In Defense of the Familiar: Why Modern Fantasy’s Stylistic Choices Matter

The critique levied in the video essay Fantasy Has Lost Its Elfland Accent presents a compelling concern: that modern fantasy is failing to evoke truly fantastical worlds because it clings too closely to Earth-bound language, culture, and stylistic conventions. Drawing from Ursula K. Le Guin’s From Elfland to Poughkeepsie, the speaker argues that fantasy literature should operate under a distinct linguistic and stylistic logic—one that sets it apart from the mundane, journalistic prose of modern life. Anything less, we are told, breaks the illusion of the secondary world and robs fantasy of its power.

While this position is poetic and admirable in its own right, it overlooks key strengths of modern fantasy writing. The insistence on archaic diction or mythopoetic tone as a requirement for “serious” fantasy risks dismissing the genre’s evolution, diversity, and capacity for cultural resonance. In reality, the integration of contemporary language, cultural reference, and even slang into fantasy fiction is not always a sign of laziness or lack of imagination—it is often a deliberate, meaningful artistic choice. Modern fantasy’s willingness to embrace Earthly idioms, genre-blending, and stylistic experimentation is not a flaw in its design; it is a reflection of the genre’s maturation and relevance to 21st-century readers.

Language Evolves, and So Does Fantasy

One of the central points in Le Guin’s argument—and echoed by the video—is that fantasy must maintain a particular tone or accent to function properly. Le Guin idealizes a formal, elevated diction, often modeled after the style of myth, legend, and high literature. But language is not static. It is a living system shaped by culture, politics, and power. If fantasy is to remain a living genre rather than a historical reenactment, it must speak in the languages of its time.

Consider the rise of urban fantasy, contemporary fantasy, and genre-defying works like N.K. Jemisin’s The Broken Earth trilogy, Tamsyn Muir’s Gideon the Ninth, or even Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. These books incorporate modern slang, pop culture references, and recognizable human behavior not because their authors are incapable of creating immersive worlds, but because those familiar elements act as anchor points. They allow readers to recognize themselves, and their problems, in unfamiliar settings. They allow authors to explore timeless themes—identity, power, grief, resistance—through the lens of today’s language and anxieties.

In fact, modern fantasy’s use of colloquial or plainspoken diction can often heighten the sense of wonder by creating contrast. Joe Abercrombie’s “grimdark” fantasy uses the cadence of modern sarcasm and profanity not to flatten the world, but to ground it in emotional realism. When blood is spilled, the dialogue doesn’t sound like Shakespeare—it sounds like fear, rage, gallows humor. That decision may violate Le Guin’s stylistic ideals, but it serves a different, equally valid purpose: it builds worlds whose horror, absurdity, and human cost feel close to the bone.

Cultural Specificity and the Problem of “Universality”

The demand for a timeless, mythic “Elfland accent” also raises a deeper question: whose myths are being privileged? Whose language is being treated as the neutral voice of fantasy?

Traditionally, high fantasy has drawn from Western European—often specifically Anglo-Saxon or Norse—mythologies. The codified “fantasy tone” that Le Guin praises is itself a product of that lineage, and Tolkien’s constructed languages, calendar systems, and histories remain steeped in that aesthetic. But fantasy has never been a monolith. Authors from diasporic communities, postcolonial nations, or underrepresented linguistic traditions may not share that tonal inheritance—and may not want to.

Take Marlon James’s Black Leopard, Red Wolf, inspired by African history and folklore. Its syntax is intentionally jarring to Western readers; its narrative disjointed, its dialogue coarse, aggressive, and laced with double meanings. In this, it reclaims a fantasy voice rooted in oral storytelling traditions and hybrid linguistic cultures. Similarly, R.F. Kuang’s The Poppy War leans heavily on Chinese political history and military philosophy, while allowing her characters to curse, cry, and scheme with the diction of young people shaped by trauma. In both cases, the authors’ language choices do not detract from immersion—they are the immersion.

To suggest that fantasy needs to avoid “Earthly” references or styles in order to be coherent or meaningful is, inadvertently, to gatekeep the genre in favor of a narrow set of aesthetic norms. It assumes that only a particular kind of artifice—a kind that mimics medieval Europe—counts as “serious” fantasy, while anything that breaks from that mold is unserious or insufficiently imaginative.

The Reader is Not a Passive Subject

The video laments that modern fantasy does not sufficiently transport readers to an Otherworld. But readers are not merely passengers—they are co-creators of meaning. Immersion does not arise solely from archaic sentence structures or invented idioms; it arises from narrative cohesion, emotional authenticity, and thematic depth. A fantasy novel can be written in the plainest prose and still leave a reader breathless, if its story compels and its world feels lived-in.

Take Patrick Rothfuss’s The Name of the Wind, which balances lyrical worldbuilding with casual, often modern-feeling character banter. Or T.J. Klune’s The House in the Cerulean Sea, whose contemporary humor sits comfortably within a warm, whimsical fantasy. These books trust their readers to move fluidly between styles. They do not worry about linguistic purity; they worry about resonance, and in doing so, they find readers who are moved, who care, who remember.

Style Is a Choice, Not a Commandment

Finally, the argument that fantasy must speak in a mythic register risks treating style as a rule rather than a palette. What Le Guin celebrated was not merely ornate language—it was intention. Her real argument, obscured by some of her stylistic preferences, was that fantasy writers must think deeply about how their worlds speak, breathe, and think. But that thinking can result in many styles, not just one.

Authors like Terry Pratchett or T. Kingfisher choose humor and clarity as their tools. Their worlds are no less complex, their magic no less wondrous, for the fact that they wink at the reader or interject with wit. Their tone is their Elfland accent—it just happens to be mischievous instead of solemn. The fantasy landscape is large enough for both the grave elegance of Earthsea and the irreverent wit of Discworld.

To call one “real fantasy” and the other a dilution is not only uncharitable—it’s inaccurate. Both serve the same ultimate purpose: to speak to our deepest fears and longings in ways that reality will not allow.

Conclusion

The call to preserve the Elfland accent is not without merit; it is a reminder that style matters, and that fantasy authors should not default to flatness or familiarity out of laziness. But that is not the only path to enchantment. Modern fantasy, in its many tones and tongues, reflects the richness of a global, contemporary readership. To dismiss its stylistic range is to misunderstand its strength. Fantasy has not lost its accent—it has learned to speak in many.