When I think of a main character who turns unlikeable, I think of Dorian Gray’s infamous portrait. While at first Dorian’s picture is youthful and carries a positive aura, as the story goes on it hardens the lines and twists the features until—while still accurate of who Dorian has become—the image is unrecognizable from our first sight of it. I’ve written about the book characters we love, love to hate, and simply despise, but what about the ones we love at first sight who grow tiresome, hypocritical, and plain old insufferable as the story progresses? Why does this happen? Why does our love for one character transcend thousands and thousands of pages while another has us rolling our eyes and crying oh, the insufferableness by book three?

This particular main-character progression doesn’t seem to happen to purposefully unreliable narrators or villain POV characters, but rather to the “relatable” or “normal” protagonists dropped into the middle of a thrilling mystery or fantasy world. It seems impossible that a main character could have too much main-character syndrome, but online book reviews seem to disagree. A recent example of a beloved character turning insufferable is Violet from The Empyrean series by Rebecca Yarros. After examining the series and reading online reviews, I wondered if these “relatable” protagonists really become “unbearable,” or if they simply become a more accurate picture of the self-serving nature of humanity.

I’ll let you answer that question for yourselves, but from what I observed, “relatable underdog” Violet Sorrengail turns tiresome because her character progression ignores three key truths: self-involvement is only palatable in small doses, good characters are not always the smartest person in the room, and readers expect more from characters than we do from ourselves.

Before I go on to support these claims, I want to note a few things.

First, my criticism comes from the perspective of a reader, not a writer. I currently write cozy mysteries and clean romantic suspense, which means I change main characters often between books. That is completely different from building a character arc across an epic, multi-book romantasy saga. Because I have not written a long-form series as in-depth as The Empyrean, I have no authority to tell a writer in this genre what they should or should not do. That being said, I am an avid reader of epic romantasy, and any criticism here comes strictly from my viewpoint as a reader. And when it comes to personal likes and dislikes, we all know how subjective those are. My opinion does not—and should not—equal yours. Read the books and make up your own mind.

Second, I concede that this post will likely read as more critical than most of what I publish. In general, I rarely rate a book under three stars because, first, I believe you can find something good in almost any book if you’re looking, and second, writing books is incredibly hard. Anyone willing to put in the time, sweat, blood, and tears required to write a novel deserves some credit, if only for bravery. In this case, however, my intent is analysis, not critique. I like these books. I’ve read all three of them and will likely read the next installment. Rebecca Yarros is a great writer—better than me—but liking a book doesn’t mean studying it through rose-colored glasses.

Also, SUPER BIG SPOILER ALERT for everything below.

In the first book of the series, Fourth Wing, a certain amount of self-involvement is necessary for Violet to survive. She’s forced into the brutal and unforgiving world of Basgiath War College despite serious physical limitations. Every day is a struggle to meet the college’s daunting requirements while under constant threat from a group of vengeful students set on killing her for the violent actions of her mother the General. Survival against the odds is one of the overarching themes of this book, and it was genuinely fun to watch Violet think outside the box to overcome each obstacle.

Once we reach books two and three, however, Violet’s character shifts from “underdog” to an almost “chosen one” archetype. In fiction, the chosen-one ego can quickly swell into insufferable. Violet’s drive to secure her own optimal ending at all costs—combined with Yarros’s narrowing of the fantasy world to focus almost exclusively on Violet’s story—feels contrived and diminishes the collective crisis affecting everyone else in this world in favor of Violet’s perceived moral superiority.

For example, in books one and two, Violet justly condemns nearly every mentor and leader in Navarre (including her mother) for keeping the existence of the evil venin secret in order to prevent citizens from demanding open borders and weakening the protections that keep Navarre safe. Yet by book three, Onyx Storm, she actively hides the fact that her boyfriend, Xaden, is slowly turning venin because she hopes to cure him—while simultaneously watching a professor publicly execute a student who, under extreme pressure from an abusive and overall shitty instructor, turns venin during a class without a word of protest from Violet.

Why doesn’t Violet attempt to appeal to leadership to imprison or secure newly turned venin until more research can be conducted, rather than supporting by silence the blanket execution? Isn’t sacrificing those outside one’s personal circle to protect someone you love the very sin she condemned her country, her mother, and her former mentors for committing? Yet she allows other students to die in order to protect her boyfriend at all costs.

This is an understandable decision. In her position, I might have done the same. But when repeated self-serving decisions are paired with a lack of remorse, a once-relatable character can become self-important, selfish, and hypocritical.

And don’t even get me started on the contrived bookstore scene in Onyx Storm. During a diplomatic mission meant to secure military support for an impending war, Violet and her group seek out a mysterious book collector. The ominous test foreshadowed to gain the answers they need ultimately devolves into the woman asking invasive questions about Violet’s love life in front of her current lover, former lover, and almost-lover. The world is on the brink of extinction, but apparently it’s vital for everyone to know that Violet’s ex-boyfriend cheated on her. Mind you, these characters are not teenagers—they are supposed to be fully grown adults.

In some works of fiction, know-it-all characters can be fun. Sherlock Holmes comes to mind. But doesn’t always being the smartest person in the room push a supposedly relatable character further into chosen-one territory? Apparently, Violet’s childhood spent reading in libraries makes her smarter than everyone else—young and old—at all times, even though extensive factual knowledge does not always correlate with intelligence or problem-solving ability.

Nothing illustrates this more clearly than Violet’s diplomatic stop at the island of Hedotis, a society supposedly built on peace and knowledge. Hedotis will only allow entry to its inner city after guests pass a wisdom test administered by a triumvirate. Violet and her group—conveniently composed of only two seasoned officers among ten twenty-somethings, with Violet inexplicably in charge—are tested over an awkward dinner involving poisoning, threats, and maneuvering. Naturally, Violet outsmarts the entire triumvirate, saves a friend from being poisoned, nearly kills the leadership council, and orchestrates an escape, once again reinforcing the idea that she is the smartest person in the room.

But is she? Or did Yarros simply dumb everyone else down?

During this test, the triumvirate encourages Violet’s group to form monarchical marriage alliances with each other to demonstrate wisdom—despite Hedotis clearly favoring democratic leadership through elected officials and citizen councils. Why would leaders who reject monarchy encourage their guests to embrace it? They wouldn’t. Which is why this scene feels engineered solely to place Violet and Xaden into yet another contrived emotional confrontation designed to prompt a declaration of undying love. Romantic and swoony, yes—but when a writer repeatedly diminishes older, experienced authority figures just to elevate a protagonist, readers grow tired and eyes begin to roll.

The uncomfortable truth is that readers expect more of characters than we do of ourselves. We mock the woman who willingly walks into her basement after hearing a strange noise, labeling her “too stupid to live,” yet if I heard a noise in my own basement on a Monday morning, I wouldn’t call the police—I’d go investigate, assuming it was a bat or bird rather than a serial killer.

I’m not suggesting Violet can’t make mistakes or be flawed. But when repeated self-motivated errors fail to lead to growth, sacrifice, or even acknowledgment that one’s perspective isn’t absolute, readers tire of that self-interest—even though self-interest is fundamentally human.

Violet’s diplomatic mission ends in violence at two of the three locations visited and the death of a team member at the third. After all of this, a discerning reader might ask why allowing a group of twenty-somethings—alongside a dangerously powerful Xaden who is actively losing his soul—to lead such a mission was ever a realistic decision. And when book three ends with Violet being given control over an entire region of Navarre while conveniently having her memory wiped so she can’t reveal Xaden’s location now that he is fully venin, it’s fair to ask why readers should continue investing in a protagonist who shows no sign of recovery from her main-character syndrome.

When we read about “relatable” heroes, we want the first image of Dorian Gray—not what the portrait eventually becomes. Self-absorption grows old quickly, dumbing down other characters does not make the protagonist more believable, and readers expect more from fictional heroes than we do from ourselves.

What do you think? Which relatable characters have you seen grow insufferable?

And if you are in the mood for a completely unserious read, check out JUST DESSERTS!