Table of Contents
A guide on how to write a fantasy novel. Learn to build worlds, create magic systems, craft characters, and plot an epic story that readers can't put down.
Every aspiring writer has dreamed it: the sprawling map, the ancient prophecy, the clash of swords under a sky with two moons. The allure of writing a fantasy novel is the allure of creation itself—of forging gods, birthing cultures, and orchestrating the fate of entire worlds.
But here’s the cold, hard truth: for every A Game of Thrones, there are a thousand half-finished manuscripts languishing in digital graveyards, bloated with unpronounceable names and backstory that goes nowhere.
The dream of writing an epic fantasy novel often crashes against the brutal reality of the work involved. This isn't just about having a cool idea for a dragon rider. It's about architecture, psychology, and narrative engineering. Most guides on how to write a fantasy novel will sell you a romantic vision of inspiration striking like lightning.
This is not that guide. This is your boot camp.
We're going to tear down the flimsy scaffolding of "because it's cool" and build something with a foundation of stone: a story with stakes, characters with souls, and a world that feels as real and as dangerous as our own. If you’re ready to stop dreaming and start building, then let's begin.
Part 1: The Core Idea – More Than Just Dragons and Elves
Before you draw a single map or name a single brooding swordsman, you need an idea. Not just an idea, but a premise. A concept with teeth. Too many writers start with a vague image—a city in the clouds, a hero with a glowing sword—and assume the story will magically materialize. It won't. Your core idea is the narrative engine of your entire novel, and if it’s weak, the whole machine will stall on page 50.
What's Your 'One Big Lie'?
Let's get one thing straight: every fantasy story is built on a 'what if' question, or what some call the "One Big Lie." This is the central conceit that separates your world from ours. It's the hook. What if a group of ordinary, small people were tasked with destroying a ring that holds the power of a dark god? That's The Lord of the Rings. What if the seasons lasted for years, even decades, and the coming of winter meant a war for survival against both men and monsters? That's A Song of Ice and Fire.
This isn't just world-building fluff; it's the thematic and narrative core. A strong premise inherently contains conflict, character, and resolution. Your job isn't to think of a cool magic system first. Your job is to find a compelling "what if" that forces characters into impossible situations.
Ask yourself these questions:
- What is the central question or problem? Is it about power, faith, survival, identity? This will become your theme.
- How does this core concept generate conflict? If magic is common, who controls it? If gods are real, what do they want?
- Why this story, now? What makes your premise urgent and relevant, not just a rehash of something else?
Genre, Subgenre, and Not Writing a Tolkien Clone
Fantasy is not a monolith. The tools you need to write a grimdark novel are different from those needed for a YA portal fantasy. Understanding where your story fits helps you understand reader expectations—and how to subvert them. There has been an explosion of subgenres, from 'cozy fantasy' to 'romantasy.' Choosing your lane is a strategic decision.
- High Fantasy: Takes place entirely in a fictional world (e.g., Middle-earth). The stakes are often epic and world-altering. This is the classic mode for learning how to write a fantasy novel.
- Low Fantasy: Takes place in our world, but with magical elements seeping in (e.g., American Gods). The focus is often more grounded and character-centric.
- Urban Fantasy: A subset of low fantasy set in a contemporary city (e.g., The Dresden Files). The juxtaposition of the mundane and the magical is the main appeal.
- Grimdark: Characterized by moral ambiguity, violence, and a cynical, pessimistic tone (e.g., The First Law trilogy). Heroes are flawed, and victories are costly, if they come at all.
- YA Fantasy: Often features a young protagonist, coming-of-age themes, and faster pacing (e.g., The Hunger Games). This category remains a commercial powerhouse.
Stop trying to be the next Tolkien. Tolkien already did Tolkien. Your voice, your unique take on these tropes, is your greatest asset. Joe Abercrombie took the classic fantasy archetypes and drenched them in blood and nihilism. N.K. Jemisin used geology and systemic oppression to build the incredible world of The Broken Earth. They understood the assignment: use the genre's framework to say something new. Your understanding of subgenre is your first step in that direction.
Part 2: World-Building That Doesn't Suck (An Architect's Guide)
World-building is the most celebrated and most butchered part of writing fantasy. It's the reason many of us are drawn to the genre, but it's also a trap. You can spend a decade perfecting the migratory patterns of a fictional bird and have zero plot. Let me say this louder for the writers in the back: world-building serves the story, not the other way around. If it doesn't create conflict, reveal character, or advance the plot, it's academic navel-gazing. Cut it.
The Iceberg Method: What to Show vs. What to Know
Think of your world as an iceberg. The reader only sees the 10% that's above the water—the details woven into the narrative. You, the author, need to know about the 90% that's submerged—the history, the economy, the cultural norms. This submerged knowledge gives your world weight and consistency. But the mistake is trying to show the whole iceberg. This is the dreaded info-dump. Exposition should be dramatized, not summarized. Don't tell me about the Great War of the Ash-Tree Kings in a prologue. Show me a character visiting a battlefield-turned-graveyard, or a bitter veteran whose limp is a direct result of that war. Weave your world-building into the action and character interactions.
Building from the Ground Up: Geography, History, and Culture
Your world needs a foundation. Start with the physical reality and build from there. This is how real-world cultures developed, and it lends an air of authenticity to your fiction.
- Geography: Don't just draw a cool-looking map. Think about how geography shapes everything. A mountainous kingdom will be isolated and defensive. A nation with fertile river valleys will be an agricultural powerhouse and a target for invasion. A sprawling desert will breed nomadic cultures centered on scarce resources. Principles of human geography are your best friend here. A mountain range isn't just a line on a map; it's a barrier to trade, a source of minerals, and a strategic chokepoint.
- History: Your world didn't spring into existence the day your story starts. It has a history of wars, alliances, plagues, and revolutions. You don't need a 1,000-page timeline, but you need to know the key events that shaped the present. What's the "founding myth" of the kingdom? What's the great historical trauma everyone is still dealing with? This history creates the tensions and prejudices that will fuel your plot.
- Culture: Culture is the downstream effect of geography and history. How do people eat, dress, worship, and die? What are their laws, their art, their family structures? Pick two or three unique cultural details and weave them in. In Dune, the Fremen's total focus on water conservation (stillsuits, deathstills) is a brilliant piece of world-building that stems directly from their desert environment and shapes their entire society.
Let's Talk About Magic (Without Boring Everyone to Death)
Magic is the heart of fantasy, but a poorly defined magic system is narrative poison. It becomes a deus ex machina machine, solving any problem with a wave of the hand and destroying all stakes. The key to a great magic system isn't what it can do, but what it can't. This is where rules and costs come in. Author Brandon Sanderson codified this in his famous "Laws of Magic."
- Sanderson's First Law: An author's ability to solve conflict with magic is DIRECTLY PROPORTIONAL to how well the reader understands said magic. If your hero is going to win a fight by cleverly using a specific spell, the reader needs to have understood the rules of that spell beforehand. If magic is just a mysterious force, it can create wonder but shouldn't be used to solve problems.
- Hard vs. Soft Magic:
- Hard Magic: Has explicit, well-defined rules (e.g., Allomancy in Mistborn). It functions almost like a science. This is great for plots that hinge on clever problem-solving.
- Soft Magic: Is mysterious, wondrous, and undefined (e.g., the magic in The Lord of the Rings). It's great for creating a sense of awe and ancient power, but it's not a reliable tool for the protagonist.
The most important element is COST. Magic should never be free. The cost can be physical (draining life force), mental (risking insanity), material (requiring rare components), or social (being ostracized as a witch). In Fullmetal Alchemist, the Law of Equivalent Exchange is the ultimate cost: to gain something, something of equal value must be lost. This creates inherent sacrifice and drama. This approach, as outlined in a deep dive by Mythcreants, turns magic from a simple tool into a source of moral and personal conflict.
Part 3: Characters Who Aren't Cardboard Cutouts
You can have the most intricate world and a magic system that would make Sanderson weep, but if your characters are flat, nobody will care. Readers don't fall in love with worlds; they fall in love with people. And most fantasy characters, let's be honest, are boring. They’re walking tropes: the farm boy with a hidden destiny, the wise old wizard, the feisty princess. These aren't characters; they're placeholders. Learning how to write a fantasy novel that resonates means learning how to breathe life into these archetypes.
Beyond The Chosen One: Archetypes as a Starting Point, Not a Destination
Let's get this out of the way: archetypes are not the enemy. Cliché is. Archetypes, as described in works like Joseph Campbell's *The Hero's Journey*, are powerful psychological templates that resonate with us on a deep level. The problem isn't using the "Mentor" archetype; it's writing a generic Gandalf clone who spouts vague wisdom and then conveniently dies. The trick is to use the archetype as a foundation and then build something complex and contradictory on top of it.
- Subvert: Take the archetype and turn it on its head. What if the "Wise Mentor" is a manipulative bastard? Hello, Albus Dumbledore. What if the "Damsel in Distress" orchestrates her own kidnapping for political gain?
- Combine: Blend two archetypes. A "Ruler" who is also a "Jester." A "Healer" who is also a "Warrior." This creates instant internal conflict. Tyrion Lannister is a "Trickster" who is forced to become a "Sage" and a "Ruler," and his struggle to reconcile these roles is central to his arc.
- Deconstruct: Dig into the psychological reality of the archetype. What does it actually feel like to be the "Chosen One?" It's probably terrifying. It's a burden that would crush most people. Show the fear, the doubt, the resentment. Psychological studies on personality can be a goldmine for adding realistic layers to these mythic roles.
The Only Two Things That Matter: Motivation and Flaws
If you strip away everything else, a compelling character comes down to two things: they want something desperately (motivation), and something inside them is stopping them from getting it (flaw). That's it. That's the secret sauce. A character's motivation must be clear, specific, and relatable. "Saving the world" is a terrible motivation because it's too abstract. "Saving my sister from the dark lord who kidnapped her" is a great motivation.
Their flaw must be intrinsically linked to their motivation. A hero who wants to protect his family but whose fatal flaw is a reckless pride that constantly puts them in danger? That's drama. A character's internal conflict (flaw vs. motivation) is what makes them dynamic and drives their development. Glokta from The First Law wants to survive, but his crippling self-loathing and cynical nature make him his own worst enemy. That's a character you can't look away from.
Villains Aren't Just Evil for Fun
Your hero is only as good as your villain. A cackling, mustache-twirling villain who wants to destroy the world "because he's evil" is lazy writing. The best villains are heroes in their own stories. They should have a clear, and perhaps even sympathetic, motivation. They believe they are doing the right thing, even if their methods are monstrous. Thanos from the Marvel Cinematic Universe is a textbook example: his goal (preventing universal suffering caused by overpopulation) is understandable, even logical in a twisted way. His methods are what make him a villain. Give your antagonist a philosophy, a code. Make them a dark mirror of your hero. Maybe they want the same thing as the protagonist, but are willing to cross lines the hero won't. This creates a thematic and ideological battle, not just a physical one. As Script Magazine advises for screenwriters, a great antagonist forces the protagonist to question their own beliefs and methods, making the final confrontation about more than just who can punch harder.
Part 4: Plotting Your Epic Journey (Without Getting Lost in the Woods)
Plot is the sequence of events that reveals character and explores theme. It's the path your characters walk through your beautifully constructed world. And for a genre known for 800-page doorstoppers, getting the plot right is the difference between a page-turner and a sleep aid. Many aspiring fantasy authors get lost here, either over-plotting with spreadsheets or under-plotting and meandering for 200 pages. The key is structure, but a flexible structure that serves your story.
Plotters vs. Pantsers: A False Dichotomy
Let's kill this tired debate. Are you a 'plotter' who outlines every detail, or a 'pantser' who writes by the seat of their pants? The answer is: you need to be both. This isn't a personality quiz; it's about having the right tools for the job. Relying only on a rigid outline can strangle creativity, while pure pantsing often leads to saggy middles and dead-end subplots. The professional approach is a hybrid: the 'gardener,' as George R.R. Martin calls it. You build a solid structural framework—the big plot points, the beginning, the end, the major turning points—and then you discover the details as you write. You know you're driving from New York to Los Angeles, and you know you want to stop in Chicago and Denver, but you let yourself discover the weird roadside attractions along the way. This method, advocated by many successful authors, provides both direction and freedom. Martin’s architect vs. gardener analogy is a cornerstone of modern writing advice for a reason.
The Three-Act Structure is Your Friend, Not Your Jailer
The three-act structure gets a bad rap for being formulaic. It's not a formula; it's a fundamental pattern of human storytelling. It's been around since Aristotle for a reason: it works.
- Act I: The Setup (The Thesis). You introduce your protagonist in their ordinary world. You establish their core motivation and flaw. Then, the Inciting Incident happens—the call to adventure that kicks off the story. The act ends with the protagonist making a choice to engage with the central conflict, crossing a threshold from which there's no return.
- Act II: The Confrontation (The Antithesis). This is the longest part of your novel, and where the dreaded "saggy middle" lives. The protagonist tries to achieve their goal but is met with escalating obstacles. They face setbacks, gain new skills, meet allies and enemies, and are forced to confront their flaws. The midpoint is often a major turning point—a false victory or a devastating defeat—that raises the stakes and changes the hero's goal.
- Act III: The Resolution (The Synthesis). The protagonist, having been changed by the trials of Act II, makes a final push toward the climax. They face the antagonist in the ultimate confrontation. The central conflict is resolved, and we see the aftermath. What is the "new normal" for the character and the world? Story structure gurus like John Truby have expanded on this, but the core principles remain the same. Use it as a roadmap to ensure your story has momentum.
Stakes, Pacing, and Why Your Middle Sags
Pacing is not about speed; it's about pressure. A story can be slow-paced but incredibly tense if the stakes are high and a sense of dread is building. The middle of your novel sags when the stakes feel static. To fix this, you need to constantly raise the stakes. The problem must get worse. The hero's initial plan must fail. The villain must score a victory. Each scene should ask a question, and the answer should lead to a new, more complicated question. Stakes can be personal (life, love), public (the fate of a city), or spiritual (the fate of one's soul). The best stories weave all three together. If the only thing at stake is 'the world,' it's too abstract. Make it personal. The fate of the world is at stake because the villain is holding the hero's child hostage.
Part 5: The Actual Writing – Prose That Sings, Not Snores
You have your world, your characters, and your plot. Now comes the hard part: turning all that architecture into a living, breathing story. This is where many technically proficient writers fail. Their prose is flat, their dialogue is wooden, and their descriptions are generic. Learning how to write a fantasy novel means becoming a craftsman at the sentence level.
Voice and Tone: The Soul of Your Prose
Voice is the personality of your writing. It's what makes your work uniquely yours. Are you cynical and witty like Abercrombie? Lyrical and melancholic like Rothfuss? Or sparse and brutal like McCarthy? Your narrative voice should align with the tone of your story. A grimdark novel shouldn't be written with whimsical, flowery prose. Finding your voice takes time and practice. Read widely, both inside and outside the fantasy genre. As countless authors attest on platforms like LitHub, voice is a product of all your influences, experiences, and aesthetic choices. Don't mimic; synthesize.
'Show, Don't Tell': The Most Misunderstood Advice in History
'Show, don't tell' is the most common piece of writing advice, and the most commonly misinterpreted. It doesn't mean you can never 'tell' the reader anything. Telling is efficient. 'He was angry' is telling. Sometimes, that's all you need. But 'showing' is about immersing the reader in an experience. Instead of 'He was angry,' you write, 'He slammed his fist on the table, the plates rattling as a vein throbbed in his temple.' You've shown the anger through action and physical detail. The key is to know when to do which. You show the moments that are emotionally significant. You tell the transitional information to keep the story moving. Telling provides abstract information, while showing provides concrete, sensory evidence.
Dialogue That Doesn't Sound Like a Renaissance Faire
Bad fantasy dialogue is a plague. It's full of 'forsooths,' 'thees,' and 'thous,' and characters who speak in expositional monologues. Here's the rule: unless your world-building provides a specific, compelling reason for archaic language, just write modern, natural-sounding dialogue. People in a fantasy world still have contractions. They still use subtext. They still interrupt each other. Good dialogue does three things at once:
- Reveals Character: What a character says and how they say it should reflect their personality, background, and current emotional state.
- Advances the Plot: The conversation should move the story forward, not just rehash what the reader already knows.
- Creates Conflict: A great dialogue scene is a mini-battle, with characters having competing goals and using words as their weapons.
Read your dialogue out loud. If it sounds stiff and unnatural, rewrite it. It's the fastest way to spot problems.