Also, just to make the purists really upset with me, I didn’t love the book either.

I know. As a scientist, I was supposed to really like this story as it dove into scientific ideas to save the world. Students in my spring classes asked me when I was going to read the book and watch the movie because they loved it, and they were sure I would as well.

It’s not that I’m always a killjoy. I was especially happy that the hero of the story is a junior high school science teacher, an obvious character to save Earth. I loved the scientific puzzles, and I liked the adventure, suspense and action. It’s a fun plot.

Without spoiling too much, what bothered me about the story is that the protagonist, Ryland Grace, represents a stereotype of scientific pursuit and thinking that I’d like to reform. His solo internal monologue employed a stream of calculations and facts, and he often referred to how this is simply how scientists think or that these are the kinds of facts that science teachers would readily have on hand. That’s not exactly right. The truth is much better, actually.

As a case in point, let me quickly divert your attention to a scientific finding that was published in Nature Astronomy last month titled “Detection of a four-carbon sugar in interstellar space.” The piece, widely summarized in news outlets, gives clear evidence that there are sugar molecules in the interstellar medium, the sprawling deserts of our galaxy far removed from planets and stars. This means that these sugars can exist not only outside of Earth, but in all of the in-betweens. In short, it hints that building blocks of life are preloaded, sprinkled about so seeds of life could sprout in lots of places and in lots of ways. While this doesn’t suggest that life is common, it connects us to a much wider biological stage. We are less isolated and less insular, and more likely to have our life-giving roots shared by some other yet-to-be-discovered organism out there.

It’s the kind of finding that our hero, Dr. Grace, would be very excited about. In fact, he’d be the kind of scientist who could have been involved in such work. Unlike his fictional efforts, though, this particular paper has over 20 co-authors. That is typical of this kind of work, not only because the research is so extraordinary, but because science is so interdisciplinary and interconnected. We need a wide net of perspectives for that scientific work to get done.

Nature, after all, doesn’t care about our subject boundaries. Rather than narrow silos of scientific effort, the work of astronomy is deeply tied to atomic physics and optics. Organic chemistry informs the molecular biology that feeds astrobiology and is injected with biophysics. Astoundingly-engineered instruments get launched into orbit to detect specific light wavelengths and parse it all out.

Even so, a lot of this isn’t “rocket science,” figuratively or literally. To detect the existence of these sugars, we look for optical codes, and, fortunately, those fingerprints are the same on Earth as they are in the far reaches of the galaxy. A specific pattern of rainbow, like what you’d make with a prism or raindrop, betrays atoms and molecules that are otherwise invisible to us. This is applied across multiple disciplines of science.

That’s the nature of a lot of scientific work beyond astronomy. Locally and personally, we each benefit from multidisciplinary research on the Great Salt Lake’s water levels and ecosystems, the flow of air and chemistry of aerosols that make up pollution, the imaging of the interiors of our bodies using signals from the guts of atoms, and so very much more.

So, while I admire dramatic storytelling with science at its heart, I especially celebrate that the success of scientific work relies on a diverse collection of creative thinkers. This means we have to hone not only our scientific skills, but also our deliberate collaborations and communication. When we read about this research on sugars in interstellar space, the remarkable features are its collective efforts, backgrounds and skill sets. An inspiring spectrum of real people and ideas makes possible our understanding of the universe.

Adam Johnston is a professor of physics and director of the Center for Science and Mathematics Education at Weber State University, where he helps prepare future teachers and supports educators throughout Utah. This commentary is provided through a partnership with Weber State. The views expressed by the author do not necessarily represent the institutional values or positions of the university.