Exploring the Bizarre Cosmos of 'Voidverse': An Interview with Damien Ober

In this exclusive Q&A, Damien Ober—renowned for his work on The OA—delves into the creation of his mind-bending space fantasy novel, 'Voidverse'. He discusses how atmosphere, character, and prose intertwine to form a truly weird reading experience. Below, Ober answers key questions about his inspirations, worldbuilding challenges, and the unique blend of sci-fi and fantasy that defines his latest book.

What sparked the idea for 'Voidverse' and its bizarre setting?

The seed for Voidverse came from a simple question: What if reality itself had moods? I wanted to create a universe where the fabric of space reacts to emotion, thought, and conflict. Drawing from quantum weirdness and mythological chaos, I imagined a 'void' that isn't empty but alive—a sentient darkness that shapes planets, creatures, and even time. The setting had to feel both ancient and alien, like a dream you can't shake. I also let the weirdness of The OA—alternate dimensions, ambiguous morality—bleed into this new cosmos. Ultimately, the void became a character in its own right, influencing every twist and turn in the story.

How did you ensure the characters and prose 'meld with the setting' as you mentioned?

Writing Voidverse required a complete shift in style. The narrative voice mirrors the instability of the void: sentences stretch like dark matter, dialogue echoes with multiple meanings, and descriptions blur the line between internal feeling and external environment. Every character is a fragment of the void's personality—arrogant, desperate, or serene. Their flaws and desires literally reshape the world around them. For example, rage ignites voidslicks, while grief summons spectral flora. I revised each chapter until the language felt organic to that corner of the universe. It was painstaking, but it made the prose inseparable from the mood.

What makes 'Voidverse' a 'weird' space fantasy rather than traditional sci-fi?

The 'weird' label fits because Voidverse rejects hard science explanations. Instead of spaceships and laser guns, you get living constellations, psychic echoes, and gravity wells that sing. It's a fantasy built atop cosmic horror—think China Miéville meets Ursula K. Le Guin. The rules of physics are replaced by emotional logic: love can bend light, betrayal fractures timelines. No technology feels familiar; even the 'voidwalkers' use ancestral memories, not engines. This muddying of genres allows for surreal surprises—like a library where books weep or a battle fought entirely in a single thought. It's meant to disorient and awe, not to be plausible.

What were the biggest challenges in crafting such an unconventional world?

The hardest part was consistency within chaos. If the void reacts to feelings, how does that affect daily life? I had to build internal rules—even if they were bizarre. For instance, joy stabilizes matter, so cities are built during festivals. Also, balancing strangeness with relatability: readers need anchors. That's why characters like the disgraced void-pilot Jev have recognizable struggles—grief, ambition, guilt—even as they navigate impossible landscapes. Another challenge was pacing. A scene where a character's memory becomes a physical maze can't be rushed. I often cut ten pages of 'weird' descriptions to keep the story moving. But the biggest hurdle was trusting readers to embrace the weirdness without explanation.

Can you share a specific example of how the void's atmosphere influences character decisions?

Absolutely. In one chapter, the protagonist Lira must cross the Shifting Waste—a desert where sand thinks. She's grieving her lost crew, and the waste amplifies her sorrow into mirages of them. The only way to survive is to confront those apparitions. Her choice isn't logical; it's emotional. She screams at the sand-memory of her captain, and that outburst stabilizes the ground enough for her to walk. The environment forced her to heal. So the setting isn't a backdrop—it's a co-author, pushing characters into growth or destruction. That interplay defines the whole novel.

How does your background in television (especially The OA) influence your novel writing?

Television taught me pacing and reveal. In The OA, we doled out mysteries like breadcrumbs. I use that same rhythm in Voidverse: each chapter ends with a small revelation that shifts the context. Also, TV made me think in vivid, visual scenes. I can't just describe the void; I have to show it in action—a character stepping into a memory, a star imploding because someone lied. Dialogue also benefits from my TV roots: it's terse and layered, carrying subtext. But the biggest influence is the emotional core. Just as The OA hinged on trauma and connection, Voidverse centers on characters finding meaning in an absurd cosmos. TV taught me that even the weirdest worlds must feel human.

What do you hope readers take away from this weird space fantasy?

I hope they feel the curiosity I felt while writing. The void is terrifying, but it's also beautiful. I want readers to sit in that discomfort and wonder: What if emotions literally shaped reality? How would I live? More deeply, I want them to see that even in chaos, connection matters. Voidverse isn't escapism—it's an invitation to explore how our own minds project worlds. And, yes, I hope they enjoy the ride: the bizarre creatures, the impossible landscapes, the moments of eerie tenderness. If a reader finishes the book and looks up at the night sky a little differently, I've succeeded.

Conclusion

Damien Ober's Voidverse is a testament to the power of blending genres and pushing narrative boundaries. In this interview, he reveals the intricate dance between setting, character, and prose that makes his novel a truly unique experience. For fans of The OA and lovers of speculative fiction, Voidverse offers a journey into the strangest corners of imagination.