How To Write A Good Fantasy Book

Writing a good fantasy book feels like building a world from scratch, brick by magical brick. The key is making the impossible feel tangible, like the reader could stumble into your realm if they turned the right corner. I start with the foundation—rules that govern magic or creatures, but never info-dump them. Show the system working through characters’ struggles, like a mage’s exhaustion after casting spells or a werewolf’s dread of the moon. It’s the small details that sell the big ideas.

Characters drive the story, not just the lore. I avoid Chosen One tropes unless I can twist them—maybe the prophecy’s a scam, or the hero refuses to play along. Flaws matter more than powers; a thief with sticky fingers is more compelling than a flawless knight. Relationships should crackle with tension, whether it’s rivalry or romance. Dialogue needs to sound real, not medieval Wikipedia. I steal rhythms from everyday speech, then tweak them to fit the setting.

The best fantasy books balance wonder with grit. Magic has consequences, kingdoms have politics, and battles leave scars. I research real history for inspiration—medieval plumbing problems or pirate navigation tricks can ground even the wildest plots. Surprise readers by subverting expectations: elves as smugglers, dragons as scholars. And endings? They should hurt a little, even if the hero wins. Sacrifice, change, or unanswered questions linger like spell smoke after the last page.

Fantasy books thrive on fresh twists. I ditch tired tropes—no farm boys destined to save the world unless they’re grumpy about it. Start with a hook that throws readers into the deep end: a necromancer mid-resurrection or a marketplace where memories are traded. Rules matter—magic needs limits, or stakes vanish. I map mine like a science, with costs (blood? sanity?) to keep tension high. Characters should clash not just with villains but with their own beliefs. A pacifist forced to wield a sword is more interesting than another brooding assassin. Keep prose tight; ornate language drowns action. End chapters on punches—literal or emotional—to glue readers to the page.