mistakes.
In classical fantasy, these elements can exist, but they often require heavy constructions: complex prophecies, long explanations of rules, constant justification.
In isekai, these elements are part of the implicit contract accepted by the reader.
In practical terms, this means that a scene of learning or progression can be shown without interrupting the action with heavy exposition: the reader immediately accepts that the character observes, compares, and adjusts.
This is not a shortcut.
It is an assumed narrative economy.
The relationship with the reader: immersion, dissonance, and learning
Writing an isekai is not just about changing the setting.
It is about accepting that the reader will not always feel on familiar ground.
In my case, the protagonist is not an adult transported from our world. He is the heir of someone who came from elsewhere. He grows up in this world. He learns. He builds himself. He makes mistakes.
The reader discovers this universe alongside him, without a constant explanatory filter. They are confronted with values, customs, and temporalities that do not necessarily match their own.
This dissonance is intentional: it invites the reader to suspend judgment in order to truly enter the world of the story, rather than evaluating it solely through familiar modern standards.
Isekai allows me to create precisely this shared space of learning.
Writing with a Japanese sense of rhythm: scene, emotion, breathing space
Japanese influence is central to the way I write.
Manga, light novels, and Japanese anime display a remarkable mastery of the key moment—the instant when emotion emerges and a scene fully unfolds. This approach, very close to cinematic language, gives as much importance to silence as to action.
In practice, this translates into:
- multiple points of view within strong scenes,
- precise internal rhythm management,
- action scenes seen from different angles,
- brief but meaningful introspection.
For example, a combat scene may be told successively through the eyes of the protagonist, a witness, and an opponent—not to artificially extend it, but to deepen its emotional impact.
During revisions, I cut without hesitation anything that weighs the story down.
Preserving rhythm and breathing space has become an authorial discipline.
Isekai as a framework for long-term construction
Isekai is also a particularly suitable framework for writing a saga.
It allows:
- a progressive discovery of the world,
- credible psychological evolution over time,
- a controlled transition from childhood to adulthood,
- a slow, coherent, and readable transformation.
In this approach, the journey matters as much as the destination.
It follows a logic close to kishōtenketsu, where inner transformation takes precedence over simple confrontation.
Conclusion — Building a world meant to last
I did not begin writing without knowing where I was going. I knew I was writing a saga—that is what I read, and that is what I loved.
That is why I took the time to build my world before writing a single line. For two to three months, I worked on its coherence, its rules, its peoples, and its history, in order to create a narrative reservoir rich enough to endure.
I wanted material.
Enough to explore, develop, and evolve characters and themes over the long term, without locking myself in too early.
If I chose isekai, it was not simply to change worlds.
It was because this framework allowed me to think about storytelling across time—to make the path traveled an essential part of the story itself.
I started writing because I could no longer find what I was looking for.
Today, I write to build the worlds I would have wanted to stay in for a long time.