Tolkien's shadow: why fantasy authors still grapple with the master
For decades, the echoes of J.R.R. Tolkien have reverberated through the fantasy genre, shaping its conventions and challenging its creators. It's rare to find a modern fantasy work untouched by his influence—whether through blatant imitation or a deliberate attempt to break free. But even in rebellion, Tolkien remains a towering presence, a fact recently underscored by observations from acclaimed author Brandon Sanderson.
The uncomfortable truth: tolkien set the bar too high
Sanderson, alongside George R.R. Martin, has reportedly acknowledged a truth many in the fantasy world quietly accept: Tolkien was simply too good. His meticulous world-building, compelling characters, and soaring narrative established a gold standard that has colored generations of fantasy writing. The issue isn't dragons or elves – it's the sheer power of his storytelling, the ability to captivate readers across decades, that continues to loom large.
Too often, however, imitators latch onto the surface-level elements—the elves, the dragons—without grasping the underlying depth. This has created a somewhat self-consuming market, churning out generic fantasy that prioritizes aesthetics over substance. Sanderson’s decision to deliberately avoid traditional fantasy races like elves and dwarves in his Cosmere universe demonstrates a conscious effort to forge new paths, a challenge he readily admits is extraordinarily difficult.
Tolkien as infrastructure: the birth of modern fantasy
A serious analysis of contemporary fantasy Literature almost invariably leads back to Tolkien as a foundational structure. Before The Hobbit and the monumental impact of The Lord of the Rings, fantasy was a scattered collection of works; Tolkien solidified it into a distinct genre with its own recognizable DNA: humanoid races, epic quests, the eternal struggle between good and evil. Every author must now position themselves in relation to Tolkien – imitate, reinterpret, deconstruct, or reject. But ignoring him is impossible.
More than just an author, Tolkien acts as a literary infrastructure—the bedrock upon which new narratives are built, or the wall against which they collide and redefine themselves. Authors like Ursula K. Le Guin and Stephen King have openly reflected on this pervasive influence, articulating a complex relationship of admiration, anxiety, and the need for differentiation.
The inevitable mountain: pratchett's insight
Terry Pratchett, with his trademark wit, perfectly captured this dynamic. He likened Tolkien to Mount Fuji in Japanese prints: sometimes dominating the foreground, sometimes a distant presence, and sometimes absent altogether—but the artist's decision to exclude it is itself a statement. This highlights a crucial point: the absence of Tolkienian elements isn't accidental; it's a deliberate artistic choice, reflecting a rejection of clichés or a critical re-evaluation of the genre. Sanderson’s decision to forgo elves and dwarves falls squarely into this category—a conscious aesthetic and narrative stance.
Pratchett also underscored Tolkien’s commercial impact; before The Lord of the Rings, fantasy was a niche market. Afterward, it exploded into a mainstream phenomenon. Without that shift, many of the fantasy works we cherish today might never have existed.
Beyond imitation: the pursuit of originality
Many authors have found themselves paralyzed by Tolkien's legacy, grappling with the “anxiety of influence.” Robin Hobb, for example, initially felt overwhelmed by the prospect of creating anything comparable. Neil Gaiman famously envisioned a world without Tolkien to freely publish his own work—a testament to the challenge of escaping his shadow. The key, as Sanderson suggests, isn't imitation but understanding, recognizing Tolkien’s genius without being confined by it. Tolkien drew from deep wells of mythology, ancient languages, and cultural traditions; superficial mimicry is ultimately empty.
Even George R.R. Martin, while admiring Tolkien, has critically examined his work, famously questioning “the fiscal policy of Aragorn.” This signals an evolution towards a more contemporary focus, prioritizing political realism and morally ambiguous choices. Yet, even in this deconstruction, Tolkien's influence remains evident—Martin’s work is a response to a tradition, not a complete break from it.
Sanderson's approach, embracing a “hard magic” system based on clear rules and limitations, exemplifies this evolution. It’s a methodological shift designed to avoid narrative pitfalls, and a testament to the ongoing quest for originality. Ultimately, fantasy should be the genre of boundless creativity. Anything less diminishes its potential. Tolkien opened a door; it's up to today’s authors to decide what they’ll do with his legacy.