I’ve been teaching science fiction to teens for well over a decade and I can honestly say they’re far harsher critics when it comes to unsatisfying conclusions than anyone else. They can pick apart the most glaring plot holes and character inconsistencies that eluded a whole team of professional writers. And they usually are right. When a teen can analyse a character’s journey and spot major mistakes that you and hundreds of other writers missed, something’s clearly gone awry.
One of the main reasons science fiction fans are able to relate so deeply to the worlds we read and watch is that we don’t simply consume these stories — we immerse ourselves in them. We spend countless hours speculating about what will happen next; we try to figure out the motivations behind each character’s actions; we grow attached to the relationships between characters that only exist on paper or screen. Therefore, when the character we care about receives a disappointing conclusion to their journey that fails to honour their path, it feels personal.
I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve engaged in lengthy discussions at midnight with other fans regarding where things went wrong and how things might have gone differently. Many of my colleagues probably think I’m crazy for being this passionate about fictional characters, but the truth is that the stories we read and watch matter. They reveal aspects of our hopes, fears, and values. In failing the characters within the stories themselves, we also feel that they have failed us.
William Adama from Battlestar Galactica is a wonderful example. The actor Edward James Olmos brought such gravity to the character – a grizzled military commander struggling to keep humanity alive while dealing with seemingly impossible moral dilemmas. Over four seasons we saw Adama wrestle with the burden of leadership; deal with the loss of his son; and face the very real possibility of extinction. He was no saint, but he was a real person in the way most television commanders rarely are.
However, the finale of Battlestar Galactica left many viewers feeling unfulfilled. As stated earlier, I enjoyed “Daybreak” and found many elements of it compelling, however the conclusion of William Adama’s story felt to me to be somewhat incongruent with the rest of the series. After all that Adama endured; after all the people he saved and sacrificed for, he ultimately ends up alone on some mountain building a cabin? I understand the allure of retirement, but it seemed like the writers had no idea how to conclude his journey once the battle scenes ceased.
Many of my students and I discussed this extensively when we studied Battlestar Galactica during my dystopian literature unit. Most of the kids felt that Adama was owed greater closure than isolation. One of the more perceptive kids proposed that Adama continue to contribute to the construction of the new society in some capacity, possibly as a senior statesman, helping to develop laws and government structures that would allow the lessons he learned as a result of his experiences to be passed along.
Rose Tyler from Doctor Who is another character whose conclusion I felt was woefully inadequate. Billie Piper was just fantastic in the role of Rose. She was the heart of the first few seasons of the revamped series. Her relationship with the Ninth Doctor, followed by the Tenth, felt authentic and earned. Rose was more than just a companion — she was the core of the story in its early seasons.
But “Doomsday” still brings tears to my eyes, and not all of them are good tears. Yes, the beach scene is wonderfully acted and the use of parallel universes to resolve the conflict is creative from a storytelling standpoint. However, something about it has always bothered me. Perhaps it is because the meta-crisis Doctor in “Journey’s End” felt like a consolation prize — here is a human form of the Doctor that you can age and die with, isn’t that nice?
In fact, I often use Rose’s journey as an example when teaching about character development and satisfying conclusions to narratives. My students are split on whether the tragic love angle of Rose’s story is compelling or if she was cheated. Those who dislike it typically believe that Rose deserved more control over her own destiny — that she should’ve had more input over what happened to her than simply being stuck in another dimension.
John Boyega, the actor who played Finn in The Force Awakens, was just fantastic. A former Stormtrooper who chose to follow his conscience — that is innovative. That is the kind of fresh approach that Star Wars desperately needed.
Unfortunately, Finn was largely ignored in the final two films of the sequel trilogy. By the end of The Rise of Skywalker, he is merely running around yelling “Rey!” while the more compelling aspects of his character — his connection to other former Stormtroopers, his connection to the Force, etc. — are virtually ignored.
When I screened The Force Awakens with my science fiction film class last year, we brainstormed ideas for what we thought Finn’s arc would be. Almost all of my students believed that Finn would eventually become a Jedi and lead a rebellion to free other Stormtroopers. When I informed them of how his story concluded, they were collectively disappointed. “Is that all?” one kid asked. “He just exists?”
Naomi Nagata from The Expanse is another character whose conclusion was lacking. Dominque Tipper performed admirably throughout the series — creating a complex and flawed character in Naomi. Her experiences with Marco and the Free Navy; her guilt surrounding the protomolecule; her role as the heart of the crew of the Roci — all of these aspects felt authentic and earned.
Unfortunately, the series concluded before we could truly see what happened to Naomi next. I realise that the writers were constrained by the cost of production and the limitations of the cast’s availability; however, Naomi’s journey felt incomplete. She had undergone so much growth and suffering, and yet we simply…left her? My students who watched the series (and I highly recommend it to juniors and seniors) wanted to know what Naomi did next. What was her role in rebuilding Belter society? What contribution did she make to the new societal structure?
John Crichton from Farscape is a character who almost received the conclusion he deserved. Almost. The Peacekeeper Wars miniseries had many compelling moments, and Ben Browder’s performance continued to bring the charisma that defined the role. However, four hours to conclude a story arc that spanned several seasons is simply too little time. It felt like the writers checked boxes rather than concluding the characters’ journeys.
Frequently, I use Farscape as an example when I am studying character development and world-building with my students. Crichton’s fish-out-of-water story could easily have been a tired cliche, but the show made it work by consistently refusing to allow Crichton to adapt completely. He was always recognizable as a human being, yet was changed in significant ways. He deserved a conclusion that recognised and honored both facets of that transformation.
What I believe occurs — and I see it repeatedly in the books and shows that I teach — is that writers become so consumed by resolving the plot that they neglect to resolve the character. They tie up the major conflicts, the romantic subplots, and the dramatic arcs of the story, but they rarely consider the ultimate question: what does this character require to provide a sense of completion to their emotional journey?
This is not about having a happy ending. There are many examples of science fiction stories with dismal conclusions. This is about earned conclusions. Conclusions that feel like the logical culmination of everything the character has experienced and learned. When this does not occur, when characters receive poor or unearned conclusions, it erodes the faith that writers and audiences share.
My students inherently understand this. They will passionately defend the characters they love. They write fan-fiction and create detailed theories about what “actually” occurred beyond the camera cuts. They recognise that these characters are not mere entertainment, but are vehicles through which we explore the human condition in extraordinary situations.
This is why disappointing conclusions cause so much pain. We connect with these characters because they represent aspects of ourselves — our hopes and fears and dreams. When we dismiss or diminish those connections — when we treat those aspects of ourselves as disposable — it feels as though we are dismissing those aspects of ourselves.
However, the beauty of science fiction fandom is that the stories do not end when the show is canceled or the book series concludes. Fans continue to breathe life into these characters through discussion and analysis and re-imaginings. Each time a writer creates a more satisfying conclusion to a character’s journey or debates what should have occurred, they are contributing to the continuing life of that story.
Perhaps that is sufficient. Perhaps the fact that we continue to discuss these characters, and that we remain invested in their fates, indicates that they achieved the greatest possible type of immortality. But damn it, would it not have been preferable if the creators had managed to get it right the first time?
Diane teaches English in Philadelphia and uses sci-fi to make teenagers care about literature. She writes about how the genre reflects real-world anxieties—from climate fears to social rebellion—with humor, warmth, and the occasional classroom story.