Fantasy Doesn’t Have a Romance Problem. It Has an Emotional Intimacy Problem.

Fantasy readers complain about romance constantly. Too much romance. Not enough romance. Forced romance. Bad romance. Romantasy invading every shelf. But after years of reading fantasy and speculative fiction, I’m not convinced fantasy’s biggest issue is romance at all. 

I think fantasy has an emotional intimacy problem.

Because over and over again, I find myself asking the same question: Why do some relationships feel deeply convincing while others leave me completely cold? And more strangely, why do friendships sometimes feel more emotionally intimate than the actual romance?

The answer, I think, is this:

Fantasy often mistakes chemistry, narrative importance, or proximity for emotional intimacy.

And readers can feel the difference.

Chemistry is not intimacy. Neither is proximity.

Fantasy is very good at chemistry.

Banter.

Attraction.

Conflict.

Shared trauma.

High stakes.

Two attractive people repeatedly risking their lives together.

Sometimes destiny.

Sometimes enemies-to-lovers.

Sometimes fate itself practically screams THESE PEOPLE ARE IMPORTANT.

But chemistry is not the same as intimacy. At least not on its own. Intimacy is something quieter that looks like trust, familiarity, vulnerability, repair after conflict, consistency, private language, and knowing someone deeply enough to understand the version of them no one else sees.

Readers believe relationships when they feel lived in.

And when they don’t?

The story starts telling us the relationship matters instead of making us feel why it matters.

So what makes a romance work?

For me, the fantasy relationships that work tend to share a few things.

Take Finlay and Annika from The House Witch. Their relationship feels emotionally sustainable. Not because it’s dramatic, but because it feels built through ordinary life. Familiarity. Caretaking. Quiet intimacy.

Or Harry Dresden and Murphy from The Dresden Files. The payoff works because the relationship earns itself over time. Trust builds. Conflict exists. History matters. You believe they know each other.

Even El and Orion in Scholomance—a relationship I’m not entirely convinced is romance in the traditional sense—works emotionally because there is mutual influence, vulnerability, and genuine relational weight. The relationship changes them, and that is what matters.

Of course, not every romance hits the same way. Sometimes we end up aggressively shipping other characters instead. Sometimes we question a character’s choices on a deeply personal level. (Team Sevro.) 

When fantasy romance doesn’t land –

When relationships fail for me, the failures are often surprisingly different.

Sometimes the issue is underdevelopment.

Take Darrow and Mustang in Red Rising. I understand why they are supposed to matter to each other. But emotionally, I often feel the story telling me their importance more than letting me experience it. Meanwhile, Darrow’s relationship with Sevro accidentally demonstrates what emotional intimacy actually looks like: history, vulnerability, familiarity, sacrifice, emotional messiness.

Sometimes the issue is compatibility.

Emily and Bambleby from Emily Wilde’s Encyclopaedia of Faeries are charming together. But charm is not the same thing as partnership. I kept wondering:

 “If the plot disappeared, would these two actually enjoy sharing a life together?” 

Sometimes the issue is mutuality.

My problem with Minalan and Penny in Spellmonger has less to do with romance and more to do with relational structure. Uneven emotional labor. Questionable choices absorbed by one partner. Respect that feels inconsistent.

And sometimes the romance feels unnecessary altogether.

In Innocent Mage, the emotional core of the story felt rooted elsewhere – in the relationship between Asher and Gar, sacrifice, and friendship. The romance with Dathne felt less integrated and more obligatory – like the story assumed there should be a romance whether it was needed or not.

Maybe the real question is this:

I think readers often ask “Did I like this couple?”, but the better question might be “Did this relationship emotionally convince me?”. Because fantasy already asks us to believe impossible things.

Magic.

Fantastical beings.

Politics.

Wars.

Entire worlds.

And oddly enough, relationships are often the thing that breaks immersion fastest.

Not because readers expect perfection. But because emotional intimacy is hard to fake. And when it works?

We feel it.

Even when we can’t entirely explain why.

Maybe that’s why we as readers argue so fiercely about fictional relationships in the first place.