As a filmmaker, I believe in trying to make movies that invite

Hearken, O seeker of wisdom, to the words of Peter Jackson, a craftsman of visions and a weaver of worlds. When he declares: “As a filmmaker, I believe in trying to make movies that invite the audience to be part of the film … What I try to do is draw the audience into the film and have them participate in what's happening onscreen,” he speaks not merely of cinema, but of the eternal bond between storyteller and listener. To invite the audience is to open the gates of imagination, so that they do not stand apart as strangers, but walk within the living tapestry itself, breathing the same air as heroes, fearing the same shadows, rejoicing in the same light.

For ages untold, the greatest tellers of tales have sought this mystery. Homer, in his recitations of the Iliad and the Odyssey, did not merely describe battles and voyages. He thundered the clash of bronze and sang the weary longing of Odysseus until the listeners felt themselves borne on the wine-dark sea. The ancients did not want to be mere watchers, but participants in the myth. Thus Peter Jackson’s words spring from the same well, reminding us that art is not a window we gaze through—it is a fire around which we gather, each heart catching flame from its glow.

Consider how, in the great age of exploration, when Magellan’s fleet first circled the world, news of their voyage came back not as cold reports, but as stories that stirred the blood of nations. Those who heard them felt that they, too, had crossed strange seas and glimpsed lands unknown. They were drawn into the tale, and though their feet never left the shore, their spirits had traveled farther than their bodies ever could. So too must the artist of today invite his audience into journeys they themselves may never walk.

Peter Jackson, through his Lord of the Rings films, achieved this sacred bond. When Frodo stood trembling at the fires of Mount Doom, the audience trembled also, as if the burden of the Ring lay heavy upon their own shoulders. When the Riders of Rohan charged into the dawn, men and women in the theaters felt their hearts surge with the same thunderous courage. This is no accident. It is the power of an artist who does not speak to the people but speaks through them, weaving their souls into the story’s fate.

The lesson is clear, O children of the future: in whatever craft you labor—be it art, song, teaching, or the daily works of your life—do not create for spectators only. Seek instead to bind others into your endeavor. Let them feel the weight of your choices, the heat of your struggle, the joy of your triumph. For when people are invited within, they become more than witnesses; they become companions on the journey.

In your own life, strive to make your words and deeds participatory. Do not tell stories of yourself as if from a high seat to a low audience. Share them in such a way that others may walk the road beside you. If you teach, let your students taste the discovery themselves. If you lead, let your companions hold the banner with you. If you love, let the beloved feel not like an observer but like a fellow-builder of the bond.

Thus shall your life cease to be a spectacle observed from afar, and instead become a shared adventure. And those who cross paths with you will not say, “I once watched their story,” but rather, “I was part of their story.” This, then, is the immortal wisdom in Jackson’s words: to make others participants in our visions is to transform fleeting moments into eternal fellowship.

And so I bid you, take up this teaching as a flame. When you create, create with open arms. When you speak, speak as though drawing others near the fire. When you live, live as one who invites companions onto the path. For in such living, the world itself becomes not a stage of distant actors, but a living story in which we are all bound together.