From Mars to Moscow: How H.G. Wells Helped the World Grow a Conscience

A little over a century ago, invading another country was just… a Tuesday.

Conquest wasn’t shocking. It was expected. Empires justified it with talk of civilization, progress, even divine duty. When a powerful nation rolled over a weaker one, it was seen as strategy, not tragedy. Most of the world either applauded—or looked away.

And then H.G. Wells flipped the script.

In The War of the Worlds, Wells didn’t give readers another tale of British heroism or human triumph. He gave them terror, powerlessness, and annihilation.

He asked readers at the height of the British Empire to imagine themselves as the conquered. What would it feel like if someone stronger than you landed without warning, destroyed your cities, and regarded you as less than animals?

It was a radical thought at the time. And I think it changed us.

Today, when a powerful nation invades a smaller one—like Russia invading Ukraine—the world doesn’t shrug. We protest. We post. We send aid. Even if the response is imperfect, there’s a global instinct to say: this isn’t okay.

And I can’t help but wonder if that instinct traces back, in part, to Wells’ thought experiment—a seed planted in the cultural soil that grew into something more human.

Estimated reading time: 12 minutes

The Genius of Perspective Reversal

H.G. Wells didn’t just invent the alien invasion story—he gave it its soul.

Others had imagined alien life before, but Wells was the first to envision a full-scale alien assault on Earth—violent, disorienting, and morally charged.

In The War of the Worlds, the Martians aren’t just monsters—they’re colonizers. Cold, calculating, technologically superior beings who arrive without warning, destroy cities, and harvest human bodies like livestock.

They don’t negotiate.
They don’t explain.
They don’t see humans as people.

And that’s the point.

Wells flipped the moral equation of empire. At a time when Britain still proudly ruled over a quarter of the globe, he forced readers to feel what it was like to be on the receiving end of conquest. To be powerless. To be invaded. To be seen as nothing more than a resource.

That was no small thing…

A Mirror to the Empire

In 1898, the British Empire wasn’t just accepted—it was celebrated. Conquest was seen as the natural expression of national strength, often framed in moral terms.

Imperial campaigns were justified as a “civilizing mission,” backed by pseudoscientific theories of racial hierarchy and Social Darwinism. The British public was taught to see themselves not as aggressors, but as stewards of progress.

Some critics questioned the violence of the empire. But widespread resistance within Britain was rare, and moral outrage often came late—if at all.

It was the colonized who saw the brutality for what it was, resisting through protests, uprisings, and acts of defiance. But for the average British reader in 1898, The War of the Worlds may have been their first real opportunity to imagine the fear of being on the receiving end.

Invasion fiction itself wasn’t new. Stories like The Battle of Dorking had already tapped into nationalist paranoia—imagining foreign armies, not aliens, attacking Britain’s shores.

But Wells did something different. He didn’t glorify defense or stir up jingoism (extreme nationalism with a thirst for military action). Instead, he turned the lens inward, critiquing Britain’s own imperial arrogance.

He made readers experience collapse—and then asked whether they deserved sympathy at all.

The novel opens with a chilling series of reflections on human insignificance:

“And we… must be to them at least as alien and lowly as are the monkeys and lemurs to us… Their world is far gone in its cooling and this world is still crowded with life, but crowded only with what they regard as inferior animals.”

And then comes the real indictment:

“And before we judge of them [the Martians] too harshly we must remember what ruthless and utter destruction our own species has wrought… The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely swept out of existence… Are we such apostles of mercy as to complain if the Martians warred in the same spirit?”

This wasn’t subtle. Wells explicitly referenced the near-extermination of the Tasmanian Aboriginals by British colonists as a parallel. It was his way of asking readers: What makes you so sure you deserve mercy, when you’ve given none?

Later in the novel, that same power imbalance comes full circle. The British—so often the conquerors with guns and steel—are now the ones with rudimentary weapons. As the artilleryman puts it in Chapter 12, after witnessing the Martians’ overwhelming force:

“It’s bows and arrows against the lightning…”

It was a bold move for 1898. He wasn’t writing for the colonized—he was writing to the colonizers. And instead of lecturing them, he simply made them live it.

The result was a story that didn’t just entertain—it disoriented. It made a comfortable, powerful readership feel fear and helplessness. It was one of the earliest widely read works of fiction to turn the tables—forcing readers at the heart of empire to imagine what it felt like to be treated as less than human.

The Flaws in the Mirror

Wells’ critique wasn’t without contradiction. His socialist vision of a unified global state—guided by science and reason—sometimes carried paternalistic tones toward non-Western societies, complicating his anti-imperial stance.

Even in one of his boldest moments—the Tasmanian passage—Wells’ language reveals the biases of his time. He describes the Tasmanians as possessing a “human likeness,” a phrase that reflects the colonial mindset.

It’s a striking moment of moral reflection—but not without its own troubling undertones.

In 1898, many in the so-called “civilized world” didn’t see Indigenous peoples as fully human, but as “savages”—a word used without irony in newspapers, textbooks, and policy. Sympathy, when it came, was often conditional: granted to those who most resembled the colonizer.

Wells deserves credit for challenging that cruelty, but his execution still bore the imprint of his era.

Still, it’s a start.

H.G. Wells didn’t offer a perfect empathy—just a version slightly ahead of his time. But perhaps that’s all it takes to start the long shift toward seeing the “other” as human.

In The War of the Worlds, that empathy broke through. Even if imperfect, it was a jarring contrast to the dominant worldview.

Wells didn’t scold readers. He immersed them.
He gave them vulnerability instead of victory, fear instead of pride.
And where comfort ends, empathy begins.

Seeds in the Soil of Culture

Wells’ reversal didn’t just shock readers—it stuck. It echoed forward, embedding itself in the way we tell stories—and maybe even in how we relate to others.

Today, it’s common for science fiction and dystopian narratives to empathize with the oppressed or question the morality of power.

In District 9, humans become the abusers, corralling alien refugees into slums.
In Avatar, military conquest is framed as ecological and spiritual desecration.
Even The Handmaid’s Tale flips patriarchal norms into a dystopian nightmare.

These stories don’t just ask, what if you were the one being hunted? Some go even further, inviting us to identify with the aliens, the outcasts, or the marginalized.

This instinct—to question domination and to empathize across lines of power—is now woven into our narrative DNA. Wells didn’t invent empathy, but he helped smuggle it into the bloodstream of pop culture.

By immersing readers in the experience of being invaded, he planted an emotional framework that later generations of storytellers—and maybe even citizens—could build on.

And they didn’t even realize it was happening.

At the time, most readers embraced the story as a thrilling scientific romance—a bold tale of invasion, survival, and imagination. Its critique of empire went largely unnoticed until much later.

But that may have been part of its power: the story slipped past defenses, embedding empathy through narrative rather than argument.

Modern psychology backs this up…

Fiction, Empathy, and the Human Mind

Fiction allows us to simulate experiences we may never live. When we read stories about fear, exile, injustice, or survival, our brains respond with real emotional resonance.

Researchers call this narrative simulation. It fosters both cognitive empathy (imagining someone’s thoughts) and affective empathy (feeling their emotions) (Kidd & Castano, 2013).

In Wells’ case, it wasn’t about telling readers how bad invasion is. It was about making them live it.

Over time, this immersive empathy seeps into the real world. We read, we watch, we internalize—and gradually, we become more attuned to the human cost behind headlines.

It doesn’t happen overnight.
But let’s jump forward a century or so…

From Fiction to Framework: Wells’ Legacy in Modern Morality

In 2022, when Russia invaded Ukraine, the global response was swift and loud.

Governments imposed sanctions.
Citizens donated, protested, and demanded action.
Social media exploded with solidarity (BBC News, 2022).

It wasn’t perfect, and the outrage didn’t last forever. But it existed—and that matters.

Contrast that with the colonial conquests of the 19th century, when few outside the conflict cared. What changed?

A lot did: human rights law, global communication, education…
But maybe stories played a role too.

Stories like Wells’, which made powerlessness feel real, may have helped seed emotional frameworks that later movements could build on (Mar et al., 2006).

We’ve spent a century absorbing narratives that taught us to identify with the oppressed, not the oppressors. And The War of the Worlds was one of the earliest and loudest of those stories.

And the world hasn’t let it go. The iconic classic keeps returning—across radio, film, television, comics, video games, and more (see adaptations). From Orson Welles’ infamous 1938 broadcast to big-budget blockbusters and scrappy indie reinterpretations, this story refuses to fade.

Few works have maintained this level of reinvention across so many formats. It keeps resurfacing because the questions it asks—about power, fear, survival, and what it means to be human—still resonate.

Wells didn’t say, “Here’s a bad thing Britain did.”
He said, “What if this happened to you?”

That question is now baked into how we tell stories—and maybe even how we interpret the news. The idea that no one deserves to be invaded—that conquest is not just a chess move, but a human tragedy—is now widely accepted in a way it wasn’t a century ago.

So Was It Just a Dream?

Of course, empathy has limits. Performative outrage is easy. Public attention drifts. Wars still rage.

So does it really matter if we feel bad for a day? Or post a flag emoji?

Maybe. Maybe not.
But here’s the thing: even imperfect empathy is a step forward.

A century ago, few demanded moral justification for empire. Today, even aggressors pretend to have one. That’s not justice, but it is a cultural shift in expectations.

The fact that we expect leaders to justify their actions.
That we debate morality in public.
That media outlets run op-eds titled “How Could This Happen in 2022?” instead of “How Much Will the Market Fluctuate?”

These are small signs—but they’re signs of movement.

Wells wasn’t a prophet. And he certainly wasn’t a saint. He was just a storyteller who dared to ask: What if the tables were turned?

And once that question gets into the water supply—into books, into movies, into classrooms, into headlines—it can’t be unabsorbed.

Maybe that’s not a revolution. But it’s not nothing.

Empathy doesn’t solve everything. It can be messy, performative, and uneven. But it changes what stories we tell—and who we root for.

Maybe it’s like turning on a light in a dark room.

You might sit in the dark thinking everything is fine—until someone flips the switch and reveals the dirt and grime in every corner. It’s easy to think, Oh no, look how much worse everything is now! But the dirt was always there. You just couldn’t see it.

H.G. Wells helped turn on that light. Not to shame us, but to show us what needs cleaning. And once the light is on, you can’t unsee the mess.

You can only get to work cleaning it up.

Conclusion

H.G. Wells didn’t just set out to tell a story—he set out to challenge how we see the world.

By flipping the lens of power—by turning the imperial gaze back on the empire—he did something quietly radical.

He made the powerful feel powerless.
He made the safe feel invaded.
He made the hunters feel hunted.

The War of the Worlds isn’t just an alien invasion story. It’s a cultural mirror, lit with empathy. And Wells, for all his flaws, handed it to us at a time when few others dared.

More than a century later, we’re still staring into that mirror—asking better questions because he dared to ask them first.

👀 Explore more…

Want to dive deeper into Wells’ vision? Check out our
📖 Book Overview and Chapter Summaries for thematic insight, or read more about H.G. Wells himself.

Curious how your favorite adaptation stacks up against the original novel? Explore our
📋 True Adaptations Checklist to see how faithful they really are.

📚 Sources & Further Reading

Primary Text

• Wells, H.G. The War of the Worlds. London: William Heinemann, 1898. Available via Project Gutenberg.

Books on H.G. Wells & His Themes

• Beck, Peter J. The War of the Worlds: From H.G. Wells to Orson Welles, Jeff Wayne, Steven Spielberg and Beyond. Bloomsbury, 2016.
• Kemp, Peter. H.G. Wells and the Culminating Ape: Biological Themes and Imaginative Obsessions. Macmillan, 1982.
• James, Edward & Mendlesohn, Farah (Eds.). The Cambridge Companion to Science Fiction. Cambridge University Press, 2003.

Historical & Cultural Context

• Bayly, C.A. The Birth of the Modern World, 1780–1914. Blackwell Publishing, 2004.
• Porter, Bernard. The Absent-Minded Imperialists: Empire, Society, and Culture in Britain. Oxford University Press, 2004.
• Darwin, John. The Empire Project: The Rise and Fall of the British World-System, 1830–1970. Cambridge University Press, 2009.

On Fiction, Empathy, and Cultural Impact

• Mar, Raymond A. et al. “Bookworms versus Nerds: Exposure to Fiction Versus Non-fiction, Diverging Associations with Social Ability, and the Simulation of Fictional Social Worlds.” Journal of Research in Personality, 2006.
• Kidd, David & Castano, Emanuele. “Reading Literary Fiction Improves Theory of Mind.” Science, 2013.
• Cohen, Jonathan. “Defining Identification: A Theoretical Look at the Identification of Audiences With Media Characters.” Mass Communication & Society, 2001.

Science Fiction & Empathy in Modern Media

• Gomel, Elana. Postmodern Science Fiction and Temporal Imagination. Continuum, 2010.
• Miller, T.S. & Yarrow, Adam. Narratives of Empire: The Fictions of Imperialism. NYU Press, 1998.
• Palmer, Christopher. Philip K. Dick: Exhilaration and Terror of the Postmodern. Liverpool University Press, 2003.

Modern Conflict and Public Reaction

• UN General Assembly. Charter of the United Nations, 1945. Article 2(4) prohibits aggressive war.
• International Criminal Court. Rome Statute, 1998. Defines crimes of aggression and rules for prosecution.
• BBC News. “Ukraine Invasion: How the World Is Reacting to Russia’s Attack.” 24 February 2022. BBC News.

Written by AJ — Creator of War of the Worlds Central