6 Classic Fantasy Books That Rival Harry Potter

Let’s look at what made Harry Potter such a global success: There was a certain magic to it. And no, we’re not talking about the moving staircases and talking portraits. We’re not even talking about the spells and the games of Quidditch. No, we’re talking about the enchantment of the lived-in world it created for readers — the dreadful teachers, the petty rivalries, the friendships that occasionally fell apart over the stupidest things. It was a fantastical world, sure, but one grounded in a way that made it feel tangible to readers. One in which readers felt they were living.

Of course, Rowling was far from the first to accomplish such a literary feat. Fantasy’s great writers had long been conjuring extraordinary worlds populated by remarkably ordinary people. They used the same familiar trappings — magic and potions, wizardry and enchanted forests — to explore everyday vanities, the corruption of power, and the ridiculous things people do for love. The best classic fantasy books have lost little of their ability to draw readers into their worlds, thanks to extraordinary prose and characters whose troubles become as engrossing as our own.

‘Phantastes’ (1858)

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George MacDonald didn’t just write a fantasy novel with Phantastes. He wrote what’s more of a probing allegory on greed. But not the material kind. The protagonist, Anodos, comes to inhabit Fairy Land, a world of unrivaled beauty. However, he’s not satisfied with simply admiring its wonders. He wants to possess the very things he claims to love. Take the time he sings a woman out of a marble statue, only to pursue her once she flees because he’s convinced freeing her entitles him to her affection.

As the book unfolds, MacDonald turns that greed into something more and more ruinous. Eventually, a shadow attaches itself to Anodos. This shadow ends up stripping the enchantment from whatever it touches, turning marvels into ordinary sights. And Anodos’ endless quest for an ideal woman leaves him increasingly dissatisfied. The more Anodos wants to claim for himself, the less capable he becomes of appreciating anything. It’s only when he acts selflessly that he understands what he’s been missing all along.

‘The King of Elfland’s Daughter’ (1924)

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Fairy tales ordinarily involve a happily ever after. But Lord Dunsany didn’t settle for the ordinary fairy tale with The King of Elfland’s Daughter, instead exploring whether a happily ever after has its costs. The citizens of Erl wish for a magical ruler. So Prince Alveric sets out to find one, returning with Lirazel, an elfin princess, in tow. The two marry, but it’s not exactly picture-perfect, full of unmet expectations and growing complications. The elfin princess can’t exactly adjust to living by mortal customs; Alveric can’t understand her idealization of the timeless world she left behind. There’s love there, but neither is happy in the other’s world.

The couple separates, something Dunsany intensifies with his treatment of time in the novel. Centuries barely register in Elfland. But in Erl, people age and children grow — entire lives are lived and passed. And Dunsany’s lyrical prose lingers over the changing seasons, giving the ordinary passage of time an almost magical quality. While the lovers do eventually reunite, it comes at the expense of the very world in which their story began.

‘Lolly Willowes’ (1926)

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Sure, Harry Potter’s relatives made no secret of how little they wanted him around. But Sylvia Townsend Warner took to dismantling the fable of familial cruelty with an even sharper edge. With Lolly Willowes, she explores how a family dependent on you isn’t one that necessarily loves you. Laura moves into her brother’s house after their father’s death. The family thinks itself generous simply for taking her in and quickly comes to depend on her. Her wants and wishes be damned.

So Laura decides to move to the countryside. She’s not seeking to strike out on some grand adventure; she simply wants to spend her days however she pleases. But her nephew Titus follows, threatening to turn her newfound independence into another family obligation. That’s exactly when Warner introduces a bit of witchcraft. It’s the Devil, wouldn’t you know it, who ends up being more respectful of Laura’s desires than her own family. It’s in that way that Warner indicts the so-called respectable society Laura escaped: To live on her own terms, she must first become everything a respectable woman shouldn’t be.

‘Titus Groan’ (1946)

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Mervyn Peake makes the case that power has an enduring ability to corrupt in Titus Groan. He argues that it can trap those who inherit it and tempt those who desperately yearn for it. This story of corruption takes place in Gormenghast, an enormous, labyrinthine castle. It’s a place in which centuries-old rituals dictate pretty much every facet of life. However, Earl Sepulchrave could not be bothered by the pomp and prefers burrowing himself in the confines of his library. His sisters turn bitter, resenting the influence their family name has failed to bring them. Everything is governed by rank in this fantastical society, but there is no one who’s satisfied by their place within it.

That’s especially true for Steerpike, a kitchen boy with no title or fortune. He does, though, possess an insatiable appetite for power. He feeds the sisters’ hunger for recognition, persuading them to burn the Earl’s library. It’s an act that also gives him the opportunity to emerge as the hero. Peake makes Steerpike’s ingenuity almost admirable, only to expose how ruthlessly he puts it to work.

‘The Lord of the Rings’ (1954–1955)

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Here’s the thing about The Lord of the Rings: Yes, it’s lauded for its warriors and its kings and enormous battles. But the story truly hinges on something a lot less heroic — an act of mercy. J. R. R. Tolkien writes Gollum with all the qualities that would lead to distrust. He’s deceitful, and he’s obsessive. He’s even willing to betray anyone to reclaim his precious Ring. Frodo, even Frodo, initially questions why Bilbo spared the creature’s life. Yet, Gandalf insists that Gollum deserves pity; Frodo, too, comes to share that belief.

It’s that decision — to show compassion for someone seemingly wholly undeserving — that has larger repercussions than any outcome on the battlefield. Because after Frodo carries the Ring across Middle-earth to reach Mount Doom, he ultimately can’t bring himself to destroy it. And so he claims it instead, and Gollum ultimately brings about the Ring’s destruction. Tolkien allows his hero to fail at the very moment he’s supposed to triumph, showing that all the courage in Middle-earth couldn’t accomplish what a few seemingly foolish acts of mercy ultimately did.

‘The Once and Future King’ (1958)

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Many a fantasy novel about knights centers on the notion of chivalry. But T.H. White offers a much less romantic version of chivalry in The Once and Future King. The book questions whether violence committed in the name of a noble cause is ever really virtuous. Sure, the knights within the novel speak of honor and justice. When it comes down to it, they’re men who simply enjoy fighting. Arthur’s magical tutor, Merlyn, decides to teach the young Arthur a lesson: he turns him into a fish. It’s then he comes face-to-face with a giant pike, who’s convinced that strength gives him the right to devour anyone weaker. Arthur sets up the Round Table, thinking he can challenge that same thinking and convince his knights to use their strength to protect others and not to terrorize them.

However, White shows how difficult it is to change a society’s perception of violence when its most celebrated figures have built their identities around it. What ends up happening is that Arthur’s knights grow restless; his attempts to turn their ambitions toward spiritual pursuits are all but disastrous. He turns to law rather than force, but Mordred exploits those same laws and uses them against him. Ultimately, White strips the glamour from Camelot, and in doing so, shows just how easily noble ideals can become excuses for cruelty.