One of my hobbies is reading science-fiction. At any point in time I'm in the process of finishing up one book with two or three in the queue. For the most part, the books I buy are written by contemporary authors but I've tried to make a point of sampling from some of the more classical works (If you can use the term classical to apply to stories written in the past hundred years or so). So, after twenty years of doing this, I pride myself on having a good layman's knowledge of the field (at least, in the English language - and thank goodness someone translated Jules Verne's works a long time ago. I'd love to read his work in the original French. If it's that good in English... Wow).
There is, however, one aspect of many science-fiction stories that I have a difficult time dealing with and that is the aspect of size. This really only applies to stories that are set across multiple planets, or star systems, or galaxies, or even universes. Space is just so damn big and I don't have a good gut feel for the difference between one light-year and two. At some point, my eyes gloss over and I just think to myself, "Okay. Far. I get the message." Amusingly, this is one area in which many authors feel the need to go into detail. Most of the time, that detail is wasted on me. About the only time I start paying attention is when there is a ship-to-ship engagement where the distance between objects - and their velocity and acceleration relative to each other - actually matters. Otherwise, the only information I really want to know is, "How long does it take to get there." It's probably the Angeleno in me.
On a related note, I have a similar reaction to the size of created artifacts - whether these are spaceships, or space stations, or entire ecosystems. The bigger they get, the less I care. Once it gets into the realm of, "Cannot build on a planet," you've lost me. There's a point at which I just stop trying to connect the dots and figure out where the bridge is related to the engine room spatially. And it usually doesn't matter - at least in terms of storytelling.
Even for spaceships that are small enough to land on a planetary surface I'll often just skim over the dimension data. Especially if the creators of the artifact have made design decisions that break up the spatial layout (whether that's through the use of tubes or transporters or some other method of transport). Once someone got into a tube on the Enterprise they could've been going to BFE for all I cared. Give me a ladder or stairway any day.
This is probably a shame. One of the things I love about Serenity (you saw that one coming, didn't you?) is that I know where everything is located. With a ship that is less than 200 feet long it's not difficult to get all the various areas located spatially. Non-trivial - I was greatly aided by some interior layout drawings that fans had done - but not difficult. And that knowledge really does add to my enjoyment of the show. The characters always act consistent with the environment. There's a reason they move in a certain direction. It's just one of those details that a good world builder takes into account.
It's definitely easier to show things rather than explain them verbally. Maybe I would've appreciated the scope of the Ringworld, from Larry Niven's Known Space series, more if I could've seen it. Somehow, reading that the created world is a circular strip 300 million kilometers in diameter and 1.6 million kilometers wide just causes my eyes to roll back in my head. There's big. And then there's BIG. And then there's FUCKING COLOSSAL. And that's about the extent of my discrimination. Also falling in that category would be the Dyson Sphere-type habitats from the later books of David Brin's Uplift series. It's clear that the author spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to explain what he had created. And I just skim right on through.
The only author who really impressed me with the sheer size of the artifact they envisioned was Arthur C. Clarke in his description of the Rama spacecraft. When the lights go on, early in Rendezvous with Rama, and the inside of the ship is illuminated section-by-section stretching off into the distance, it took my breath away. I got it. The scope was huge. And I was awed. I'm not quite sure what he did different than other authors. It might have been that he built off things I am familiar with and just added them up (the sheer number of staircases the characters had to descend to get from the entry point to the floor; the change in gravity the further away you got from the axis of rotation; the length of time involved to move from one point to another). But all that detail came later. And I appreciated it because he had sold me from that initial description. Whatever he did, he was able to get me to pay attention and start figuring out spatial relationships in an hollow cylindrical object 50 kilometers long and 20 kilometers in diameter. And that's no mean feat. Of course, it also helps that Clarke is a good storyteller and an attentive world builder.
So I'm a tough sell when it comes to absurdly large artifacts. Yes, I understand that space is huge. And I understand that complexity and advancements in technology often result in an increase in size. And that, based on the tremendous energy requirements involved, you might want to move as many people or objects as possible so you'd need a large ship. But I also think there's a certain element of dick-waving going on with authors trying to outdo each other in the, "My spaceship is bigger than your spaceship" contest. And often it actually detracts from my enjoyment of the story. If anything, I find it humerous.
All that is prologue to what I really wanted to write about. Digression from digression followed by digression. Because all I intended to say when I sat down to type was how much I enjoyed reading Howard L. Myers' Econo-War series of stories. Rather than going off on how things only get bigger with time he goes in the other direction. In his future you don't need a spaceship, interplanetary travel is as simple as walking to the store. Through a combination of implants and advances in technology and various objects that can be stowed in pockets or on a belt, humans travel between the stars wearing nothing more than their clothes. They zip along at insane speeds in the ultimate thrill ride breaking atmo feet first as they hurtle down to a planet.
How cool is that?
