Give me ancient gods, impossible cities, monsters lurking where they shouldn't be, magical weapons with histories longer than most civilizations, and ordinary people suddenly discovering that the world is much stranger than they thought.
I'm there.
But I've realized over the years that I like my fantasy a particular way.
I like it with a little dirt under its fingernails.
I don't necessarily mean grimdark. I don't need every character to be a morally bankrupt ruffian, every kingdom to be collapsing, and every chapter to leave me staring despondently into the middle distance. There's absolutely a place for stories like that, but relentless bleakness isn't what I'm after.
What I want is fantasy with some weight to it.
I want magic that can make things worse. Heroes who screw up. Monsters that are actually frightening. Fights that hurt. Victories that cost something.
And underneath all of that, I still want hope.
That's the sweet spot for me.
Magic Is Better When It Causes Problems
Magic is one of the reasons I fell in love with fantasy in the first place.
It's also much more interesting to me when it isn't an automatic solution to every problem.
If a character can wave a hand and effortlessly fix whatever obstacle is in front of them, eventually the magic stops feeling magical. It becomes a tool. Maybe a spectacular tool, but a tool nonetheless.
I'm much more interested in the question that comes afterward:
What happens because you used it?
Maybe magic has a physical cost. Maybe it attracts attention. Maybe the person wielding it doesn't completely understand what they're doing. Maybe solving one problem creates three more.
Or maybe the magic itself has an agenda.
That's when things get fun.
I love supernatural power that feels slightly dangerous even when it's in the hands of the heroes. It creates uncertainty. It means characters can't simply blast their way through every problem without thinking about what happens next.
Power should change things.
And sometimes those changes should be very, very inconvenient.
Let Heroes Be Messy
I don't need every protagonist to be an antihero.
Actually, I'm a sucker for characters who genuinely want to do the right thing.
I just don't want them to be perfect at it.
People are messy. We make decisions when we're angry. We say stupid things. We misjudge people. We convince ourselves we're being completely rational while doing something spectacularly irrational.
Why shouldn't fantasy heroes get the same privilege?
A protagonist can be brave and still be terrified.
They can be loyal and still resent the people they're trying to protect.
They can make the right decision for completely selfish reasons—or make the wrong decision while genuinely believing they're helping.
Those contradictions are where characters start feeling human.
And when you're writing about gods, monsters, magic, angels, demons, or whatever other supernatural insanity you've decided to unleash, that humanity becomes even more important.
The world can be fantastical.
The people inside it should still feel real.
That means occasionally letting them screw everything up.
Preferably at the worst possible moment.
Monsters Should Have Teeth
I like monsters.
This will probably surprise absolutely nobody who reads my fiction.
But I think the supernatural loses something when it becomes too safe.
If a story tells me there's an ancient creature hunting someone, I want to believe being caught by that creature would be extremely bad news. If an old god walks into the room, I want the atmosphere to change. If somebody draws a supernatural weapon, I want everyone else present to have a very good reason to start reconsidering their life choices.
The fantastic should inspire wonder.
But sometimes it should inspire an appropriate amount of oh dang as well.
That's particularly important to me in urban fantasy.
One of the things I love most about the genre is the collision between the mundane and the impossible.
Coffee shops. Apartment buildings. Hospitals. Bars. Parking lots. City streets.
Places we recognize.
Then something ancient and dangerous crashes through the boundary.
Suddenly the alley behind the restaurant isn't just an alley. The stranger sitting three stools down at the bar might not be human. The weird object someone found in a basement might have been created centuries before the city surrounding it even existed.
That contrast makes the supernatural feel bigger.
It also makes our own world feel a little stranger.
That's the feeling I'm chasing.
Grit Makes the Wonder Hit Harder
Here's the important part:
I don't like grit because I want everything to be miserable.
I like grit because of contrast.
Wonder means more when you've earned it.
So does hope.
If characters have spent three hundred pages getting knocked around by supernatural forces they barely understand, a small victory can feel enormous.
A joke between friends can matter.
A quiet moment can matter.
Someone choosing to stand their ground can matter.
Someone showing kindness when cruelty would have been easier can matter.
The darkness gives those moments something to push against.
It's the same reason a genuinely frightening monster makes an act of courage more meaningful. Courage doesn't mean much when there's nothing to fear.
And that's one of my favourite things fantasy can do.
It can take enormous, impossible conflicts and make them intensely human.
Maybe the characters are fighting gods.
Maybe they're trying to prevent an apocalypse.
Maybe they're carrying some ancient magical object that could alter the fate of the world.
But underneath all of that, the things that make us care are usually much smaller.
Friendship.
Family.
Loyalty.
Fear.
Grief.
Love.
The decision to keep going when quitting would be much easier.
You can surround those things with as much magic as you want. They're still the heart of the story.
Gritty Doesn't Have to Mean Hopeless
This distinction matters to me.
Darkness and hopelessness aren't the same thing.
You can put characters through hell without arguing that nothing matters.
In fact, I think hope becomes more powerful when a story gives its characters legitimate reasons to lose it.
That's the kind of fantasy I'm drawn to.
I want the world to be dangerous, but I also want it to be worth saving.
I want characters to get hurt without becoming incapable of healing.
I want friendships that survive ugly situations.
I want people who are deeply flawed but still capable of doing something brave.
Sometimes heroism isn't charging into battle without fear.
Sometimes it's being completely terrified, knowing exactly how badly things could go, and showing up anyway.
That's much more interesting to me.
Give me darkness.
Just leave a light on somewhere.
That's the Fantasy I Want to Write
When I look at the stories I keep gravitating toward as a writer, there's definitely a pattern.
Old gods colliding with the modern world.
Ordinary people getting dragged into supernatural conflicts they are spectacularly unprepared for.
Ancient mythology rubbing shoulders with contemporary life.
Dangerous magic.
Bad decisions.
Violence with consequences.
Characters getting in over their heads and discovering that the only way out is probably through.
Apparently, I have a type.
But underneath the monsters, magic, mythology, weapons, blood, and supernatural chaos, I want there to be something worth fighting for.
That's the balance I'm always chasing.
I don't want darkness purely for shock value. I don't want suffering just because suffering makes a story seem mature. And I don't need every fantasy world to be a miserable place populated exclusively by people plotting one another's deaths.
I want adventure.
I want wonder.
I want humour.
I want characters I can root for even when they're making terrible decisions.
I want monsters that scare me and heroes who are scared of them too.
I want magic that feels incredible precisely because it also feels dangerous.
Most of all, I want the victories to mean something.
So no, I don't necessarily want my fantasy grim.
And I definitely don't want it hopeless.
I just want it to have a little dirt under its fingernails.