Literature and Drama Editor Gemma Bini explores why YA’s mass appeal may be eroding both literary standards and critical thinking.
Young adult literature is a genre that eludes any specific definition. Some critics, such as Dinah Birch, have described these books as “addressed to the adolescent/teenage market [...], for the 13–18 age-range”. Yet, this description no longer reflects the reality of its audience. According to Wordsrated, 35.03 million print copies were sold in 2022 and over 51% of its consumers were between the ages of 30 and 44. Birch’s account now only evokes the days when series such as Percy Jackson and Harry Potter were beginning to appear in bookshops. YA has thus changed dramatically, as it went from being a niche genre for teenagers to a mainstream commercial powerhouse capable of competing with traditional literary fiction.
Today, YA books dominate shelves, spanning romance, fantasy, crime and countless hybrids. Yet, its unprecedented popularity has also drawn criticism. The word ‘anti-intellectualism’ has made its way into online discourse, aimed at the perceived triviality of much of the genre. As a response, many of its fans have accused YA’s belittlers of elitism. I share the view that no one’s passions should be dismissed; after all, de gustibus non est disputandum. However, I keep returning to two questions: what are the dangers of a genre like YA, for both the art of literature and for its enjoyers? And why is it so relentlessly pushed by the literary industry? These questions go beyond personal taste. They speak to the cultural responsibility of publishers, authors and even readers, all those who help shape the literary diet of society.
One recurring concern is predictability. Tropes have become selling points. All discussions of these books’ plots are limited to terms like ‘slowburn’, ‘enemies to lovers’ or ‘childhood friends’. This raises the question: why would someone want to know the storyline of a book before they read it? The answer seems to lie in a constant craving for comfort. Readers are no longer looking for something entirely unseen before, they want to follow a similar path every time they run through the pages of a novel. It’s like watching the same series again and again - only the characters and settings change their names. In doing so the act of reading risks becoming less about exploration and more about confirmation of what we already know.
There is, of course, nothing inherently wrong about seeking a safe space in literature. Not everything a person consumes has to be challenging, a break might be needed sometimes. Plus, the intense socio-political context we are experiencing leads many of us to look for escapism. During the Covid pandemic, for example, recreational reading rose 22% according to the US Bureau of Labor Statistics. History shows that in moments of crisis readers often turn to the familiar.
Sophie Lambert, a literary agent interviewed by Zoe Williams, observed that modern readers are often seeking to “escape and hope and wonder and love”. Romance, in particular, seems to be driving the rise of YA literature. Coleen Hoover has become one of the genre’s most influential figures, yet her work is often criticised for being shallow and predictable. One of her most famous pieces, It Ends With Us, revolves around the notion that one could be saved from an abusive relationship if only they manage to find the “right” person. Forbes reports that over 10 million copies of the novel were sold, a staggering figure considering its controversial premise. As charming as the love story may seem, it leads one to wonder: how can so many people engage with such themes so passively, without questioning the implications of what is presented to them?
The answer may lie in the unavoidable effect of consuming comfort literature in such volume: readers end up developing a tendency to engage with texts passively, without critical reflection. This responsibility, however, does not rest solely with their personal choices. Publishing houses have built vast profits on the back of YA sales, aggressively promoting the genre online. Penguin Books’ Tiktok content, for example, is primarily dedicated to upcoming YA releases, and so is Harper Collins’. The priority seems clear: getting these titles into as many hands as possible.
The result is a self perpetuating cycle: publishers push comfort literature because it sells and readers, accustomed to easy narratives, avoid demanding work. Given the pressure of modern life, it is not surprising that readers gravitate towards escapism. But, on the other hand, why would the gatekeepers of the literary market actively encourage such a narrowing of the reading landscape - beyond high revenues?
Historically speaking, any authority that has promoted anti-intellectualism has rarely had benign intentions. In fact, John Stanley has identified it as one of the main tools used by fascist regimes to establish their authority. He was not referring to the Nazi book burnings of the 40s, he was analysing how contemporary far right, authoritarian regimes - such as those of Trump, Putin and Orbán - will employ strategies that foster hostility towards critical and academic thought, especially when linked to feminist, lgbtq+ or antiracist theory. Critical thought is not just a fundamental right of the working class, it is an essential safeguard for democracy.
The fact that literature, once an artform that stimulated critical reflection, is increasingly stripped of intellectual challenge and repackaged as an easily digestible divertissement is troubling. Books have historically had the power to spark revolutions: Rousseau’s The Social Contract was one of the pieces that eventually led to the decline of ‘divine’ monarchies in Europe, for example. It appears, however, that today the market feeds readers a steady diet of formulaic comfort narratives, consumed one after the other. The risk is a gradual loss of our ability to critically engage with culture and question the rise of conservatorism that we are experiencing.
Even if the consequences of this trend were politically neutral, the effect on the quality of this artform would still be significant. The rise of YA books has led both producers and consumers to prefer quantity over quality. Although reading has become more accessible, the content that many feel more comfortable to approach is not challenging enough to help them grow, both on a personal and an intellectual level. And while many of the books which are now considered classics were regarded as low-brow when they first came out, such as Pride and Prejudice, I doubt we will ever compare Coleen Hoover to Jane Austen. If we keep consuming books that ask little of us, we may not only find ourselves with fewer great books but also with fewer great readers.
To conclude, I am not arguing that we should throw away all YA novels. Everyone should feel free to enjoy reading whatever they prefer. I am, however, suggesting to reflect upon the implications of a literary culture that chooses comfort over challenge. If we allow literature to become a mirror of strictly what we know, it will lose our power to surprise us and sharpen our understanding of the world. Plus, books do not exist in a vacuum. They reflect our society, even if unintentionally, and so do our reading habits. Hence, choosing books that make us think is not merely a personal choice, but an act of political resistance against the rise of anti-intellectualism.