What has always interested me about building alternate realities, as a reader and an author, are the questions about access points. How do we tread the line between familiar and unfamiliar? When does the author introduce an element to achieve relatability and when do they do it with the intention of othering the culture? When do those elements draw us more into the story and when do they jolt us out of it; alternatively, how do writers adjust in service of accessibility?

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The books in my Alliance duology (Ocean’s Godori and Teo’s Durumi) take place in a future where Koreans dominate space. As one character notes early on, “No one’s above Koreans… If they could survive reunification, they can overcome anything.” Admittedly, Ocean’s Godori and Teo’s Durumi are concerned less with how that history came about, and more what that reality would look like.

In the context of Ocean’s Godori’s futuristic Korean milieu, there are plenty of Korean cultural touchstones. Chapter One opens with Ocean, a Korean space pilot, breaking up with her boyfriend at a Korean BBQ restaurant. Social acceptance into the Alliance, the Korean space agency, is reflected in how well you play a Korean card game called hwatu—or whether you’re invited to play at all.

However, the overall building blocks depend the most on the language. Ostensibly, the Alliance is open to the whole solar system so they speak in “Common” (a non-specified language that I meant to stand for whatever language the series was going to be read in), and a career with the prestigious, vaunted Alliance is coveted.

However, the inside jargon and much of the slang has Korean roots, so if you’re Korean, you have an easy in to this accepted vernacular. Ocean’s Godori has a glossary written by Maggie, a non-Korean character, who put it together as a guide for those new to the Alliance. What follows is a smattering of terminology, mostly Korean words, that people should know if they want to fit in with the crowd.

This is, of course the sci-fi genre, one that usually by necessity involves unknown terms, foods, and slang that you assimilate as you keep reading.

Somewhat tellingly, what Maggie deems important for this assimilation are words like “jal meokkesseumnida” (“I will eat well” or words you should say before every meal) and a rundown of the honorifics you should know when addressing someone above you in age or rank, but also words like noraebang (karaoke). The Korean language is interspersed throughout the duology.

When Ocean’s Godori first came out, I was somewhat surprised by some of the reader reactions. Many people expressed frustration over words not being directly defined, the frequent usage of Korean, the spelling of some of that Korean that made it difficult to look up, and the glossary not being more prominently displayed.

This is, of course the sci-fi genre, one that usually by necessity involves unknown terms, foods, and slang that you assimilate as you keep reading. Sometimes that worldbuilding is like sinking into a warm bath and sometimes it operates like a jarring smash cut, as anyone who has picked up A Clockwork Orange with its opening of “we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry” can attest to.

A marvelous alchemy occurs when you start a book feeling that its language is foreign to you, but you let yourself keep going until it clicks into place. And then suddenly you understand the “viddy” of Burgess’ vernacular, not because you’re translating it to “see” but internalizing it for what it actually is.

I implemented Korean in the Alliance duology to establish a Korean-dominated setting, but also to piggyback on the usual sci-fi/fantasy worldbuilding expectation to bring people into the fold. When Ocean steps out onto the street, girls on hoverskids whip by, and not too long after, she spots kids on their way home from hakwon, sharing strips of skewered odeng. Both of those aspects might be unfamiliar to readers, but I’d hope readers are equally open to both details of this setting despite any unfamiliarity.

Of course, like the people who are joining the Alliance in the books, you have an advantage if you’re Korean. You already know the food, the language, or the proper way to behave.

There are side nudges to those in the know (there’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss it reference to a Korean myth as a name for a space refueling station, as well as a cameo appearance of an old news report of a cat crossing the frozen Han river), and many of those earlier scenes will flow by more easily if you can use your language proficiency as an oar.

But if the flow is more akin to being thrown into a river and desperately trying to keep your head above water, your experience mirrors that of Ocean.

Ocean is Korean but has spent most of her life outside of Korea. She struggles to fit into the Alliance culture for most of the first book. Many Korean Americans may relate to her pains—the clumsiness of the words on the tongue even if you understand a lot of it; how your mother talks to you in Korean, but you answer in English.

If there’s some discomfort from being unfamiliar with the language presented in the Alliance duology, I don’t find that to be a bad thing

In an argument with her mother, Ocean claims, “I’m not a child.” And then in a bid to be on equal footing with her mother, she repeats the declaration in Korean, but feels a flush of shame at her clunky pronunciation, as if it emphasizes exactly what she was denying. It’s humbling to be good enough at something to understand how poor you are at it.

Ocean has internalized that the key to assimilation and acceptance is the language, and the Alliance duology revolves around that idea. Teo isn’t Korean but he’s part of the Anand Tech empire, which has succeeded primarily due to their relationship with the Alliance, so he’s well versed in the Korean culture.

In Ocean’s Godori, he cooks bugeo soup to nurse a hangover. In Teo’s Durumi, someone notes how well he pronounces Korean. The only people unversed in the Alliance slang are the outsiders of the books. If you have any hope of being on the inside track of this system, you need to pick up some Korean.

The experience of reading the Alliance duology is meant to reflect that. If you want to belong to the world, you’ll have to pick up on its lingo. You might not be able to google all the words to find out what they mean.

But I don’t find that different from reading any other sci-fi or fantasy book. There are layers to reading this series, whether that pertains to the reader’s familiarity with the sci-fi genre since it’s a duology that is indebted to the long heritage of it or the reader’s familiarity with the Korean culture.

One layer has a specificity that speaks directly to those who are already in the know. Another is an open door for those who want to work their way in. And perhaps another is for those who find the experience uncomfortable.

Although I had intended for Ocean’s experience to reflect that of a lot of Korean Americans struggling with their identity, a friend of mine shared that it made him think of what his immigrant parents must have felt when they first came to the U.S.

As anyone who’s learned another language can relate to, it’s one thing to study a language in a classroom, from a textbook, off an app, and then another thing entirely to be thrown into that language. And this might mean you find yourself in a conversation catching a word here or there, mostly having to rely on contexts like inflection and facial expressions, and often succumbing to laughing awkwardly or nodding along.

Thus, if there’s some discomfort from being unfamiliar with the language presented in the Alliance duology, I don’t find that to be a bad thing. It can be helpful to be aware of an experience where yours isn’t the dominant vernacular, where making your way through the pages of a book doesn’t have the ease you often take for granted.

Ocean is a character who starts the series struggling with being Korean enough, of believing that her Korean fluency is lacking. But by the end of Ocean’s Godori, she comes more into an acceptance of who she is and how she is, and Teo’s Durumi is about what she does with that acceptance and how it doesn’t close her off from her desire to learn more.

Whatever layer you’re experiencing from your reading of the series, it’s meant to be an invitation into the world. After all, although I’m stating the obvious here, a foreign language is only foreign until you accept it as part of your own.

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Teo’s Durumi by Elaine U. Cho is available via Hillman Grad Books.