Imposter Syndrome and Worldbuilding: Creating Despite the Doubt

To the brilliant minds of the World Anvil community—during this time of frenzy and Summer Camp chaos, I’ve been hearing the same quiet murmurs echoing through the comment threads: “Is my world good enough?” “Why does this feel so hard?” “What if I’m just faking it?” and so many other similar comments.

If you’ve been feeling that way lately, you’re not alone. I want to speak to that.

Maybe you’re crafting a continent’s worth of cultures, drawing maps, outlining centuries of fictional history—or maybe you’re just brainstorming the rules for how magic works in your post-apocalyptic jungle. But at some point, the doubt creeps in. “This is all derivative.” “It’s not as good as what [insert favorite author] does.” “Why would anyone care about this?” These are the whispers of imposter syndrome—a silent, sneaky voice that tells us we’re not good enough, even when we are.

Here’s the truth: imposter syndrome is almost universal among creatives. The more you care about your work, the more likely you are to judge it harshly. That doesn't mean you're failing—it means you’re engaged. It means you have standards. And it means you’re looking closely enough to see what could be better. That sensitivity is what makes you grow.

Creators Are Their Own Worst Critics

One of the most painful and paradoxical things about being a creative person—especially in something sprawling and personal like worldbuilding—is that you almost never see your work the way others do.

You see the weak spots. The shortcuts you took. The characters that aren’t quite right. The region of the map that’s still blank. You see all the things you meant to include but forgot. And you compare that to the finished, polished, published work of others.

The mistake is that you’re comparing your process to someone else’s product.

When we look at someone else's finished project—a book, a game, a setting—we often see only the best of it. We don’t see the years of rewriting. We don’t see the false starts, the deleted drafts, the sketches thrown in the trash. But we see all of that in our own work, and it makes us feel like we’re faking it. Like we’re just pretending to be “real” creators.

But seeing the flaws in your work doesn’t mean the work is worthless. It means you have taste. It means you know what good storytelling looks like. And that’s the first step toward getting there yourself.

Growth Comes From Doing

There’s a myth that some people are just born talented—that they sit down and effortlessly create something brilliant on their first try. The reality is much less romantic: most great creatives have made a lot of mediocre things before they made anything great.

And that’s okay.

You can only get better at something by doing it. That means showing up, even when you doubt yourself. Even when you think your idea is too weird or too familiar. Even when your internal voice is screaming, “Why would anyone care about this?”

You keep going. You write the lore. You sketch the city. You figure out how trade routes or monster anatomy or psychic dreams work in your world. Because the act of creation itself teaches you. Every page, every paragraph, every map, every failure is a step forward.

And yes—putting your ideas out there is scary. But that’s what makes it brave.

Risk Is Part of Creativity

Worldbuilding is vulnerable work. It takes imagination, but more importantly, it takes exposure. You’re building something from nothing, then saying, “Here. This is mine. Please like it.” That’s hard.

You’re putting your passion, your weirdness, your favorite tropes, your secret fears and hopes, into a place where someone else might criticize them—or worse, ignore them.

That fear can freeze you.

But that fear also means you care.

No meaningful creative work is risk-free. Whether you’re sharing your setting with a few friends or launching an entire campaign setting to the public, you’re taking a risk that people might not get it. They might not like it. They might misunderstand what you were trying to do.

But here’s the thing: someone will get it. Someone will love it. Because you are not as alone in your weird passions as you think.

You Are Not a Unique Snowflake (And That’s a Good Thing)

It can feel lonely sometimes, especially when your ideas are niche or unusual. But this is actually one of the most freeing things about creativity in the modern world:

You are not unique.

And that’s not an insult—it’s a blessing.

With nearly eight billion people on this planet, there are thousands—maybe tens or hundreds of thousands—of people who are interested in the same odd blend of themes and aesthetics that you are. Gothic horror on a space station? Check. A post-apocalyptic world where people worship fungi? Absolutely. A magic system based on dreams, salt, and debt? Someone out there is hungry for exactly that.

Creativity isn’t about coming up with something no one has ever done. It’s about doing it in your voice. It’s about remixing old ideas in new ways. It’s about making something you love, and trusting that others will love it too.

Community Matters

One of the best antidotes to imposter syndrome is community. Which is what I have loved so much about being her with all of you on World Anvil.

When you’re alone with your work, it’s easy to spiral. Easy to believe the doubts. But when you’re in a community of other creatives—especially other worldbuilders—you start to see how normal those feelings are. You realize that even people you admire struggle with the same insecurities. You get feedback that helps you improve. You get encouragement when you need it most.

Creative growth happens faster when you’re surrounded by people who “get it.” People who will cheer for your wins, help you troubleshoot your lore, and remind you that the blank page isn’t your enemy—it’s your canvas.

And the great thing about worldbuilding is that there are so many thriving, welcoming communities online and in person. World Anvil. Subreddits. Discord servers. Forums. Tabletop groups. Writing groups. Whether your setting is for a novel, a game, a zine, or just your own joy—there’s a place for you.

Give Yourself Permission

The most powerful thing you can do as a worldbuilder—especially when imposter syndrome is loud—is give yourself permission:

• Permission to start small.
• Permission to not be perfect.
• Permission to try something new and strange.
• Permission to not finish every idea.
• Permission to love what you make, even if it’s flawed.

You don’t need to be a professional. You don’t need to have a following. You don’t need to be the best.

You just need to create.

Because what you’re building has value now, not just someday in the future when it’s “better.” There’s magic in the process, not just the product.

So keep building your worlds. Keep dreaming up histories and maps and pantheons. Keep asking “what if?” and chasing the answer.

And when imposter syndrome comes knocking—as it always does—don’t try to silence it completely. Just nod, say “Thanks for the feedback,” and get back to work.

The only way out is through. And you're not going through it alone.

And remember that somebody is going to be the next Tolkien, but that is only going to happen for someone who keeps showing up and keeps grabbing their hammer.