I recently had the chance to watch a compelling video by The Critical Drinker titled Make Fantasy Heroic Again, and it struck a nerve—because it put words to something many readers and writers have been feeling for years.
Fantasy, once the home of courage and moral clarity, has drifted into a strange self-contempt.
Over the last decade especially, we’ve been inundated with stories where heroes are discarded early—killed off, deconstructed, or replaced by “pragmatists,” antiheroes, or outright villains. Characters who believe in honor are mocked as naïve. Those who act selflessly are punished for it. Courage is framed as ignorance. Idealism as stupidity.
And the result?
Fantasy is being hollowed out from the inside.
What Happens When the Hero Dies
When the hero is stripped away, we don’t just lose a character—we lose the journey. We lose the idea that someone might willingly place themselves in danger for others, not for glory, not for power, not even for survival, but simply because it is right.
That idea is not a relic. It is the beating heart of fantasy.
From its mythic roots, fantasy has always been the genre where goodness mattered. Where valor was meaningful. Where standing against the darkness—even when the odds were hopeless and the cost unbearable—was the entire point.
As J.R.R. Tolkien understood better than most, heroism is not about winning—it is about choosing rightly in the face of despair:
“I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.”
That line endures because Tolkien never mocked virtue. He understood that courage often ends in loss, and that nobility is defined not by success, but by steadfastness.
The Lie of the “Clever” World
Modern fantasy often prides itself on being “realistic,” which usually means cynical. The clever character survives. The honorable one dies. Moral conviction is treated as a liability to be outgrown.
But this isn’t realism—it’s reductionism.
Fantasy is not meant to mirror the world as it is at its worst. It is meant to remind us what the world could be at its best.
C.S. Lewis rejected the idea that myth and fantasy were escapist indulgences. He saw them as moral lenses—ways of sharpening our understanding of courage and goodness:
“Courage, dear heart.”
Two words. Spoken quietly. Yet they carry the weight of an entire worldview: that bravery matters even when it costs everything, and that fear does not invalidate virtue.
Lewis also warned us what happens when cynicism replaces moral clarity:
“Of all tyrannies, that of the majority is the worst, because it is the tyranny of the mediocre.”
Fantasy that tears down heroes in the name of sophistication does not elevate the genre—it flattens it.
Why We Still Need Heroes
The old stories endure for a reason. Not because they were simple, but because they were honest.
Beowulf faces the monster knowing he will likely die. Aragorn walks the Paths of the Dead knowing no man has returned. Frodo carries a burden that is slowly destroying him, not because he wants to, but because no one else can.
These are not power fantasies. They are moral trials.
Even Robert E. Howard, often mislabeled as a writer of brute strength alone, understood this truth. Conan may be savage, but he is never small-souled. He stands against corruption, decadence, and cruelty—not because the world rewards him, but because he refuses to kneel.
Heroism, in its truest form, is defiance.
Make Fantasy Heroic Again
Fantasy does not need fewer heroes.
It needs better ones.
It needs heroes who suffer without becoming cruel. Heroes who fail without surrendering their souls. Heroes who may break—but do not bend.
Most of all, it needs the courage to let heroes remain heroic without apology.
Because when fantasy forgets how to honor courage, it forgets why it exists at all.
Heroes Who Never Asked for the Title
I want to be clear about something.
I am not a hero.
But I have served beside many.
I spent eight years in the United States Marine Corps, and during that time I lost friends—some to combat, some to accidents. Every one of them served honorably. Every one of them died doing something they believed was right, something larger than themselves.
They didn’t think of it as heroism. None of us did. It was duty. It was loyalty. It was stepping forward when stepping back would have been easier.
In the twenty years since, working as a global security professional in both public and private capacities, I’ve seen the same impulse repeated endlessly, quietly, and without fanfare. Every day, men and women go to work knowing that their job may require them to stand between innocent people and chaos. They mitigate risk. They protect lives. They run toward problems others spend their lives trying to avoid.
You can argue it’s “for the paycheck.” And yes—people must provide for their families.
But at its core, that explanation falls apart.
Because plenty of people work for money without ever placing themselves in harm’s way.
The truth is simpler, and older.
Some people are wired to protect. To preserve. To shoulder the burden so others don’t have to. They may never wear a crown or carry a prophecy, but every morning they rise, step out the door, and choose responsibility over comfort.
If that isn’t heroic, then the word has lost all meaning.
Fantasy often insists that heroism must be singular—that only the “chosen one” matters. But real heroism is communal, repeated, and costly. It’s not about destiny. It’s about decision.
There is a line from the Bible that has endured for centuries because it captures this truth with brutal clarity:
“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”
That isn’t poetic metaphor. It’s a statement of fact.
Every person who willingly steps between innocents and violence is walking the same road as the great heroes of myth. The scale may be smaller. The banners unseen. The songs unsung. But the journey is the same.
They face fear. They accept risk. They act anyway.
That is the hero’s journey.
And fantasy, of all genres, should remember that—because its greatest purpose has never been escapism, but recognition. Recognition of the courage that already exists in the world, and the reminder that such courage still matters.
D.W. Roach "Marauder" 