Look, if you want to write your thousand-page SFF tomes, you can—really! I encourage it!—but here's my advice: Think small. You may think that you've got all the details of the Hyperspace Hyperwar of Galactic Year 9999 straight in your head, but when it comes time to weave the story together properly you'll find loose thread after loose thread dangling off the edges. There are, after all, fourteen trillion people in the Galactic Assemblage of Khanates or whatever, and who even knows how many in the Changeable Commune? (Oh, you think you know how many people live in the CC, do you? Had you even considered how their psionic capacity to mind-meld would influence their very concept of the countable self? Had you?) What a mess! Instead of trying to conduct a grand materialist analysis of the interplanetary bourgeoise, just concentrate on the smallest corner of your universe that you can find, like a research station in orbit around a [throws dart at the index of an astronomy textbook] pulsar. Put some weirdo from each of the factions on your station, like a grumpy middle-aged scientist with a family secret dating back to the founding of the First Khanate, a resentful pilot who defected to the Commune when her home planet was turned into a hyperquarry, or the minor noble son of a newly-conquered planet, ordered to do "research" on a distant station as a sort of genteel hostage. Then have your first paragraph be something like
Electro Mashingbee turned her EM transducer away from the pounding click-track of the pulsar and onto the nebula that engulfed them. A fuzzy hum filled her audiophonics, the "sound" of slowly-cooling gas unbroken by any other noise--there was nothing else to hear for a hundred light-years. She could feel a headache coming on.
And now you can have the Hyperspace Hyperwar of 9999 without having to know more about it than you care to come up with. "Oh no," Electro Mashingbee exclaimed, "hyperspace is [sciencey term that basically means on fire]!" Siliceous Sinter went as pale as a white dwarf, fingers gripping tight to the control nodules. "You don't mean to tell me, Mashingbee, that we have no way to tell the authorities that Mr. Yelp Ebay... has been murdered?" That's all you need to say! You don't even need to tell people that it's a story! You can pretend that it's "writing advice," they'll read it anyway.