Have you ever tried to pinpoint the exact moment something began? It’s like trying to catch smoke with your hands — the closer you look, the more it seems to slip away. I’ve been wrestling with this question for months now, ever since a reader asked me which book I’d consider the true “first” science fiction novel. Simple question, right? Wrong. Dead wrong.
I spent last weekend knee-deep in dusty academic papers and nineteenth-century publishing records, my coffee growing cold as I traced the lineage of what we now call science fiction. My sister would’ve laughed — here I was again, obsessing over details that most people would consider academic trivia. But here’s the thing: understanding where sci-fi started helps us understand what it’s become, and more importantly, where it might go next.
Most scholars point to Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” as the granddaddy of science fiction, published in 1818 when Shelley was just twenty years old. And honestly? They’re probably right. But the story gets messier when you dig deeper, which is exactly what I love about it.
Shelley wrote “Frankenstein” during that famous summer of 1816 at Villa Diodati in Switzerland. You know the story — she was hanging out with Lord Byron and Percy Shelley, they were telling ghost stories, and someone suggested they each write their own supernatural tale. But what makes Frankenstein different from earlier Gothic novels isn’t just the monster or the mad scientist trope. It’s how Shelley grounded the impossible in scientific possibility.
I remember reading Frankenstein for the first time in my teens, expecting some campy monster story. Instead, I found Victor Frankenstein obsessing over anatomy, chemistry, and natural philosophy. Shelley didn’t just wave her hands and say “magic happened.” She researched contemporary scientific theories about electricity and life force. Luigi Galvani had recently made dead frogs twitch with electrical current — maybe, Shelley wondered, electricity could animate dead tissue on a larger scale?
That’s the key insight that makes Frankenstein revolutionary: it took a scientific principle and pushed it just beyond the current boundaries of possibility. Not magic. Not divine intervention. Science, extrapolated.
But wait — there’s competition for the “first” title. Some argue for Johannes Kepler’s “Somnium” from 1634, a story about a journey to the moon that includes surprisingly accurate descriptions of lunar astronomy. Others champion Cyrano de Bergerac’s “The Other World” from 1657, featuring rocket-powered space travel. Hell, you could even make a case for Lucian’s “True History” from the second century CE, complete with interplanetary warfare and alien encounters.
Here’s where I think we need to distinguish between science fiction elements and actual science fiction. Those earlier works contained fantastical journeys and strange creatures, sure. But they weren’t really concerned with how these things might actually work or what their implications might be for human society.
Frankenstein was different. Shelley didn’t just imagine reanimating the dead — she thought seriously about what kind of person would attempt such a thing, what it might cost him psychologically, and what responsibilities he’d have toward his creation. Victor Frankenstein isn’t just a plot device; he’s a character study of obsession and scientific hubris. The monster isn’t just scary; he’s articulate, lonely, and raises uncomfortable questions about what we owe our creations.
You Might Also Like
I tested this theory last month during a conversation with my neighbor, who’s a biochemist. I described Frankenstein’s basic premise — using electricity and chemistry to animate dead tissue — and asked whether it was scientifically plausible. She thought for a moment, then said, “Well, we do use electrical stimulation in modern medicine, and we’re already growing organs from stem cells. Reanimating an entire human body? That’s way beyond current technology, but I can see a theoretical path…”
That’s exactly what Shelley achieved in 1818 — she imagined a scientific breakthrough that felt plausible enough to be unsettling.
The impact of Frankenstein on everything that followed can’t be overstated. It established the template for science fiction: take a scientific principle, extrapolate it beyond current capabilities, then explore the human consequences. Jules Verne took this approach with his exploration of submarine technology in “Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.” H.G. Wells did it with time travel, invisible men, and Martian invasions. Isaac Asimov built entire civilizations around robotics and psychohistory.
But Frankenstein also established science fiction’s moral dimension. This wasn’t just about cool gadgets or exotic locations — it was about the responsibility that comes with power, especially scientific power. Every great sci-fi story since then has grappled with some version of the same question: just because we can do something, should we?
I see this legacy playing out in modern sci-fi all the time. “Black Mirror” episodes basically follow the Frankenstein formula: take a plausible technological advancement, push it slightly beyond current reality, then examine how it might warp human relationships and society. Same with films like “Ex Machina” or novels like “Klara and the Sun.” They’re all asking Shelley’s fundamental question: what does it mean to create artificial life, and what do we owe our creations?
What’s fascinating is how Frankenstein’s influence extends beyond literature into actual scientific development. I’ve talked to AI researchers who admit that Shelley’s exploration of creator-creation relationships influences how they think about building artificial intelligence.
Environmental scientists reference Frankenstein when discussing genetic engineering and synthetic biology. The book has become a cultural touchstone for any discussion about the ethics of scientific advancement.
This is why pinpointing the “first” science fiction novel matters. It’s not just academic bookkeeping — it’s about understanding the DNA of an entire genre. Frankenstein established that science fiction’s job isn’t just to entertain us with cool ideas; it’s to help us think through the implications of our technological choices before we make them.
Standing in my study now, looking at my collection of sci-fi novels stretching from Shelley to Liu Cixin, I can trace a direct line of intellectual inheritance. Every one of these books owes something to that twenty-year-old woman who decided to take contemporary science seriously and ask: what if we could go just a little bit further than we currently can, and what would that mean for what it means to be human?
That’s a question worth answering, even two centuries later.
0 Comments