The words “fan fiction” mean different things to different people. To some, fan fiction is an enjoyable pastime, where people read and/or write for their favorite settings. To others, fan fiction fosters ideas about poor quality and a lack of professionalism. No matter what you personally think fan fiction is, however, the publishing industry has its own definition for fan fiction. This definition is not based on a judgment of quality, but rather – on business.

This past year I’ve been at several conventions, and I’ve interacted with many people who found out how much they love to write through fan fiction. Because these writers were not aware of the differences between fan fiction, shared world or media tie-in, I felt that they were treated a bit dismissively. In my opinion, most new authors really don’t know the first thing about the publishing industry, and I’d like to help clear up some of the confusion I’ve witnessed by sharing the definitions of fan, shared world and media tie-in fiction with some examples.

A Modern Fantasy game written by Stewart Wilson.

The simple version of the game’s premise is this: there is a magical world existing alongside our own. The Unaware cannot fully comprehend everything and so the magical realities of life are concealed from them.

Daniel spat carefully. Damn the Law. Sure, the crisp uniforms were a necessary evil—they needed him just as much as he needed them. The Law’d get into a nasty situation that involved daemons or some other supernatural creature (even though “officially” there’s no such thing as monsters), and then they’d hire him, Daniel Wayward, to clean it up. Sometimes things were good, real good. One time he managed to keep the acrid blood spatter to a minimum and kill the thing with no casualties. In his line of work, that was a miracle. Being a beastkeeper had its ups and downs. Most times he was lucky to have a day that was in between.

Today was not one of those days.

Third in a three-part series

Danel’s blood spilled out of the ragged gash in his arm in great gouts across the floor of the main hall of the Bascillica de San Zago. Rounding a brazier, trying to concentrate on holding the wound tight, he almost plunged headlong into Brother Artemus.

Written by Mike Holmes

The families lived in exile, far removed from Condar, Rodak or Derve. They did not choose to live there, the mountain hand-picked them. They were merchants, traffickers, and traders in luxury goods, foodstuffs and information. All had a story to tell, some worse than others. A rockslide claimed one party, bandits tore apart another. Long have they been grieved for, even longer have they been forgotten. Until the miners came, dwarves with their pickaxes and knowledge of things buried deep within the earth. Tough yet resilient, Ilieva grew into the mountain ever since her husband died last Lokt. So, when the dwarves came offering a mutually-beneficial treaty, how could she refuse?

Tall, yellow grasses rustled in front of a modest Sarlacchi village, mimicking the movements of a small boy. The child pitched forward, and then rocked backward. He stopped to brace himself against an unseen foe. Something punched him hard in the stomach. Flinging his arms to the sky, the boy grasped his totem necklace and cried out before collapsing to the ground. His mother rushed to the fallen child, clutching him tightly to her breast.

Risla twisted and turned as she slept on the hard ground, her thoughts hunting for answers to Malik’s words. How could she convince anyone that she was the one that would fulfill prophecies? And even if she had the second sight, she wasn’t sure she could speak false about foreseeing the future. Truly, she was anything but blessed. When she told Malik this, he not only reminded her how many people were relying on this belief, but that some people would lay their lives down for such a person.

Part of an ongoing tale in the world of Conspiracy of Shadows.

The darkness crept behind Malik and Risla, embracing them in its strong arms. Albin guided them to an abandoned camp where they could rest for the night. Tomorrow would be a slow day for the both of them, for Challenger needed to be reshoed. They both hoped, for different reasons, a village was nearby. Only the light would tell them that. Malik was fortunate he had excellent night vision. He thanked his father for grooming him well.

“I’m going to look around,” Malik told her. “Stay close.”

Risla could barely make out his arrogant outline. She wondered if “looking around” meant leaving her there. He cared more for his horse than he did for her.

“What should I do?”

Part of an ongoing tale set in the world of Conspiracy of Shadows.

“What does it say, Father Clemens?” asked a young acolyte to the wizened priest.

The middle-aged priest looked carefully around the room, for explaining prophecy to youth was like expressing nature into words to young children. At least his following was here, just outside Alcona at the foot of the Boreni Mountains. It was fortunate they were not wandering off, trying to profess their faith to those who would not listen. Instead they were here, under his gaze, believing Albin granted him the tools to enable them to know things men shouldn’t.

Continuing the tale set in the world of Conspiracy of Shadows

Aiken watched the gun. The muzzle was drifting to and fro, but always covering him, cutting down his options. He was trying hard to sober up. The little man was talking away in his fast, clipped voice, but Aiken was having difficulty concentrating on the words. Before the pair had arrived he had been busy drinking himself unconscious, but now that was a distant memory. The big one had come in first, the muscle, waving his vicious-looking sparklock languidly about, indicating to the clientele of this particular dive that they would be better off not getting involved.

A tale for the a/state setting from Contested Ground Studios, written by Greg Saunders.

It couldn’t remember how it was borne. Was it male? Was it female? It had given itself a name, one that only it knew. Pool.

Pieces of memory gnawed at Pool’s mind. What was home? What did it used to be? Now it was nothing more than a land of yellowing bone and black rock. Fires burned throughout the landscape. It couldn’t have been that way always. Before Pool left its Circle with the others, they poured over books documenting the stories of how things came to be. Shapes of letters appeared before him, describing the velvety touch of a thing called a “flower.” There were no flowers in its Circle. Pool closed its eyes, remembering the smell of sulfur and the feel of spikes crushing beneath its razor-skinned feet.

Part One of a Three Part Fiction Series

Eyes that once spoke compassion and love glinted like twin blades in the smoke-filled night. They called her a demon. Priests, she knew and trusted from her time waddling in the lush fields of the khanate, threw stones at her. Magickal symbols drawn in fertile soil surrounded her. She wasn’t sure if they were to protect her, or to protect the mob from her. For what? The color of her hair? She tried to move her head. It was once the color of the black stones on the bottom of the riverbed. Now it resembled the embers glowing brightly in the fire her clansmen encouraged to consume her. She stood against the warmth, and felt as it reached out to her stiffened body tied taught against a dead tree. Her arms were pinned to her chest, her clansmen afraid she had the dark Gift. Part One of an Ongoing Series

How did you get into gaming? I began my roleplaying game journey in 1979 when a friend from high school introduced me to a game called Dungeons & Dragons. The game allowed me to use my vivid imagination to create characters and explore worlds where I could carry out deeds similar to heroes from comic […]

I woke for no reason from strangely blissful dreams, my eyes adjusting quickly to the dark of our room. Michael slept against me, his huge arm around my waist, one hand splayed across my belly. He should have woken to any disturbance before I did. Yet of the two of us, I woke, not to sound or movement or anything I could understand, but more to a pressure in the air. A feeling, growing from my abdomen under Michael’s palm and spreading up my veins with the shock of the purest Liquid Silver, disturbed my dreams and lifted my head. The feeling told of an unwelcome darkness.

Written by 2003 Fiction Contest Winner, Elizabeth Petersen