Why I Read Dragons.

Article III of the Constitution defines and limits the jurisdiction of federal courts to “cases” and “controversies.” As Chief Justice Warren put it, “those words have an iceberg quality, containing beneath their surface simplicity submerged complexities which go to the very heart of our constitutional form of government.”¹ (Stay with me—this ends at dragons, I promise.)

These complex simplicities are at the center of justiciability. What is “justiciability”? A legal term of art. Without getting too deep, it essentially determines whether a federal court can act.² And, just as you would expect from lawyers, justiciability is split into further parts. Among these are “advisory opinions,” “standing,” “ripeness,” “mootness,” and more. I would like to talk about only one before getting to the Dragons.

Advisory Opinions are instances where a court makes a pronouncement in the absence of a genuine, adversarial case. It’s kinda like asking the umpire to call a pitch before it’s thrown, or buying your wife flowers before you make a stupid and irresponsible purchase. It’s a big no-no. Those things come after. And courts are no different—they pass judgment; they don’t entertain thought experiments.

But why? Wouldn’t you want the world’s greatest legal minds to advise our leaders? How many mistakes could be avoided if we just checked beforehand? Why is it necessary to incur injury before an opinion can be made?

Multiple reasons: First, courts should be objective; and it’s hard to be objective when you have an active part to play. If the judiciary spoke prior to a live dispute, then the decision-making process would be skewed. Because the pitch hasn’t been thrown, there’s still time to change the windup. Calling a ball or strike now would be unfair to the batter.³ If it were otherwise, the judiciary would be the “[most] dangerous branch”⁴ of government—effectively controlling how the legislature makes laws and what the executive enforces.⁵ Paradoxically, the advice itself would also mean nothing. Espousing rules without tying them to substantive matters is an act of frivolity.⁶ Any Joe Schmoe can give an opinion; only a judge can pass judgment. Engaging in the former weakens the latter.

Second, distance allows reflection. By injecting itself into the problem, courts necessarily limit their perspective. (Something about forest and trees.) That’s fine when the dust is settled and you can see the full picture. It’s not when the dust still covers the air. On the one hand, it stifles creativity, incentivizing the legislature to “submit legislative doubts instead of legislative convictions.”⁷ On the other hand, it absolves responsibility, “dwarf[ing] the political capacity of the people, and [] deaden[ing] its sense of moral responsibility.”⁸ In other words, an activist judiciary limits an accountable and zealous legislature. And it’s hard to judge a “solution” you helped write.

Third, advisory opinions rob the judiciary of concreteness.⁹ The world—and its problems—are messy. It takes serious effort to think through a point. (Much less coherently write them down.) That effort is necessarily supplied when you have skin in the game—when it’s adversarial. The back-and-forth of argument grinds a messy, abstract problem down into something concrete enough to decide. If it’s too abstract to understand, it’s too hard to solve.

Reading about Dragons, Goblins, Wizards & Warlocks, and other fantastical creatures gives you all of it. Take a good grimdark fantasy—Joe Abercrombie’s The First Law trilogy, say. It gives you objectivity: you can judge the characters without worrying about influencing the final count or debasing the moral currency. It gives you distance: room to measure their lives, journeys, hopes, and dreams against your own. And it gives you concreteness: their choices are specific enough to carry back into your own life. The figurative and evocative setting of a good grimdark fantasy gives you all the benefits of fantasy’s dramatization but with the stark and cold jab of life’s miseries. In my opinion, it’s hard to walk away from one without being changed yourself.

Although you don’t have skin in the game, the characters you know and love do. In many books you see them grow, change, and ultimately die—sometimes senselessly. But such is life. And it doesn’t always make sense. Not “sense,” in the logical or legal way, but “sense” in the moral and philosophical way. These lessons are fatal and thus incapable of “adversarial concreteness.” (It’s hard to be adversarial when you’re dead!)

Would I want the Supreme Court of the United States to write like fantasy novelists? Of course not. But I think it’s safe to say they’re dealing with different truths: One deals with objective certainties, “The law is or is not constitutional.” The other deals with objective uncertainties, “Is he the rightful king?” The former runs off information; the latter feeds off faith. The former nurtures the mind, while the latter feeds the soul. As Søren Kierkegaard put it, “An objective uncertainty, held fast through appropriation with the most passionate inwardness, is the truth, the highest truth there is for an existing person.”¹⁰

You don’t get that in an ethics seminar because everyone hates ethics seminars. And you won’t find it in expository nonfiction. No, you need layers, depth, and something which is tastefully vague. That is where you make personal connections—where you recognize something true before you can articulate it. You need to discover morality, not learn it. It’s only as good as your relationship with it.

To be clear, these tenets are not limited to grimdark fantasy. But reading about magic, orcs, massive wars, and dragons is a badass way to learn them. At least I think so. The point is: dial-in what you want. If you want to get a definitive answer on something, then sure, read to learn, attend the seminars, watch the documentary. But if you want to grow as a person, read to discover, host the seminar, challenge the views, and make your own movie. (As cheesy as that sounds.)

The world of grimdark fantasy is a good place to start. Don’t knock it until you try it. You might be surprised what these simple complexities have in store. I know I was.