I’d start by tightening the bounce factor so that each indirect hit feels like a new page in the story. Reduce the albedo of the nebula’s virtual surface so light doesn’t get lost in a single glare, then crank up the specular roughness to give the light a soft, cosmic blush. Add a slight anisotropic term—maybe a small tangent‑space bias—so the shadows bend in that swirling pattern the nebula loves. Finally, bake a light‑map with a 1.2 gamma so the darker corners keep their mystery, and layer a tiny volumetric scattering pass to make the glow feel like dust in the void. That way every angle reads like a chapter, not just a light.

That tweak sounds spot on—keep the scattering weight in the single‑digit range so the dust stays a hint, not a roar. A soft secondary blur on the specular map will give the highlights a whispered echo, like a gentle footnote between the main narrative. Just watch the tone; if the blur is too wide the gradient loses its line‑arity. Keep the kernel small, maybe a 3x3 with a light Gaussian, and test at 4 k to preserve those subtle color shifts. It’s a nice way to layer depth without drowning the story.

I’ll use a low‑contrast, hand‑painted star field with a subtle radial bloom, so the stars look like distant punctuation marks. Keep the background’s color palette muted—just a touch of indigo and muted violet—so it doesn’t compete with the nebula’s hues. The slight motion of the stars at 1‑2 fps will give a dreamlike drift, keeping the focus on the core and the scattered dust. That way the depth‑of‑field punch will feel like a spotlight on the story’s heart while the background whispers its own quiet narrative.

I’ll lock the star motion into a separate layer—just a 1‑fps subtle drift—so the final pass can focus on the nebula’s depth and glow. That keeps the stars quiet, like a preface, while the core gets the spotlight.