Give me a book with motion in its bones and I’m halfway sold already. I like stories that feel like somebody had to leave home to become fully visible.
Travel in fiction doesn’t have to mean glamour. Sometimes it’s danger, discomfort, wrong turns, or the simple fact that a character can’t keep living the way they’ve been living. That’s enough.
What matters is movement with consequence. A change in geography should do something to the mind. It should shake loose a secret, force a choice, or expose the story the character has been telling themselves.
That’s probably why road-heavy books stay with me. Even when they’re messy, they tend to be honest. Once a story starts moving, excuses get harder to maintain.