Basement Holodecks and Kitchen Time Machines

That tiki bar post I scribbled a while back sent me down a rabbit hole of DIY fandom, and it hit me: Fans aren't just desperate to escape into the worlds they love—they're desperate to live there.

Turns out, some people aren't waiting for someone else to build their fantasy spaces. They're doing it themselves. At home. And the results are absolutely wild.

When someone rebuilds their kitchen as a 1950s diner, they're not just renovating—they're telling a story. And great storytellers should pay attention.

When Fans Buy Real Estate in Their Favorite Worlds

Joe Manganiello has a basement shrine to Gary Gygax where he runs D&D campaigns for his Hollywood buddies. But he's not alone in this madness. There's a whole underground (literally) movement of people transforming their homes into portals to other worlds.

I'm talking about the guy who ripped out his kitchen and rebuilt it as a perfect 1950s diner—checkered floors, chrome stools, working jukebox, the works. He makes pancakes in a short-order cook outfit every Sunday morning.

Or the woman who converted her dining room into a medieval feast hall, complete with a 12-foot wooden table, tapestries, and pewter goblets. Family dinner feels like Game of Thrones, minus the poisoning.

Then there are the Star Trek fans building working Enterprise bridge replicas in their garages. Not movie props—functioning command centers with touch panels and sound effects so accurate that fan film crews rent them out.

The Commitment Level Is Unreal

What gets me about these projects isn't just the money (though some of these builds cost more than luxury cars). It's the absolute commitment to the bit.

Home arcade builders don't just buy vintage machines—they recreate the exact layout of the arcade they haunted as kids. Down to the carpet pattern and the smell of pizza grease.

Flight-sim obsessives build cockpits so authentic they're basically passenger jets without wings—complete with instrument panels, hydraulic seats, even turbulence simulators.

Prohibition-era speakeasy builders hide their bars behind rotating bookcases, stock period-accurate glassware, and some even install fake "raid" sirens for atmosphere.

These aren't hobbies. They're acts of world-building so thorough they make my TV writers' rooms look lazy.

What's Driving This?

That kind of detail raises the obvious question: What makes someone go this far?

Part of it is the same post-COVID hunger for physical experiences I talked about before. But there's something else happening here—a complete rejection of generic spaces.

These builders are saying: "Why should my house look like everyone else's house when it could look like the Shire? Or the cantina? Or that basement arcade where I spent my best teenage years?"

They're not decorating—they're world-building. Personal holodecks built from lumber, drywall, and dreams.

The Future of Personal Portals

So, where's this headed? Picture what future fandoms might do when given the keys to their homes:

Marvel Universe Command Centers: Home offices designed like Tony Stark's workshop or the Avengers compound, complete with holographic displays (hello, Apple Vision Pro) and voice-activated everything.

Anime Aesthetic Rooms: Cyberpunk bedrooms with neon underglow, rain sound effects, and windows that display custom cityscapes. Think Blade Runner meets Animal Crossing.

Gaming Pods: Not just gaming chairs—full sensory chambers with haptic feedback, scent machines, and climate control that matches whatever world you're exploring.

Retro Social Media Cafes: Home coffee shops designed like early 2000s internet cafes, complete with chunky monitors and dial-up sound effects for the nostalgia factor.

Apocalypse Prep Bunkers: But make them cozy. Think The Last of Us meets hygge—survival gear displayed like art in spaces that feel safe rather than paranoid.

Multiverse Rooms: Modular spaces that can shift between themes using smart lighting, projection mapping, and programmable furniture. Want your living room to be a starship bridge for movie night and a cozy cabin for reading? Done.

Why This Matters for Storytellers

Here's what's wild about all this: These superfans aren't just consuming our stories—they're extending them. They're building unauthorized sequels using drywall and LED strips.

They understand something we sometimes forget: the best fictional worlds don't just entertain you for two hours or eight episodes. They stick around. They become places you want to live, even if it's just for Sunday morning pancakes.

"They're not decorating—they're world-building. Personal holodecks built from lumber, drywall, and dreams."

When someone builds a speakeasy in their basement, they're not just recreating Prohibition-era aesthetics. They're saying that world has enough emotional weight to anchor their daily life.

That's the gold standard for world-building, right there.

Next time you build a fictional world, ask yourself: Could someone wake up here every day? Because somewhere, a superfan with spare cash and a wild imagination might just make that happen.

For me, it'd be Deckard's apartment from Blade Runner—all that neon-soaked noir atmosphere with the constant rain soundtrack. What about you?

What fictional space would you renovate your house to recreate? And what does that tell you about the worlds that stick with us?