EVER since the early days of popular culture, fans have been saddled with a dubious reputation. Condemned as irrational or aberrant, their behaviour is often considered a threat to the social order or a kind of mental illness. The New Statesman‘s assessment of Beatles fans in 1964 as “the least fortunate of their generation, the dull, the idle, the failures” has been levelled in various forms at young pop fans many times since. We seem to find it difficult to trust fans, particularly when they vent their passions together.
But this depiction doesn’t tally with social psychologists‘ perspective on fan culture. Viewed from the inside, fandoms look surprisingly conventional. First and foremost, they are one of the most visible manifestations of the age-old human impulse to belong. Our social lives are defined by our tendency to seek out others who share our traits, background, interests or outlook. We evolved to live in groups, a reality that shapes almost everything we do. A fandom is a particular kind of group: a collection of people who love the same thing and who come together to share it.
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This simple act of cooperation and belonging can be immensely powerful. While researching my book, Fans, I met many people whose lives had been transformed by their fandoms. This comment from a Jane Austen enthusiast is typical of fans from all cultural genres: “This group has been such a massive part of my journey to getting back to a better place. Finding people of a similar age to me who geek out over Jane Austen and period dramas and pretty dresses was like, ‘Oh my gosh, I’ve finally found my people.'”
Fandoms differ from most other social groups in one obvious way: they attract people with widely divergent experiences and backgrounds. When you love something that others love, many of the traditional boundaries fall away. Fans are drawn in by a common interest, but they stay for a host of reasons: to be entertained, to broaden their perspective, to experience a particular reality, to connect with like-minded others or to trade theories about the things that fascinate them – Harry Potter’s parentage, for example, or the meaning of a Nicki Minaj lyric.
It might seem surprising that sharing an interest can lead to such enriching experiences, but this kind of “minimal group” effect is well known in social psychology. One of the pioneers of the field, Henri Tajfel, who worked at the University of Bristol, UK, in the 1960s and 70s, found that people could be encouraged to form loyal groups on the flimsiest of premises, such as a preference for a particular artist, or even the random toss of a coin. Tajfel and his colleague John Turner believed group membership gives people a distinct identity – they called it a social identity – and that this provides some kind of meaning to an otherwise empty situation.
A social identity gives us a sense of ourselves in relation to others: we are who we are because of what we share with them. Social identity is separate from personal identity, which reflects individual traits such as physical appearance and personality. During those moments when you feel like an integral part of a group – while watching a football match, for example, or attending a Doctor Who convention – your social identity (“We’re Whovians!”) is more prominent than your personal one.
Tajfel and Turner’s insights can help us understand the transformative power of fandoms and why they have become so prevalent in popular culture. Swifties, Janeites, Barbz, Directioners, Trekkers and other groups may look different in their tastes and attitudes, but the dynamics underlying them all are very similar. There is little to fear in the adoration of these fans, and much to celebrate.
Michael Bond is author of Fans: A journey into the psychology of belonging and Wayfinding
