On the fatal night at Ford’s Theatre, Abraham Lincoln was carrying in his billfold a Confederate five-dollar bill. It was apparently a reminder of what was at stake in his job. If he failed, the bill would have value, and the whole world would be different. It might help him flee into hiding or exile. If Pickett’s charge had carried the Union breastworks, the bill could have had value. If Stonewall Jackson had not been shot by his own men, if the Monitor had foundered on the difficult voyage south to her momentous appointment with the Merrimack, if the textile lobby in Great Britain had forced the recognition of the Confederacy to secure its supply of cotton, that bill could have had value.

Alternate history, the world of fictional narratives of what might have been, is like that bill, redeemable in the flush treasury of a victorious Confederacy circa 1866. Its premises, so easy to choose—the South wins, the Allies lose—are like a promissory note. The promise of the premises proves very tough to pay off on, yet answering the question “What if?” has become an increasingly popular form of fiction. It’s an easy game to play and a hard game to play well.

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