The galaxy far, far away has been a constant presence in Matthew Palmer’s life—but it was the Disney+ series Andor that really made it come to life. He shares what we, as writers and world-builders, can learn from its approach.
Star Wars is a setting with a lot of geography, but very little culture. The opening of The Rise of Skywalker is a perfect example of this. In it, the Millenium Falcon makes a series of rapid hyperspace jumps between icy caves, to rocky spires, to floating cities, to clouds of gas. Sometimes that feels like the experience of this franchise as a whole. We bounce between the sands of Tatooine to the cold of Hoth, to the swamps of Dagobah and back to Tatooine again. We see these places, we are awed by the sights, and then we quickly move onto the next vista. It is a spectacular journey, but a shallow one; we learn very little about these places as our heroes chase through them in a hail of blaster fire.
In this, like so many other things, Andor: A Star Wars Story sets itself apart. The fantastic acting, casting, storytelling and mood of the show will be analysed for decades, I am sure. I wanted to take some time to add my humble voice to the choir and highlight all the ways that Andor builds unique worlds within the greater Star Wars universe, and what we as writers and world-builders can learn from its approach.
(Warning: Andor spoilers ahead!)
The worlds that we visit in Andor communicate their culture to us though their form, which is so closely related to their function. On the blue-collar world of Ferrix, the work day is rung in on a giant anvil-shaped bell, struck by hammers with ceremonial grace. Work gloves are hung outside a large central building, the purpose of which is unclear though we know it isn’t a residence or place of work. To me, it invokes a place of worship, especially the kinds of communal spaces used in Islamic cultures for Salat. We learn later that the People of Ferrix are cremated when they die, their ashes mixed into brick where they become a literal part of their community forevermore. The community of Ferrix is bound together, quick to come together when one of their own is threatened.
That solidarity is initially rejected by Cassian. When we first meet him, he can’t wait to get away, but his community still comes together to support him, nevertheless. Brasso provides him with an alibi without asking questions and Bix helps him sell contraband to aid his escape. When the corporate police arrive on his tail, the whole town sounds a warning. Later, at the climax of season 1, they riot when the Empire disrupts the funeral of Cassian’s Mother Maarva. It is fitting that this is the final push that Cassian needs to throw in his lot with Luthen’s rebel network and become the hero that the galaxy needs him to be.
We see it again in the elegance and style of Chandrila, the home of nascent Rebel leader Mon Mothma. Her home is great mansion dominated by arches and curves. This is a place of elegance and opulence, the site of an arranged marriage between teenagers. We are told that this is one of the oldest traditions of the world and lasts for three whole days of celebration. It includes meals, gift giving, hikes to holy sites, and dancing. The external display of familial bonds contrasts with the internal dynamics of Mon’s family, which is rapidly dissolving from within.
Despite their culture’s emphasis on this, all of the characters from Chandrilla stand isolated from each other. Mon stands apart from her politically apathetic husband and a daughter who is embracing traditions that will prolong the isolation for another generation. Vel, Mon’s cousin and a badass rebellion soldier, haunts the fringes of the wedding like a ghost. She is alienated from her culture by her sexuality and from her lover by the rebellion. Tay Colmar, Mon’s childhood friend and ally, loses his faith in the rebellion as soon as he is personally affected by it. It is when Mon Mothma turns against that culture of polite deception and truly seeks out against the Empire that she becomes the person that she needs to be.
And that’s only scratching the surface.
We see what life is like for the middle class on galactic capital Coruscant, typified by the repressive household of Syril Karn and the constant disappointment of his acerbic mother, who refers to other planets divisively as ‘the colonies.’ We see the welcoming people of Ghorman, a planet of artisans and tailors. Their hospitality and optimism are exploited by the Empire, as they use it to insinuate Syril into the resistance movement that is growing on the planet. We see the rural tribes of Aldanhi whose simple lives are eroded by the Empire’s contempt for their beliefs.
In each of these worlds, we hear the music of those cultures, not in the soundtrack but dietetically, in the hands and voices of the people. Choral singing in Aldandhi, a Ferrix marching band, the gentle harp of Chandrilla and a national anthem of Ghorman solidarity. Winding like a snake through it all is the electronic club track Niamos!, moving from underground club hit to a high society wedding to elevator music in a hospital.
Every world lives and breathes. At the end of the 24 episodes we know more about these worlds than almost any other in the franchise. This is not just idle background detail; it all informs the characters and supports the themes of the story. Each of the characters is grounded in, and in conversation with, the culture that they come from.
Sometimes it feels like modern storytelling is so laser-focused on advancing the plot at all costs that it forgets to slow down, leaving events feeling shallow and ephemeral. None of the effort that Andor puts into its world-building is wasted. The reality of the worlds that we visit adds a weight and impact to the triumphs and tragedies the characters experience. I think that it’s something that all creators of fantastic worlds need to remember.
I hope that this is something we can see more of in Star Wars moving forwards. Places that are dripping with character and fire the imagination. Worlds that despite their fantastic settings feel real and lived in, full of storytelling potential.
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