Disclaimer: Discworld belongs to the estate of Terry Pratchett. I don't want to capitalize on anything. I'm just trying to deal with my own feelings here.
Discworld's gods care only about themselves. They have often been described, by those who know them, as petty. They occasionally take time out of their busy schedules of feuding with the ice giants to play their games with the inhabitants of the Disc. These are only games to them. What do the pieces matter?
There is another who cares for the people of the Disc.
There is Death, of course. Death knows each and every one intimately, and is the last friend any of us will ever know. He is there for all. In a sense, he stands above the gods, for even gods must someday die. Even he, though, has his flaws – he has been known to be more distant with dog people, for example. Beside him, there is his oldest friend, a being that loves Discworld and all its inhabitants.
Let us call him the Author.
The Author knows Discworld better than anyone, better than Death, better than the gods that don't really pay attention anyway, for he is Discworld. His being permeates the air, the oceans and mountains and trees of the Disc, and he watches over everyone. He's there in the cabins of tiny villages like Bad Ass, and he's in the Patrician's palace in Ankh-Morpork. The Author keeps Death company during his many hours of thankless work. He stands with the witches of the forest, the dwarves in their mines, the wizards of Unseen University, with trolls and Guildsmen and vampires. He smiles at the Luggage, who even now is terrorizing innocent crooks. He supports the cowards, the cutthroats, the hustlers, and yes, even those selfish gods.
If the people of the Disc knew, they wouldn't be terribly impressed with him. They'd say something like, "As long as he's here, he might as well make himself useful and tidy up," or "Want to buy a sausage? Special deal for Authors – twenty pence, and that's cutting me own throat." Or even, "Bugger off, i'm in the loo." They take common sense to a fault, and there's no room for an Author in their lives. That's how he likes it.
He loves them all.
A/N: Rest in peace, Terry Pratchett. You will be missed.