Why Do We Keep Building Galactic Empires in Sci-Fi?

From SRP author Cameron Cooper:

I have a confession: I don’t trust empires.

Maybe that’s obvious, if you’ve read any of my science fiction. I’ve created a few galactic empires over the years. Some sprawling, others already starting to rot. But one thing they tend to have in common is their inevitable collapse. Sometimes it’s swift. Sometimes it’s a slow, shuddering fall. But they always fall.

In one of my Tracy Cooper-Posey series, the empire imploded under its own weight. In the Imperial Hammer series…well, no spoilers, but let’s just say it didn’t go well for the ruling class. Empires in my stories rarely get a happy ending.

And yet I keep writing them.

So do countless other sci-fi authors. Dune, Star Wars, Foundation. Space opera practically breathes through imperial lungs. Even when the story is about rebellion, oppression, or survival, the backdrop is almost always a galactic regime that centralizes power in a way that would make any constitutional democracy break out in hives.

Lately, I’ve been watching Foundation, and despite the genetic clones (you’d think three Cleons would solve the succession problem), the empire there is cracking along purely personal fault lines. Hubris, pride, insecurity…very human flaws that no amount of power can fix.

So here’s my question: Why do we, as writers and readers, keep returning to this model of government—especially when it’s so clearly unstable?

There’s no shortage of possible answers, of course. Empires are convenient, narratively. If you’re writing sprawling, galaxy-spanning stories, you need some kind of unified structure to hold all those star systems together—at least temporarily. A republic with a rotating council and fair representation doesn’t quite deliver the same dramatic punch as an imperious dynasty ruling from a gleaming throneworld.

Empires offer instant stakes. We know what they are, how they work, and most importantly, how they can go wrong. All that centralized power is catnip for conflict. Whether it’s corruption at the top, rebellion at the edges, or a hero trying to navigate the morally gray middle, an empire sets the scene for drama, ambition, and catastrophe.

They also give us a sandbox to explore themes we can’t always touch in contemporary fiction. We can interrogate authority, loyalty, identity, destiny—all through the lens of planets and plasma rifles. And we can do it with the volume cranked up. A betrayal in a galactic empire might doom a world, not just a family.

Still, I keep circling back to this idea: We know they’re doomed. We write them that way. We want them to fall.

Maybe that’s part of the appeal, too.

There’s a certain narrative satisfaction in watching something so vast and powerful begin to fracture. Especially when the cause isn’t an alien invasion or a quantum singularity, but the flaws in the people at the top. Pride. Fear. Blindness. Often, they don’t even see it coming.

John Scalzi’s The Collapsing Empire surprised me in that regard. I didn’t expect him to write about an empire at all—he’s not usually drawn to the baroque and imperial, but there it was: a star-spanning ruling class, complete with politics, class tension, and a tricky power succession. What really caught me off guard, though, was the new Emperox. She wasn’t scheming, arrogant, or corrupt. She was… nice. Kind, even. A genuinely decent person in an indecent system. And yet, even with someone likable on the throne, the empire still collapsed. (Not a spoiler. It’s in the title.)

It just goes to show: it’s not always about evil emperors twirling mustaches. Sometimes it’s the systems themselves that are flawed. Even the best intentions can’t save a machine designed to concentrate power and suppress change.

That’s very human, isn’t it?

In Imperial Hammer, I played with that expectation a little. There’s a twist to the nature of the Empire’s fall that I won’t spoil here, but let’s just say it wasn’t as straightforward as one tyrant making bad choices. Even when the structure looks solid, rot can creep in from unexpected angles.

And when I think about Foundation—three identical emperors, each a clone of the last, carefully trained to think alike and govern in harmony—it’s almost funny how quickly it falls apart. You’d think that setup would ensure stability, but all it really does is amplify the flaws across generations. It’s like watching the same person make the same mistakes, over and over again, while believing they’re immune to consequence.

In the end, no matter how grand the architecture or how ruthless the control, empires are just people. And people are messy.

So maybe we keep writing empires not because we admire them, but because we love watching them unravel. Because in their downfall, we see truths about ourselves, and maybe even a bit of hope. That power can be challenged. That tyranny doesn’t last. That the little people matter.

I’m still mulling this over. But I’d love to know what you think.

Why do you think galactic empires remain a sci-fi staple, even when they’re always doomed to fall? Drop your thoughts in the comments—I’m genuinely curious.

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