I was watching a documentary the other night about some obscure marathon runner who basically came out of nowhere to place in the top ten, and it got me thinking about how much we collectively obsess over the "nobody" who makes it big. It’s a trope, sure, but it feels like it’s baked into our DNA. We are suckers for a Cinderella story.
In almost every competitive arena—whether it’s professional sports, the tech industry, or even just a local high-stakes poker game—there is this specific archetype of the person who shouldn't be there. They are the ones who weren't invited to the big table, the ones who didn't get the fancy credentials, or the ones who were overlooked during the initial selection process. And for some reason, we don't just watch them; we become their biggest evangelists.
I remember back in my early twenties, I worked at a small tech startup where we had this intern who was incredibly quiet, almost invisible. He didn't have the pedigree of the Ivy League grads we'd hired, and for the first three months, it felt like he was just taking up desk space. But then, during a massive system crash that had the senior engineers sweating through their shirts, this kid just... stepped up. He saw a pattern no one else did, fixed the bug in twenty minutes, and basically saved the company's quarterly contract. We all felt this weird sense of vindication. It wasn't just that he was talented; it was that we got to say, "I knew he had it in him."
There’s a psychological component to this that I find fascinating. When a "star" succeeds, it’s expected. It’s the natural order of things. There’s no emotional payoff because the outcome was already written in the stars. But when the person who was essentially discarded or ignored by the gatekeepers suddenly stands toe-to-toe with the giants, it feels like a glitch in the matrix. It feels like justice. It validates the idea that meritocracy actually exists, even if it’s flawed and messy.
However, I also wonder if our obsession with the underdog actually does a disservice to the "established" talent. We tend to treat the superstars like they’re boring or predictable, which is a bit unfair. They put in the work to reach that level, and they maintain it through incredible discipline. But we don't write songs about the guy who stays at the top for ten years; we write songs about the guy who climbs the mountain in a single afternoon.
I think it also says something about our own insecurities. Watching someone rise from nothing, or from a position of total insignificance, to a place of prominence gives us a sense of hope. If they can bypass the traditional gates and still win, then maybe the rules aren't as rigid as we fear. It suggests that the "system"—whatever that may be—isn't as invincible as it pretends to be.
I see this happening in fandoms all the time. People will latch onto a player or an artist who is essentially a "filler" character and treat them like a deity the moment they show a glimmer of potential. It’s a roller coaster of hype, and honestly, it can be exhausting to watch. One day they're a nobody, the next they're the savior, and then, if they stumble just once, the same people who were cheering for them are the first to say, "I knew they weren't ready."
Is it actually about the talent, or is it just about the thrill of watching the hierarchy get disrupted?
Does anyone else find themselves rooting for the person who "has no business being there" more than the person who is clearly the favorite?
In almost every competitive arena—whether it’s professional sports, the tech industry, or even just a local high-stakes poker game—there is this specific archetype of the person who shouldn't be there. They are the ones who weren't invited to the big table, the ones who didn't get the fancy credentials, or the ones who were overlooked during the initial selection process. And for some reason, we don't just watch them; we become their biggest evangelists.
I remember back in my early twenties, I worked at a small tech startup where we had this intern who was incredibly quiet, almost invisible. He didn't have the pedigree of the Ivy League grads we'd hired, and for the first three months, it felt like he was just taking up desk space. But then, during a massive system crash that had the senior engineers sweating through their shirts, this kid just... stepped up. He saw a pattern no one else did, fixed the bug in twenty minutes, and basically saved the company's quarterly contract. We all felt this weird sense of vindication. It wasn't just that he was talented; it was that we got to say, "I knew he had it in him."
There’s a psychological component to this that I find fascinating. When a "star" succeeds, it’s expected. It’s the natural order of things. There’s no emotional payoff because the outcome was already written in the stars. But when the person who was essentially discarded or ignored by the gatekeepers suddenly stands toe-to-toe with the giants, it feels like a glitch in the matrix. It feels like justice. It validates the idea that meritocracy actually exists, even if it’s flawed and messy.
However, I also wonder if our obsession with the underdog actually does a disservice to the "established" talent. We tend to treat the superstars like they’re boring or predictable, which is a bit unfair. They put in the work to reach that level, and they maintain it through incredible discipline. But we don't write songs about the guy who stays at the top for ten years; we write songs about the guy who climbs the mountain in a single afternoon.
I think it also says something about our own insecurities. Watching someone rise from nothing, or from a position of total insignificance, to a place of prominence gives us a sense of hope. If they can bypass the traditional gates and still win, then maybe the rules aren't as rigid as we fear. It suggests that the "system"—whatever that may be—isn't as invincible as it pretends to be.
I see this happening in fandoms all the time. People will latch onto a player or an artist who is essentially a "filler" character and treat them like a deity the moment they show a glimmer of potential. It’s a roller coaster of hype, and honestly, it can be exhausting to watch. One day they're a nobody, the next they're the savior, and then, if they stumble just once, the same people who were cheering for them are the first to say, "I knew they weren't ready."
Is it actually about the talent, or is it just about the thrill of watching the hierarchy get disrupted?
Does anyone else find themselves rooting for the person who "has no business being there" more than the person who is clearly the favorite?