During last Star Wars Celebration in Japan, over 120,000 fans showed up—not for a premiere, not for a sale, but for what can only be described as a pilgrimage. We didn’t just attend an event; we participated in a global ritual. Sociologists have a name for this: they call it a “sacred experience in a secular world.” And they’re not wrong. Every year, millions of us travel hundreds or thousands of kilometres to be in a room with other people who get it. We dress up, we trade stories, we affirm our shared identity. It’s not just fandom, it’s a community with its own symbols, sentiments, and sense of the sacred.
Fandoms, like religions, can be exclusive. When a group decides there’s only one “true way” to be a fan, conflict brews. And just like religious communities, we can be stigmatised by outsiders for caring too much. Ever been mocked for loving Star Wars? That’s the same dynamic that’s played out throughout human history: the mainstream looking at the devout and wondering, “Why is this so important to you?”
Our devotion has a dark side. In recent years, parts of the Star Wars fandom have become more dynamically hostile, especially toward some characters or newer productions. That’s not passion. That’s toxicity. And it’s a reminder that when fandom starts operating like a religion, it can inherit religion’s worst traits: gatekeeping, dogma, and the belief that anyone who disagrees is a heretic.
I don’t call my fandom a religion. But I can’t ignore the parallels. What happens when a community built on love starts punishing its own? That’s the question I’m sitting with—and it’s one we all need to ask.
This post is adapted from my doctorate research on the intersection of religiosity and fandom.