Why Queer Representation in Fantasy Matters

I grew up in a relatively conservative household and later attended a very dogmatically religious high school. As a result, I saw very little representation of identities or orientations that weren't cisgender and heterosexual. It wasn’t until I reached university that I had enough exposure and understanding to recognise that my own orientation wasn’t straight.

And that world I grew up in (one that didn’t reflect who I was) made me feel incredibly alone. It was isolating and hard trying to figure out things about yourself when there’s no mirror for your experience in the world around you. No stories. No characters. No clues that people like you even existed.

That’s why queer representation in all forms of media is something I feel particularly passionate about. Kids growing up in environments like mine (where queerness is invisible, demonised, or erased) need to see parts of themselves. They need to know there’s nothing wrong with them, despite what they may be told.

Books, comics, films, television — they all carry the power to reflect back truths we may not yet have had the words for.

When I was growing up, I could count the gay or lesbian characters I saw on one hand. Bisexual, intersex, transgender, or non-binary characters? They didn’t exist in the media I was consuming — at least not in the main text. Today, that landscape is slowly changing. We’re seeing more queer characters, more queer stories, more space being carved out. Yes, we’re still wrestling with tropes like bury your gays, or the idea that queer relationships must be tragic or hard-won — but representation is expanding, and that matters.

Fantasy Should Lead, Not Lag

But it’s always felt like queer representation in fantasy has lagged behind.

Don’t get me wrong — there are spectacular queer fantasy stories out there, particularly in the indie space. Queer fantasy has truly found its voice among independent and self-published authors. But in traditionally published fantasy, it still feels like queerness is the exception, not the norm.

And that’s frustrating — because fantasy, more than almost any other genre, is uniquely placed to explore queerness in powerful, affirming ways. It’s a genre that allows us to invent entire worlds, new systems of power, different cultures, belief systems, relationships, and norms. We are not bound by what the world is, but by what it could be.

So why, in so many fantasy settings, do homophobia, shame, or the need to hide still persist? Why are queer characters still written as if they need to be “tolerated” or “accepted” in societies we ourselves have designed?

We have the opportunity — the creative freedom — to imagine idealised worlds. Worlds where queerness simply is. Where love isn’t politicised. Where identities aren’t debated or hidden. Where people don’t have to come out because they were never forced in.

Too often, fantasy authors rebuild the same prejudices of our own world into their imagined ones without questioning why. And that’s a missed opportunity — not just for inclusion, but for liberation. Fantasy can model hope. It can challenge what we've internalised as “normal.” It can show us not just different realities, but better ones.

If we can accept dragons, talking swords, and magic that bends time and space — we can also accept a world where queerness is ordinary and unremarkable.

The Evolution of Queer Tropes — And the Harm That Lingers

While queer representation has certainly increased, the way those characters have been written hasn’t always been helpful — or respectful. Early queer characters in mainstream media were often reduced to the "gay best friend" or the comic relief. They existed to support the protagonist, deliver one-liners, and serve up sass — but rarely had storylines of their own.

Their queerness became their whole identity, with little depth beyond that. To paraphrase Cosima from Orphan Black: “Sexuality isn’t the most interesting thing about us.” And yet, for years, it was the only thing queer characters were allowed to be.

Then came the era of queerbaiting — a particularly frustrating and cynical tactic. Shows hinted at queer relationships to court queer audiences, only to retreat into deniability the moment it came time for any actual representation. (Looking at you, Supergirl. If Lena Luthor had been a male character, her relationship with Kara Danvers would have gone in a very different direction.)

Worse still is the persistent reliance on tragedy as a narrative device for queer characters. The “bury your gays” trope — in which queer characters are more likely to die, often violently, and often right after achieving some sliver of happiness — has done real harm. I’m still not over Lexa’s death in The 100. She and Clarke had just found each other. It was historic — and then it was gone. And it wasn’t just one show. It was a pattern.

Yes, things are getting better. But we’re still a long way from queer characters being given the same narrative weight and emotional range as their cisgender, heterosexual counterparts. Straight love stories get to be messy, joyful, mundane, or epic. Queer stories are still too often cast in shadows — either in subtext or sorrow.

Representation is improving, but equality in storytelling? That’s still very much a work in progress.

Finding Myself in Fiction

One of my favourite authors growing up was Tamora Pierce. I’ve always been partial to her Tortall universe, but her Emelan books include some beautifully written queer relationships too.

The relationships and identities of characters like Lark, Rosethorn, and Crane aren’t front-and-centre in the Circle of Magic series, but after reading The Will of the Empress, going back and revisiting those characters was a heart-warming experience. I only wish it had been more overt when I was younger. I wish I’d seen it sooner. Representation delayed is still, in many ways, representation denied.

More recently, we’ve seen more traditionally published fantasy embracing queerness — and doing it well. Books like The Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon, The Jasmine Throne by Tasha Suri, She Who Became the Sun by Shelley Parker-Chan, and This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone have shown what’s possible when queerness is allowed to be expansive, joyful, central. These stories don’t just include queerness — they celebrate it.

The Worlds We Build Matter

So, why does queer representation matter?

Because the world is diverse — in terms of ethnicity, gender, sexuality, ability, and a hundred other things. And the worlds we create in fiction can reflect that diversity back to those who have never seen themselves clearly.

For someone growing up in silence or shame, a single queer character can be a lifeline. A well-written story can be the first time someone feels seen. It might be the first time they dare to imagine a future where they are not just surviving, but thriving.

As writers, especially those of us working in fantasy, we have the power to build better worlds (freer worlds) where queerness isn’t a twist or a tragedy, but a truth.

We have the chance to imagine spaces where people like us are welcomed, respected, and celebrated. Where we can breathe a little easier. Where we can be wholly, unapologetically ourselves.

I know I found that space — in stories. And I want to help create those spaces for others.