Preface

Having dabbled in creative writing, I often find myself dissecting categories of fiction to isolate what makes them unique. It’s my belief that every mode of storytelling can be boiled down to a central concept, growing more refined as the scope narrows into genres and subgenres. All storytelling, be it fiction or nonfiction, explores (or at least attempts to explore) the nature of existence as we know it. Horror, a broad term, puts the things we dread under the microscope, and when done well, digs deeply to the basest roots of why we feel fear. Cosmic horror hones its focus on the unknown, delving into the possible nature of an uncaring or even openly-malignant uni/multiverse that runs contrary to what society has deemed “rational”. Westerns, aside from almost exclusively taking place in the frontier era of the United States, revolve around the nature of free will, examining its positive attributes as well as its failings. The spaghetti western, however, tosses in a heavy dose of self-interest, stripping away all romantic notions of a wide, open countryside where freedom reigns. Each subgenre is unique unto itself, all stories told within linked by a simple-yet-specific idea that provides writers with an endless realm of possibilities, until that genre blooms and begins to dominate the cultural mindset, spawning its own subgenres. It’s memetic evolution–genres rise, fall, and adapt to the times they are written in. After all, science fiction was a natural step from what we now identify as fantasy and fairy tale, in a bid to reconcile the seemingly-impossible with scientific rationale, and bears a number of their traits to this day.

So naturally, I’ve given a lot of thought toward what the driving force behind cyberpunk is, and what separates it from science fiction (its grandparent, which is now more of an umbrella term than anything) and dystopian fiction (its parent, which I define as a branch of sci-fi that focuses on the suppression of human potential by greater, constructed powers). We at Neon Dystopia commonly cite cyberpunk’s motto, “high tech, low life“, as the idea that binds it together. However, I personally find this rhetoric too vague, and occasionally erroneous. Therefore, I would like to expand upon the common themes found in cyberpunk’s most definitive works, in order to isolate what exactly the message behind all cyberpunk is.

On Tone

For writers, tone is everything. Tone can be defined as the general attitude of, well, anything, especially anything artistic. It acts as an artist’s greatest tool, attempting to capture a razor-precise emotion down to its most minute detail, and oftentimes emerges naturally as a part of our everyday expression. It reflects how we view the world, as well as ourselves. Good writing uses knowledge of tone to its advantage, striking anything that may contradict the themes that are being conveyed.

An exemplar of masterful storytelling may be found in writer/director Christopher Nolan, who, though he has been criticized for the coldness of his works, understands the finer workings of conveying ideas. In his science fiction noir-caper, Inception (which you may or may not consider to fall under the cyberpunk label), the surface story tells that of an experienced specialist who must surreptitiously plant an idea into the mind of the heir of a megacorporation via his dreams–a concept that may be only be seen as fantastic at this point in our history. However, if that was all there was to it, with no anchor to reality, there’s no reason why it would have resonated with audiences, whether or not they were aware of the reasons why. Upon closer examination, one may find that Inception is something of a metatextual commentary on storytelling itself, with each of its characters acting as an analogue of the principle roles in filmmaking, and the “dream” as a film, with the megacorp inheritor as its single audience member.

By drawing this comparison, Nolan is able to explore the wonders and dangers of the creative mind and thereby isolates a deeper truth about the importance of telling one another stories–they are the vehicle by which we can shape minds and ideas, a beautiful and terrifying notion. Note how the “heist” revolves around a dream within a dream within a dream–and in it is where the planted idea takes hold in the film’s most emotional, climactic moment. Furthermore, there is another, deeper dream state, known as limbo–a reality that knows no time or meaning, representing the “reality” of our own minds, in which there are deeply-seated fears and hopes that may never be communicable with the masses, but perhaps with those we are close to.

Good writing uses every word contained within to craft worlds and moods and characters for the express purpose of adding towards a central theme. If a detail doesn’t develop the plot or mood in the direction the author intends, it is superfluous at best, contradictory at worst. Hence why cyberpunk is so stylized–though the visual style, content, and themes often vary, there is one common theme (in my mind) that links futuristic tales about artificial intelligence, virtual reality, super-drugs, genetic engineering, and the synthesis of man and machine in the cyberpunk genre: alienation by way of the rapid progression of technology.

On Alienation

Cyberpunk pulls inspiration from all over the place. I would even argue that none of the moving parts of any cyberpunk narrative are unique–we’ve seen megalopolises, cyborgs, sophisticated AI, oppressive regimes, and multicultural influence crop up in practically every contemporary science fiction genre in one form or another. Furthermore, alienation (in this case, the isolation of human perception from widely assumed truths) is not a topic that has been covered exclusively by cyberpunk–after all, cyberpunk’s influences range widely, but typically gravitate around dystopian fiction, punk rock (and its derivatives), psychological thrillers, and film noir, all of which have explored alienation. In noirs, this manifests itself as a divorce from morality as a consequence of living in industrialized society, while classic dystopian fiction portrays alienation as separation from truth and individuality. These complimentary attributes ultimately fused with the advent of the sci-fi noir, whose tropes were often played with in Philip K. Dick’s works. By nature, punk rock‘s rage-fueled riffs and lyrics express dissociation from others and authority. Psychological and/or conspiracy thrillers question a character’s sanity, resulting in a separation from reality. Alienation even crops up in other genres of science fiction, from the post-apocalyptic (see Zardoz, The Sword of Shannara) to space operas (Ender’s Game, Cowboy Bebop) and cosmic horror (the works of H.P. Lovecraft and this year’s Annihilation, directed by cyberpunk veteran Alex Garland).

Hence why cyberpunk is so stylized, be it part of the first or second wave (yes, I’m sticking to my guns on this). From where I stand, cyberpunk seeks to instill a sense of alienation among its audience through all of its elements. While it’s not necessary for a cyberpunk story to follow a typical noir format or include a mishmash of colliding cultures, the cynical and pessimistic motivations of the noir and the imagery associated with East Asia’s rapid industrialization are often used to develop a sense of disconnection between the main characters and their environment. In fact, almost all cyberpunk occurs in the steel canyons of a massive urban landscape (sometimes in an absurdly-fashioned manner), inducing claustrophobia and disorientation through its winding mazes, narrow alleyways, and cramped rooms, exhibiting a world that is unable to breathe freely. As I see it, all cyberpunk (outside of post-cyberpunk) is dystopian by nature, whether the powers-that-be are corporate, governmental, society itself, or the inevitable result of the robot apocalypse, establishing anti-authoritarian leanings. If it displays knowledge of Baudrillardian and/or transhumanist ideologies, that’s a major plus. If there’s food involved, it’s likely that it’ll be so processed or schlacked over with shiny packaging that it’s unlikely to be considered “real”. And finally, cyberpunk tends to treat its tech with a level of grittiness–though over-the-top in many instances–and comes at a cost. There’s little wiggle room for fantasies like no-strings-attached time travel, rayguns, or near-instantaneous star-hopping, opting instead for cybernetics and pharmaceuticals that cause physical pain or erode the user’s humanity, the obsoletion of skilled workforces, and weapons that are intensely effective.

First wave cyberpunk differs from the second wave in that the worlds it portrays have gone mad as a consequence of plausible, near-future technology. While the possibilities of cloning, cybernetic augmentation, surveillance states, virtual/augmented reality, and automation on a grand scale are within our reach, the first wave takes these eventualities and warps them, presenting us with nihilistic, heavily-industrialized visions of the future, should the technology therein become a domineering presence. Ultimately, however, once these worlds have been dissected from a sociological perspective, the realism behind first wave cyberpunk falls flat. For instance, the sustainability of mega-cities as seen in works like Cyber City Oedo 808, Ergo Proxy, and Transmetropolitan seem implausible as each takes place on ecologically-devastated or hyper-urbanized versions of Earth, and once one is made aware of how many resources are required to keep a high-tech metropolitan society running, well, it seems more likely that it, before long, would either dissolve entirely or its citizens would forsake the city for pastures, no matter how bleak they might be, instead of crowding together in a necessity-scarce society. Just look at Detroit after the collapse of the auto industry. Examples that subvert this trope aside, this is done intentionally. Rarely in first wave cyberpunk does the countryside provide any comfort to the reader, as doing so would invalidate the chance of escaping its oppressive environments. For these reasons, first wave cyberpunk leans more towards allegory, a set of cautionary tales that reflect the modern anxieties of the rapid expansion of technology. But the danger of telling a story like this (as we’ve seen) leads to the possibility of subsequently-inspired works missing the point of representative fiction, losing its relationship to reality by way of over-recycled tropes and forgotten meaning.

Therefore, second wave cyberpunk approaches its world building in a different fashion. It shows us civilizations that are tangential to our own, mingling modern affectations with the futuristic. Instead of transforming the familiar into something almost completely unrecognizable, the second wave takes what we know and dives headfirst into the uncanny valley by simply tweaking it in a manner that might make the viewer uncomfortable. Compare Blade Runner’s Los Angeles to Akira’s Neo Tokyo. While LA is almost wholly unrecognizable from its basis, Neo Tokyo looks and feels much like its modern counterpart, though it may be more grandiose and populated by teenage drug addict biker gangs desensitized to violence. The world in Akira may look more human and naturalistic than the former example, but you have to ask yourself whether or not it truly is. More examples can be seen in how second wave cyberpunk handles its technology–for instance, while the first wave might handle cybernetic enhancements as clunky and outwardly monstrous, the second wave (as seen in Ghost in the Shell, the Deus Ex reboot series, and Cyberpunk 2077) gives them a more streamlined, human look–or at least until their true natures are revealed. However, first-wave’s relationship with the uncanny valley most commonly manifests itself with human-like third-order simulacra in the form of sinister AI, while the inverse is true of second-wave cyberpunk; we are commonly confronted with machines that we are aware are machines, but the way they behave is so close to human that we must question whether or not the distinction between human and nonhuman is arbitrary.

Conclusion

Cyberpunk’s greatest strength lies in its ability to blur the lines of reality with the frighteningly plausible. Proto-cyberpunk works, penned by the likes of the aforementioned PKD, William S. Burroughs, Franz Kafka, Robert A. Heinlein, and others, leans heavily on fantastic science fiction tropes, no matter how grim, thus making them yet another escape from reality as it stands. At the end of the day, you can unplug and dismiss these ideas as pure fiction.

At its best, cyberpunk does not do this. It forces those of us who are open to its message to see the ways in which the world is spiraling out of control. By exploring the possibilities of our very real, very unsettling advancements in technology, it calls out the way that our society is estranging us from all the so-called fundamental truths about what make us human and our reality a concrete, unchanging thing. It alienates us from those who surround us, too self-concerned to forge genuine, empathetic connections with others. It alienates us from propagandistic greater powers, claiming to have our best interests at heart while stripping us of our rights as individuals. It alienates us from the brutal nature of violence, the concepts of freedom, purpose, and personal identity, and even reality itself. These changing perceptions may free us from the lies we’ve been surrounded by our entire lives, or they may enslave us if we’re not careful. All we are asked of in return is one simple task: question everything.