Fantasy, Dopamine, and My Sanderson Obsession
Huh, I’m addicted to Sanderson…
I drive an old but beloved car we call Rhonda the Honda. She’s pushing 30 but has barely passed 100k on the clock—a true granny only drove her to the shops special.
But Rhonda had one fatal flaw: a cassette player. Which meant my music and podcast options were hot garbage.
Until recently.
With a little gadget and a lot of misplaced excitement, I finally had streaming audio. Now, every Tuesday on my 3km commute to work (try not to be impressed), and every Friday en route to sushi, I could actually listen to podcasts.
At my pace? Takes weeks to finish an episode. But hey—progress.
Lately, I’ve been listening to Diary of a CEO, and an episode on dopamine, effort, and reward hit me hard. A guest described how she realized she was addicted to romance fiction. Over time, she needed increasingly intense scenes, skipping straight to the high—the climax—before tossing the book aside like a cold burrito and chasing the next hit.
It made me stop and think.
Wait a minute... have I been doing the same thing?
Since mid-October, I’ve been re-reading The Stormlight Archive in preparation for Wind and Truth. Right now, I’m about 60% through, and something feels off.
Two somethings.
One I’ll get to in a review.
But the other thing bothered me more.
Brandon Sanderson’s work is immersive. His worldbuilding is meticulous, his magic systems logical, and his character arcs emotionally devastating in the best way. It’s no wonder he raised over $41M on Kickstarter—fans (myself included) trust him to deliver books that consume our entire existence.
But lately, I’ve noticed the pull of his books has changed for me.
I’m reading more and more to escape.
I’m avoiding things I should be doing—writing, training, work, actual responsibilities—because I’d rather lose myself in Roshar than deal with the real world. I’m taking my Kindle everywhere.
And that’s the thing about addiction. It’s not just about pleasure—it’s about avoidance.
My wife says I have gift, that when something like this happens, I have an uncanny ability to pull myself back.
This year, I promised myself I’d get my life together. That means recognizing when I’m using fiction for joy versus when I’m using it to hide.
The good news? Awareness is half the battle.
The bad news? I still have no idea what day it is.
I’m absolutely going to finish Stormlight.
But I’m making sure I’m the one in control—not my dopamine system. Blasted thing.
And if you think you can wield this kind of narrative power responsibly, take a look at Sanderson’s fiction writing lectures.
Just… y’know, don’t blame me when you wake up three months later having outlined a ten-book epic, completely unaware of what year it is.
Or, you know, do what he did—write four secret novels during the pandemic while everyone else was learning to bake sourdough.
