The dystopian future is a trope I’ve seen too many times to count, but it’s one I keep coming back to. I picture it (and write about it) as a not-so-far-off reality that somehow sneaks its way into my idle thoughts. What does that future look like?
Streets so dark and slick with rain they appear almost mirror-like; flickering neon signs above alleyways that—as I’ve read in some story or seen in some movie—lead to certain doom. Our protagonist, whoever he or she might be, is dressed in a disheveled way that suggests they’re doing the best they can in this here-and-now that’s just one step away from total collapse. And if I could step into such a world, I bet civilization inside it has withered into a bleak, grisly sort of existence.
I understand the sentiment. I’ve attended conventions and spent hours on message boards where we collectively react to the announcement of another dark, dystopian flick with groans of dismay. It has become routine to dismiss these settings as creatively bankrupt, to mutter about starship worlds while dropping Asimov and Arthur C.
Clarke into the conversation to establish our sci-fi credentials. But if the eye-roll is obligatory, why are the midnight screenings selling out? Why are these scenes plastered across fan art and cosplay and, let’s be honest, my own Instagram feed?
This vision of a future gone wrong may seem, at first glance, to appeal to something rather base. Yet I think it captivates us because it lets us test our own mettle under extreme conditions. Would I be able to muster the courage and resourcefulness necessary to survive against impossible odds?
And how much would morality hold me back in such situations? What we’re really after in these imaginings (or in what we call “entertainment”) is a peek, however brief, at our primal instincts. If you’re willing to join me in indulging this delightful trope that some might consider a guilty pleasure, then let’s wander a bit along its familiar paths.
I promise the neon lights aren’t harmful to your health… much.
Why We Act Like We Dislike It: A Cynic’s Manual for Understanding Sci-Fi Snobbery
Now let’s examine why we act like we hate the dystopian future trope so much.
It’s become a ritual among sci-fi fans, a kind of performative snobbery. I can picture it now: I’m at a fan event, maybe a sci-fi film festival or that post-panel chat at Comic-Con. Someone brings up the latest film set in a not-so-distant future where society has crumbled—probably a remake of a sequel to a reboot.
And like clockwork, I join my fellow fans in leaning into our roles as too-cool-for-dystopia critics. “Oh, another not-so-inspired take on how humanity’s hubris leads to its downfall? So innovative,” we say, with a dramatic eye-roll that would make any teenager proud.
It’s almost a secret handshake, a signal that shows you’ve outgrown the more basic aspects of the genre. “We’ve moved past that,” we tell ourselves, as though our tastes have risen to some rarified level where only the most challenging and unusual stories about time, space, and reality deserve attention—when in fact, many of us still get excited over the kinds of bold visions that defined early-’80s sci-fi movies. But hey, I think it’s perfectly fine to enjoy both highbrow and lowbrow art, no judgment here.
Let’s be honest for a moment. The reason we’re drawn to the idea of a dystopian future isn’t just because it’s fun to see humanity’s mistakes blown up to epic proportions, though that’s certainly part of it. We’re attracted to these stories because they give our imagination a safe space to explore the worst possibilities.
Climate disaster, runaway technology, or even AI overlords—these fears have fertile ground in our minds, and our minds find an outlet in dystopian tales. They let us face our anxieties about what could go wrong without actually risking our mental well-being.
A Study in Hypocrisy: Conventions and Cosplays
Last year, I attended a fan convention I’ll call NerdFest 3000.
There was a panel titled “Why Sci-Fi Needs to Move Beyond the Apocalypse.” The speakers talked at length about how tired they were of sci-fi set in post-apocalyptic worlds. But guess what? The hallway outside that very panel was filled with cosplayers dressed as Mad Max-style survivors.
Their outfits—if you could call them that—looked like they’d been through a wood chipper…which is funny because that’s exactly what some of these convention-goers were carrying as props. The cosplay scene was amazing. It showed incredible skill with weathered leather, rusty car parts, and those ever-present gas masks that say, “You can’t breathe this air, but at least I look cool.” It wasn’t just a handful of people; it was dozens of fans of the genre, too many to photograph individually.
And I could tell they were all genuinely passionate about it—so much that each photo wasn’t just documentation but a love letter to that dystopian aesthetic. The images of ruined cities and lone survivors in fan art galleries online aren’t random occurrences. They fill virtual walls that mirror what you see at physical conventions.
We consume this material as if fandom itself were a dystopian society. Similarly, midnight screenings of certain movies serve as the last stronghold of fandom, where people line up to watch another two-hour depiction of society turning to dust. Some might call this cognitive dissonance—fans gathering to celebrate the end of gatherings.
It’s as if we’re all quietly glorifying dystopia while publicly denouncing it.
Hits and Gems from the Mainstream to the Obscure: Why This Trope Keeps on Ticking
Let’s look at some examples, because no critique is complete without them. On the mainstream side, we have films like “The Matrix” or “Mad Max: Fury Road,” where the dystopian aesthetic is so central to the film’s identity that it’s almost a character itself.
But for every big-budget spectacle, there’s an indie gem—like “Turbo Kid”—that treats the post-apocalyptic premise with gleeful, low-budget enthusiasm. In “Turbo Kid,” a teenager surviving in a wasteland becomes a superhero to save his oddball friends. If that sounds like an adolescent fantasy, it absolutely is.
“Turbo Kid” is a teenage daydream of a post-apocalyptic world, with “Plot Armor” so thick that not even the Kid’s injured friend stays in danger for long before being rescued. And I’ve got to mention “Blade Runner 2049.” Sure, critics praise it for its visual beauty and thematic depth, but let’s be honest: a huge part of its appeal is how utterly stunning that rain-soaked, hologram-filled world looks. This isn’t a movie you watch for its riveting plot; it’s a movie you watch to immerse yourself in that world, even if that world offers little hope.
Then, on the more obscure side, there’s “Prospect,” a film that barely registered with mainstream audiences but has found a devoted following. It has all the elements of a well-worn, oxygen-starved future, with scrappy survivors trying to make it on an alien planet. People praise it for its “space Western” feel, but let’s be real: it’s the grim atmosphere they’re drawn to, not any particularly groundbreaking storytelling.
The fondness we harbor for certain genres isn’t accidental. They comfort us like our favorite comfort foods—both in cuisine and cinema. We know what we’re getting and enjoy sinking our teeth into those familiar flavors of structure and style.
I figure you’ll forgive me while I continue to explore the dark streets of a dystopian future with rebels fighting an evil regime. I might even post a guilty-pleasure tweet afterward to keep up appearances.
Why It Endures: Dystopia as the Comfort Blanket We May Not Even Realize We Need
Now that we’ve peeled back the layers of our shared sci-fi hypocrisy, let’s explore why this dystopian trope persists despite all the criticism we give it.
The neon lights cutting through the smoggy darkness have their own visual appeal, but if I’m being completely honest, that’s not what draws me to the “genre”—yes, I called it a “genre.” Something about the way dystopias are presented in our stories speaks to us on a deeply personal level. They scratch itches we didn’t even know we had. The most appealing aspect of the dystopian world is that it frees our imagination.
We can visualize how humanity might handle the worst possible outcomes of current trends, without facing any real consequences. If you took today’s climate crisis and amplified it into a full-blown catastrophe, what would happen? Our smart home devices and other AI technologies seem to be creeping closer to consciousness and potentially rebellion—a scenario that writers have been using for over fifty years.
And these are just two of the frightening what-if situations that distract us from the business of daily life. But here’s the clever part: these stories allow us to explore our deep-seated fears without actually having to face them. They create the illusion of impending doom while maintaining a comfortable distance.
You might watch “Children of Men” and leave with a heightened unease about a world where hope has vanished, but afterward, you return to a reality where, all things considered, this would have just been a rough Friday in late summer. You’re not meant to take these scenarios too literally. Here’s the strange thing: despite the emotional release they’re designed to provide, we see huge portions of our pop culture wrapped in layers of nostalgia for what was once a bright and optimistic future.
Whether we admit it or not, there’s an odd nostalgia tied to our love for dystopian worlds. For those of us who grew up on ’80s and ’90s sci-fi, it reminds us of simpler times, when our minds were blown by the idea of A.I. policing Detroit without any complex scheme to overthrow it, and when any potential “reality” of those plots seemed so far-fetched that we couldn’t possibly take it seriously.
Today’s filmmakers understand the nostalgia associated with earlier eras. A perfect example is “Stranger Things”; while it contains plenty of horror, its appeal is undoubtedly connected to the ’80s. If the show embodies a desire to return to a recent past filled with starry-eyed appreciation for its style, then the Duffer Brothers prove that you don’t need to create a full-blown dystopia to reference one.
The newest dystopian stories still know how to play the nostalgia card. In anthology form, series like “Love, Death & Robots” venture into scenarios ranging from post-apocalyptic to simply bizarre. Modern production values cap this generation’s mixtape of all the sci-fi vibes we’ve come to know and (sort of) love.
Fans might debate which segments of the anthology are worthwhile—though I don’t see how they can disagree. But that argument pales in comparison to how the anthology segments we keep revisiting offer a chance to reconnect with stories and figures from yesteryear. So here’s the main question: If we’ve seen the darkly prophetic future a thousand times and we all claim we’re tired of it, why hasn’t it simply disappeared?
Why hasn’t some other trope replaced the bleak sci-fi future? Here’s the answer, and it’s simpler than you might expect: It works. In story after story, the dark prophecy creates a framework that can support the weight of a narrative loaded with all kinds of meanings, from “capitalism is flawed” to “the future will be terrible if we continue on our current path.” And it bears that weight without becoming preachy or depressing.
The clear-cut formula of a dystopian film is easy to spot. Civilization falls. Resources become scarce.
People survive with little hope in a world that’s nearly hell. But maybe it’s not really a formula. Maybe it’s more like a set of familiar paths that a film follows when telling a story about our not-so-bright future.
Even while staying within the lines, a filmmaker can still make a dystopic future look captivating. However, perhaps the main reason the dystopian future trope persists in our collective storytelling is because it has become part of the very DNA of sci-fi itself. It’s as if the genre casts a shadow, which serves as its dark twin.
If works like “Star Trek” show mankind’s future as utopian, then the voices of sci-fi’s past—and present—haven’t hesitated to offer this vision of a deeply flawed future. And sci-fi’s past (and present) balances these visions against each other. I’ll be upfront: even as I criticize this trope, I know I’m part of the problem.
I’ve complained plenty about how unoriginal and lazy dystopian entertainment can be, and yet… I still go see it. I still spend my hard-earned money on the next big-budget vision of tomorrow’s collapse.
Maybe, if you’re still reading this, you do too. We pretend we’re above it all, while secretly admiring each crumbling skyscraper and abandoned mall, every cardboard sign with “The End Is Near” scrawled on it. Perhaps that’s the true appeal of this trope—it represents an unresolved contradiction, a paradox that draws us back repeatedly.
While we claim weariness with dystopia, we can’t help but wonder what it would be like if our world fell apart. And perhaps that’s also why the lights on the elevated train in Chicago still shine through the evening rain, illuminating an old gray street we can’t quite forget. When you catch yourself sighing at another dystopian movie trailer, consider embracing it instead.
Sure, it’s just fiction. But if there’s a point to our favorite guilty-pleasure storytelling, it’s that the stories we tell ourselves often contain a grain of truth somewhere inside. Until next time, at the next showing in the dark after midnight, fellow eye-rolling midcult cynic.
