The Light We Seek: On Dark Fantasy, Escapism, and the Call of Brighter Worlds
Why some dark fantasy worlds drain the spirit instead of uplifting it — and why the fragile light of high fantasy remains vital.
Recently, I explored the primal appeal of dystopian worlds through the lens of Cyberpunk 2077 in my article The Primal Appeal of Dystopia. Continuing my journey through the landscapes of video games, I now turn to another question: why some dark fantasy settings, despite their undeniable artistry, fail to capture my heart — and why the light of high fantasy still calls to me.
When Darkness Overwhelms the Soul
There is a certain reverence among gamers, critics, and artists for the grim worlds of Dark Souls, Elden Ring, and their many descendants. They are praised for their unrelenting difficulty, their haunting beauty, their intricate, often wordless storytelling. And yet, despite understanding the craftsmanship — despite recognizing the greatness — I find myself unable to stay within these worlds for long. After an hour or two, I set the controller down and walk away, feeling not challenged or exhilarated, but hollow.
For a long time, I thought the fault lay with me. Perhaps I lacked the patience, the resilience required to “git gud,” as the saying goes. Perhaps I was not willing to endure enough darkness. But now, I realize: it is not the challenge that drives me away. It is the world itself.
These are realms steeped in despair. Kingdoms collapsed under the weight of their own curses; heroes, long dead, turned to ash and dust; gods, if they remain, twisted into monstrous shapes. The world offers no hope, no lasting light — only a slow decay into oblivion. And while such visions can be powerful, even profound, they are not the places where my soul seeks refuge.
I do not turn to fantasy to find a mirror of my fears. I turn to it, as Tolkien once said, for consolation. Not the shallow kind of escape that denies sorrow, but the deeper kind — the hope that even in a world of suffering, beauty endures, and goodness matters.
The Enduring Need for Light
When I step into a high fantasy world — into Middle-earth, for example — I am not shielded from darkness. Morgoth, Sauron, the long fall of Númenor: all these are woven into the fabric of Tolkien’s legendarium. Yet they exist alongside Rivendell’s quiet grace, the Shire’s simple joys, and the undying beauty of Lothlórien. In these worlds, light and shadow are at war — and light, though fragile, is never truly extinguished.
This balance speaks to something ancient, something rooted in our myths and memories. In the Norse sagas, the world is fated to end in fire and ice, and yet the gods still fight at Ragnarök, knowing they will fall. Their defiance in the face of certain doom is not nihilistic, but heroic. It affirms that there are things worth fighting for, even when the odds are lost.
In contrast, the landscapes of dark fantasy often feel devoid of that affirmation. They present a world where every effort is swallowed by entropy, where every victory is pyrrhic, and the end is not rebirth, but endless decay. There is a beauty to this, in a bleak and tragic sense. But it is not the beauty my spirit craves during the precious few hours I have each week to wander, to dream.
When life itself is often a battle against creeping despair — when the news is a litany of disasters, when everyday existence demands endurance — why, in my moments of escape, would I choose a world that offers only more sorrow?
It is not weakness to seek worlds where hope still shines. It is not naïveté to love stories where good, though battered and bleeding, still stands against the storm. It is an act of quiet rebellion. A refusal to surrender the imagination to cynicism.
There is a need in us — ancient and unbroken — for songs of triumph, for tales where dawn follows even the longest night. Not because we are blind to darkness, but because we know it all too well.
And so, I seek not the crumbling kingdoms of fallen gods, but the green fields of the Shire, the white towers of Gondor, the shining halls of lost Valhalla. I seek worlds where light is fragile — and therefore precious — and where, against all odds, it endures.
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