It's a surprisingly layered setup, actually. The isolation in these books often starts as a physical, logistical problem—air running out, systems failing—but the real tension comes from how that external pressure forces a character to confront their internal emptiness. A book like 'The Loneliest Girl in the Universe' captures this brilliantly; the protagonist is literally alone, her only human contact mediated through delayed transmissions, which makes her grasp at any sign of connection, however manufactured. That's where hope becomes this dangerous, fragile thing. It's not just about rescue; it's about whether constructing meaning from sheer nothingness is a survival mechanism or a form of madness.
Some of the best examples twist the 'hope' element into something unsettling. In 'Project Hail Mary', the hope isn't for a return to Earth, but for a successful scientific partnership with a truly alien being. The isolation is mitigated by an interspecies friendship, which reframes hope as collaborative survival against a shared cosmic threat. The narrative becomes less about yearning for a lost home and more about building a new one from scratch, with all the strange, wonderful compromises that entails. The emotional core shifts from passive endurance to active, creative problem-solving with an utterly unexpected ally.