Fantasy doesn’t need defending. It’s one of the great cultural forms of our time—pervasive, everywhere. You could even call it the dominant form of writing right now, echoing the bookseller’s joke that publishing today splits into two categories: romantasy, and everything else.
But it might need a little explaining for those who don’t understand its appeal; who still dismiss it as mere wish-fulfillment or see it as a lesser form that literary fiction can look down on, or regard with puzzled tolerance. As a literary fiction writer who has borrowed and delighted in fantasy tropes for years—and who has now written a full-blown fantasy novel myself—I’m past any embarrassment. I’ve read and loved fantasy all my life, and to me, its finest creators stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the greats of any genre. And yet, I still sometimes encounter a faint sense that writing fantasy requires an explanation. That I ought to justify why I’d want to “do that thing with the dragons,” no matter how culturally widespread it has become.
Nothing I’m about to say will feel the least bit necessary to fellow fans of the genre. We can simply take its joys for granted, acknowledge that—like any form of writing—it contains genuine brilliance alongside mass-produced filler, and then dive into the specifics. Portal fantasy or epic? Urban fantasy or fantasy of manners? Romantasy or grimdark? Cozy or horror-inflected? And then, which lineage speaks to you? Do you belong to the ever-branching Clan of Tolkien, or does the feminist tradition descending from Ursula K. Le Guin define your tastes? Are you here for the decolonizing inventiveness of N.K. Jemisin, the LGBTQ+ inclusivity of Katherine Addison, the reimagined history of Guy Gavriel Kay, the surrealism of Jeff VanderMeer, the political wit of China Miéville, the queered gothic of Tamsyn Muir? For any of these, there’s a conversation waiting to happen, a corner where we can gather and excitedly talk for hours.
But for everyone else, here’s a case for fantasy, made from the ground up.
First and foremost, fantasy is true to the experience of the human psyche. Specifically, it speaks to the wildness within us—the part that the reasonable, restrained, daylight world struggles to express, but that everyone feels. Children and teenagers feel this acutely, for reasons tied to the conflict between their dependence and the sense of their own vast inner size, the shadowy powers they half-glimpse in themselves. The world’s evils also seem gigantic and freshly terrifying to them, making dragons and monsters feel like natural metaphors. But this holds true, on different grounds, for people of all ages at times. To use philosopher Charles Taylor’s term, we all live within the constraints and reassurances of “the buffered self.” We assume the world is reliably disenchanted; we believe there’s a firm boundary between our inner selves and everything outside—a line that can’t be crossed by ghouls, demons, fairies, visions, spirits, or any kind of magical power, whether malign or benevolent.
This keeps us safe, but it also stifles or shrinks the unruly and imaginative parts of ourselves. It leaves us with an untidy longing for the enchantment it excludes; it makes us want magic to be allowed to billow out sometimes.
Or perhaps it’s not just a want, but a need. A strictly disenchanted world—where nothing exists but physically describable processes, and even consciousness is just a material puzzle waiting to be solved—can feel desiccated. It leaves the heart and mind on meager rations. This is the point Philip Pullman makes in The Rose Field, the final volume of The Book of Dust, where Lyra reflects on the human need for things we can’t prove but would suffocate without. Above all, the imagination. “Maybe the imagination is a sort of wind that…”It blows through all the worlds… It shows us true things.” For Philip Pullman, the enemy of imagination is religious dogma even more than narrow scientism. Yet there are many ways to describe what feels deadened in modern life, just as there are other names for that unpredictable wind that blows through all worlds, revealing truths.
We may dream of having enormous muscles like Conan, especially when office life leaves us feeling physically diminished. We imagine ourselves as singular, remarkable Chosen Ones, even though in reality we are just one pixel in a crowd. But after indulging these fantasies, we prefer to set them safely aside rather than live in a world where unaccountable kings and barbarians with no impulse control actually shape our fate. This, one argument goes, is why we package the fantastic into trilogies that conclude and books that close.
According to a compelling origin story for the fantasy genre—brilliantly analyzed in Adam Roberts’s recent Fantasy: A Short History—fantasy functions as a kind of regulated return of the repressed. It allows back the kings, quests, chosen ones, battles, and elemental powers that we miss in our world of science, contracts, employment, and regularity—but not all the way. Roberts identifies the turning point as the First World War, which gave a generation like Tolkien and C.S. Lewis an experience of modernity as utter mechanical savagery. This bred in them a desire for a literature where the old myths—with their space for individual agency—could return, remixed in modern form.
But there is another story of fantasy that needs telling. Here, fantasy is not merely a outlet for our impulses or an organized nostalgia for a more romantic world. Instead, it exists because it is—paradoxically—a kind of necessary realism. It arises in response to qualities of the contemporary world that we couldn’t properly grasp or narrate any other way. I would argue that, alongside expressing our frustrations with a disenchanted world, fantasy is also our best means of capturing the ways the world remains enchanted, despite all our efforts to buffer ourselves from mystery.
I read and write fantasy because it is the literature that recognizes the recurrent unearthliness in human experience. It understands that we are hopelessly metaphorical creatures who find meaning by weaving together patterns of resemblance—patterns that might as well be spells. It knows there are struggles where the stakes are truly overwhelming, and where good and evil, in something like their pure forms, pivot on human choices. Fantasy understands that to risk love is to venture beyond safety into strange landscapes, embarking on perilous and wonderful journeys.
Nonesuch by Francis Spufford is published by Faber on 26 February. To support The Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about the modern turn to fantasy myth and monsters in a disenchanted world
Beginner Definition Questions
1 What does a disenchanted world even mean
It refers to the modern secular sciencefocused view that has largely removed magic spirits and deeper mystery from our understanding of reality The world is seen as a mechanism to be understood not a story to be lived in
2 Why is fantasy so popular right now Isnt it just escapism
While escapism is part of it its more about engagement Fantasy provides toolsmyths monsters magicto explore real human problems in a symbolic space that feels more expansive than our often rigid daily lives
3 Whats the difference between myth legend and fantasy
Myth Sacred stories explaining the origins of the world gods and cosmic order
Legend Embellished stories rooted in historical events or figures
Fantasy Conscious modern fiction that creates secondary worlds with their own rules often borrowing from myths and legends
4 Why are monsters like vampires zombies and dragons still everywhere
Monsters are perfect metaphors Zombies can represent consumerism or pandemics vampires explore desire and predation dragons symbolize untamed nature or hoarded wealth They give a tangible face to our collective fears and anxieties
Benefits Deeper Reasons
5 What can old myths teach us in the age of science and technology
They teach us about human psychology ethics and meaningthings science cant quantify Myths deal with timeless questions What is a good life How do we face suffering What is our duty to our community
6 How does engaging with fantasy help with realworld problems
It builds empathy by letting us live other lives fosters resilience through stories of heroes overcoming odds and provides a language for discussing complex issues like trauma injustice and healing indirectly
7 Is this trend a rejection of science and progress
Not at all Its a search for
