Let’s be frank for a moment, fellow sci-fi enthusiasts. Imagine an advanced alien race in sleek, cutting-edge vessels.
They roam the cosmos, looking for new worlds to explore. Which do they choose? Earth, of course—a planet covered mostly by unsightly water (not pristine at all).
They come here, for some reason, and it’s a darn good thing they do, since so many sci-fi plots seem centered around humanity’s not-so-ambitious world. Is it the Wi-Fi drops? What about all that water, when the average Earthling has a shower-thought galactic scale?
And what about the darn reality TV our planet’s producing? Whatever the reason, this tired trope is begging to be dissected. I’ve been neck-deep in this discussion for years.
You know, those rambling late-night talks at sci-fi conventions where we’re all either half-crazed from too much caffeine or pure contempt for Hollywood’s lack of originality. And we always circle back to the same question: Why Earth? Let me tell you, we’ve cooked up some theories, but none of them make Earth look like the must-see cosmic destination it apparently is.
Yet, there we are, watching in movie after movie as saucers crash into the White House or aliens throw a downtown fit in L.A. as if they have nothing better to do.
Earth: The Galaxy’s Most Improbable Tourist Trap
Let’s begin with a classic: Independence Day.
This is the film that made Jeff Goldblum a hacker hero and reminded everyone that MacBooks are apparently capable of interfacing with alien operating systems. Why wouldn’t beings capable of interstellar travel have USB ports that work with Earth technology? But beyond the wild plot devices, consider: These aliens come from who knows where, not to conquer new worlds or uncover new resources but to take out Earth’s landmarks like some kind of vengeful tourists.
And what’s their reason? Resource consumption. Really?
Earth, with its dwindling supplies of fossil fuels and virtually nonexistent clean, drinkable water, is the best prospect for them? I’ve seen more convincing plot lines on daytime soap operas. If I were a highly evolved being, Earth would be my last choice to plunder.
Mars at least has that cool rusty-red aesthetic. Then there’s the classic War of the Worlds, where aliens meet their match in Earth’s germs. After centuries of intergalactic travel, these astute invaders somehow fail to acknowledge the existence of microbes.
H.G. Wells wasn’t living in our contemporary science-modernized world, but he was certainly drawing upon progressive thought for his era, and infectious disease was a hot topic in the late 1800s—right when Wells was writing—in part because it was the birth period for many contemporary public health efforts and for a range of ongoing scientific discoveries. But hey, it’s not just vintage sci-fi that looks to our planet for motivation.
Even more recent films like A Quiet Place seem to think that Earth is the gold-medal destination for a planetary takeover. It’s not enough for these aliens to have super hearing and come from an unknown quantity of outer space; they also have to invade a planet that’s teeming with life and jam-packed with noise. “Good luck,” in a muffled soundproofing kind of way, “finding a serene space in New York City, folks.” Whether it’s the apparently futile attempt at a Manhattan soundproofing project or some other aspect of the plot, we sure are counting on John Krasinski’s unsightly scruff to distract us from a number of illogical moments in the story.
The Convention Debates: Why Here, Why Now, Why Us?
Let’s take a closer look at this cosmic obsession with our planet. When attending sci-fi conventions, the conversation often turns to the absurdity of the situation. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve argued with my fellow fans—over cups of overpriced coffee, no less—about why Hollywood’s aliens are so bent on using Earth as their next stomping grounds.
It’s as if extraterrestrial life has only the most rudimentary knowledge of Earth and thinks our planet would be an awesome upgrade from their current home. Light-speed travel? No problem!
Finding a habitable planet in our solar system or the next one over? Apparently, that’s what our solar system’s advanced life forms can’t do. Consider The Day the Earth Stood Still from the 1950s, not the reboot with Keanu Reeves.
The story is about aliens coming to our planet and delivering an ultimatum: either we human beings clean up our act, or we’re going to face total annihilation. And honestly, they have every right to threaten us, because the premise of this movie—and many other similar science fiction narratives from that period—is that we’re just not getting along, and once that becomes known throughout the cosmos, it’s a bad reflection on Planet Earth. But doesn’t it stand to reason, if these aliens are such good cosmic citizens, that they ought to go to a planet that doesn’t have a bunch of humans making a mess?
Let’s not even get started on “Battle: Los Angeles.” I mean, this one really goes for broke. Aliens invade Earth for—surprise, surprise—our water. Because, apparently, they don’t know that water is one of the most common substances in the universe.
Sorry, guys, but you might want to check out Europa or Enceladus before you start trashing Santa Monica. The plot’s hard to take seriously when you realize these interstellar conquerors could’ve found all the H2O they needed without engaging in a firefight with our overworked Marines. But no, they had to come for us instead.
I mean, who wouldn’t want to add dealing with L.A. traffic and the random earthquake to their itinerary? This entire trope rests on the assumption that Earth is somehow special.
However, if aliens are advanced enough to traverse the Milky Way, why would they be interested in a planet whose most controversial scientific debate is whether pineapple belongs on pizza? And even if Earth has resources aliens could use, what makes this planet a better choice than other equally resource-rich planets they probably have already seen? Unless these hyper-smart species are fighting over us because we’re some kind of rare gemstone, what makes Earth so special?
Same Bodies, Different Planets: The Humanoid Problem
Speaking of conventions, I once got into a particularly intense disagreement with a fellow critic at a sci-fi panel. The subject: why the aliens in these movies are always humanoid. We were surrounded by die-hard fans in homemade Vulcan ears and glittering space suits—a group that included my beloved spouse—but we couldn’t understand why Hollywood’s aliens seem always to share our same basic body plan.
It was as if the screenwriters couldn’t think outside the box and just said, “Eh, give it two arms, two legs, and some scaly skin. Maybe slap a third eye on its forehead for flair.” But an advanced species wouldn’t necessarily be obsessed with Earth or look or think like us. So why are they always portrayed as being so fixated on our world?
These extraterrestrial invasions of our imagination may well be the reflection of mankind’s narcissism. We think we’re so unique that even creatures from galaxies far, far away would want to hook up to our planet and study us (as if they wouldn’t have enough fascinating stuff to look at right where they are). What is it with the fantasy that aliens would pick Earth as the coolest joint in the galaxy, given all the nature and art and music and, oh yeah, the basic laws of physics and chemistry that also seem to keep happening way up there?
Can you imagine the alien sitcom about the hopelessly misguided Earthlings who’d rather reassemble a prehistoric monster than figure out who did what to a bunch of us humans who’ll never look like a dinosaur no matter how many feathers we sport? Yet that is exactly the premise of these films: that Earth, this insignificant third rock from the sun, is somehow worth the effort of aliens trying to take it over. In point of fact, G.I.
Joe: The Rise of Cobra, for instance, suggests that infiltrating and subjugating the human species on Earth is somehow more worthwhile than, say, Top Secret! (1984) and Mars Attacks! (1996) might have.
Certainly, those attempts at making us a subspecies would seem to make more sense if Earth had a host of valuable minerals and other resources that those nasty aliens could exploit.
The Cosmic Narcissism: Earth as the Center of the Universe
Let’s bring this to a close with a detailed dismantling of the ludicrous belief that Earth is the prime piece of real estate in the cosmos for invading aliens. I’ve spent far too many hours soaking up the theories propounded (at sci-fi conventions, no less) by the true believers.
I’ve listened to their stories and reasons, which range from the plausible to the bizarre, and sometimes come back around to plausible again. I’ve been amazed and entertained. But mostly, I’ve been struck by what a poor sales job they are doing for Earth.
Consider this: a civilization that can traverse the galaxy and manipulate the very fabric of space and time isn’t going to be awed by the likes of the Eiffel Tower or the Infinity Tower, for that matter. They’ve no doubt encountered worlds with hyperstructures that make even our tallest buildings look like sandcastles. Yet in far too many of our narratives, this type of advanced alien appears to make a beeline for Earth—like tourists one imagines would be drawn to the world’s biggest ball of twine.
Why is that? Following a handful of linguistic and narrative threads, we find that verbally and visually portraying Earth as “special” is indeed a dominant trope in our speculative fiction. One of the main theories that sci-fi nerds like to debate when their caffeine buzz has worn thin is that extraterrestrials might want to study Earth and its inhabitants because we’re just so very special.
Sure, they could want us for our creativity, or our diversity; hell, we could still debate how often they want us for the kinds of things that are usually associated with criminal anthropology. But we aren’t even the most beautiful thing in our solar system. We’re not real close to human scales, even with our lots of flaws, on what are supposed to be diversity-generating algorithms.
We’re not even one of the five planets with terrestrial life; we’re the only one face-to-face with a next-dimension problem (if global warming is one, which it isn’t, in actual total-albedo terms). And don’t assume I’ve overlooked the iconic “aliens want our resources” storyline. This is one of those tropes that Hollywood just doesn’t seem able to quit, even as apologists for it might claim otherwise.
We see this one in everything from the ’80s TV series V to the Harrison Ford-starring Cowboys & Aliens. If anything, the most recent apocalyptic tale we’ve been told—that Earth is the last, best hope of surviving life—and that aliens are overcoming nostalgia for their blue-green planet by blasting it to smithereens is an idea that still commands a not unimpressive subscription audience. Another recurrent argument is that Earth exists in a “habitable zone.” But think about it: The universe teems with potential Earth-like places.
Just look at our solar system, where gas giants like Jupiter and Saturn have dozens of moons that could support life. Moreover, if those worlds in our neighborhood haven’t developed life, the very existence of those infernal winds and rains means they’ve had a makeover that’s made them suitable for life at some point in the past few billion years—not exactly an uncommon opportunity in our solar system alone. Indeed, the makeup of the universe means that the pretty, rocky planet on either side of our solar system’s median age is awash in vibe-happy readable radiation.
The reality is that Hollywood is obsessed with invasions of Earth by aliens. What does this say about us? That we somehow feel alien life might be interested in our small planet?
This is almost nostalgically kid-like in our memory of drawing pictures we thought were worthy of being displayed in the Louvre. Why would any other life form be interested in us? That’s planetary narcissism.
But you have to hand it to the storytellers. They mostly get around the alien-attack narrative by giving the Earth itself some special quality or resource that makes it seem like we should covet Earth and its inhabitants. If anything, the real extraterrestrial life forms out there are likely avoiding us like one would the galactic equivalent of a neighbor with loud parties and an overgrown lawn.
For an advanced species, why occupy Earth when there are plenty of other peaceful, uninhabited paradises light-years away? Why risk being seen by humans infamous for posting blurry videos on social media, or by the conspiracy theorists and UFO buffs who insist they’ve spotted you? Let’s face it: Earth is the unglamorous backwater of the universe, and any self-respecting alien would surely know better than to get mixed up in our infernal mess.
Perhaps that’s why we perpetuate this trope. It’s comforting in a way. If we insist that extraterrestrials want to visit our planet, we are at least acknowledging that we are not alone in the universe—especially not in our complicated sociopolitical landscape and our precarity of being.
And what validates us more than the thought of our universal cousins paying us a little visit? Even if that little visit is depicted in a mega-budget, all-digital movie on a laser-firing spaceship that looks to be the size of a city. But the reality is, if extraterrestrials ever do show up, they’d most likely take one look, decide they’ve seen enough, and beam on over to the next solar system.
Of which there are many.
