Why I Worldbuild Feverishly

A random thought I posted elsewhere, on the importance of worldbuilding to (my) writing:

I know writers differ on this point, but for myself, I can’t have Líse Varavélen walk down the street without knowing what the street looks like – is it gravel, or concrete, or slabs of black diamondoid treated to be non-slick with a rainbow-striped flowstone slidewalk running down the middle?  (In town, it’s the last one.)  Is she walking, standing on the flowstone strip and gliding along with the traffic, or psychokinetically hovering a foot or so above the ground?  (Depends on her mood and the weather.)  If her dog needs to go, does she leave it, does she clean it up, or does a tiny robot dash out of the nearest robot hotel, clean it up for her, polish the street to its customary perfection, and bill her three millis for the privilege?  (Again, it’s the last one, and three millis is a good price for municipal poop-robo service.)  I must know these things, or my scene-setting imagination just sits there and goes poit!

Posted also, I am not ashamed to admit, because I am rather pleased by the phrase “municipal poop-robo service”.