In “Chronically Online,” columnist Chloe Shannon Wong ’28 spotlights Stanford students immersed in the world of the Internet. 

A passionate game developer and CS/Design double major, Lucas Wang ’27 is highly active in Stanford’s academic sphere. But on campus, Wang is also affiliated with a more niche community — he’s the president of the Furries at Stanford club.

For the uninitiated, furries are people interested in “ways to humanize an animal,” according to Wang. They attribute human characteristics to animals, creating anthropomorphic “fursonas” (a portmanteau of “furry” and “persona”) that represent alter egos. Furries express their identity through writing, visual art and roleplay. 

The furry community has its own rich traditions, mythology and norms — and it’s just one of many diverse fandoms. 

According to Jenessa Williams, a first-year postdoctoral researcher at the Stanford Digital Civil Society Lab whose work focuses on fan culture, participating in a fandom is “the appreciation of some figure, or text or franchise.” Cambridge Dictionary defines fandom even more broadly, as a group that expresses enthusiasm for “something or someone.” 

But what is the line between being a fan versus a casual enjoyer?

As a fan, “you start sharing or responding to the thing you’re a fan of, rather than just passively consuming it,” Williams said. 

Embracing the silliness

Wang discovered the furry fandom in middle school. During COVID-19, he connected with other furries on Discord — a social platform with messaging groups called “servers” — and integrated further into the community he described as “creative” and “artistic.” 

As a furry, Wang enjoys telling stories about his fursona, a bat named Skylar. 

“Of course, I don’t think I’m a bat, right?” Wang said. “But it’s a digital representation of what I could be.” Imagining these possibilities, he said, is “really cool.” 

Wang’s fandom life was mostly confined to the Internet until he co-founded the furry affinity club at Stanford last year. He initially worried the club would be “social suicide,” until he was heartened by UC Berkeley’s furry community, which is hundreds-strong. Nevertheless, Wang remains conscious of the negative stigma surrounding furries. 

“If I tell somebody [I’m a furry], it’s a trust thing,” he said. “I trust them to understand.” His reticence isn’t uncommon. Outsiders fixate on “out-there” aspects of furrydom (such as erotica and pornographic material), which creates a biased image of the fandom. 

“We are normal people,” Wang said. “That’s not the type of stuff that the club does, nor is that [what] I want people to think that we are.” 

From expert talks on furry psychology to fursuit-making workshops, Furries at Stanford events are artistic, educational and open to the community at large. Even Cal students are welcome to attend — there’s “some diplomacy happening” between the organizations, according to Wang. 

And despite what critics think, furry culture is not a foreign (or recent) human development. 

“A lot of furries say the first cave paintings were anthropomorphic animals,” Wang said. Society abounds with furry-coded media, including children’s films like “Zootopia.” Yet, general society sees this as best left in the past. 

“When there are fandoms that are like, ‘this sense of play and experimentation is important to us,’ it’s easy for people to look at that as immature,” Williams said. 

But tapping into one’s sense of childlike joy can be healthy and positive. For Wang, fandom is a respite in Stanford’s work-centric environment.

“I see the furry fandom as a way to be silly, and to embrace the silliness,” Wang said. 

Today a TikToker — tomorrow, a diplomat

K-Pop stan (portmanteau of “stalker” and “fan”) Anika Iyer ’28 runs a TikTok fan page dedicated to Korean musical groups like NCT. Iyer’s interest in K-Pop led them to self-learn Korean, culminating in their TikTok page which translates K-Pop content for non-Korean fans. 

Whenever people discuss fandom’s dark side, “everyone defaults to talking about K-Pop,” said Williams, who is herself a K-Pop fan. The very language of K-Pop carries unusual connotations: Musical artists are literally referred to as idols. 

As Williams emphasized, celebrity devotion is not only rampant in Korea, but the West too. And fans aren’t entirely to blame. 

“The music industry has a lot to reckon with in terms of the way they treat their artists,” Williams said. Artists like One Direction and Taylor Swift are marketed as “perfect” beings who “fans can project their identities onto.” This parasociality is compounded by the commercial success of diaristic music, which makes fans feel as if they genuinely understand celebrities’ inner lives. 

And even one-sided connections bring real comfort to those in fandom.

Idols are “always there for me,” Iyer said. 

And so are their fellow fans. Iyer has found that K-Pop lovers are ubiquitous on the Farm. At Stanford, Iyer is part of XTRM, a K-Pop dance group on campus, and is open about their fanhood. 

“I lost all my embarrassment coming here,” Iyer said. “So many people at Stanford read [K-Pop] fanfiction!” 

Stan culture stereotypes aside, Iyer doesn’t take fandom that seriously. They hope to dispel any notions that they would ever sincerely refer to an idol as their “boyfriend.” 

“I’m not delusional unironically,” they said. “It’s just a joke.”

What isn’t a joke is a fandom’s capacity for influence. As an example of what Williams called the “fangirl-to-professional pipeline,” Iyer is a full-fledged polyglot, fluent in (or learning) six languages. Their career goal is to work internationally as a diplomat.

“[K-Pop] gave me an idea of what I want to do in my life,” Iyer said. 

The invisible reader

After a period of creative burnout, only one thing led Jiayi Luo ’25 to pick up the pen again: fanfiction.

Luo, who developed an interest in video games like “Armored Core IV,” became so “personally devoted to lore investigation” that they started uploading fanfiction to Archive of Our Own (AO3). A global fanfiction website that hosts approximately 14 million published works, AO3 allows users to post pseudonymously and receive “kudos” and comments on their publications.

Luo specializes in writing for a niche romantic pairing (in fanfic terminology, a “rare-pair”). Aside from getting to produce creative work they “feel good about,” Luo enjoys the “pondering, philosophical” side of fanfiction, too. 

Fanfiction writers are “interested in very existential themes,” Luo said. By definition, fanfiction writers push the boundaries of established canon, interpreting existing narratives as they please. As Luo put it, “We are all just a little, like, bat-shit insane.” 

Williams noted that there is a certain “tension” to fanfiction.

“Obviously, [fanfiction] is public on the internet,” Williams said. “But the way people write is so intensely personal.” Receiving attention from other fans because of one’s writing, then, might feel strange.

Luo, for one, takes a more solitary approach to fanfiction. They gladly share their writing online, but rarely interact with other users. Luo considers fandom a breeding ground for drama. In the fanfiction community, users often engage in “puritanical” content policing. 

Minors as young as 13 can join AO3 — and while a content warning function exists, the platform itself doesn’t censor violent, offensive or sexually explicit content. Fans may take it upon themselves to criticize fanfiction writers who produce said content, particularly in communities where fans are young and unprepared for sensitive material.

It’s a complex issue that may not be best ironed out virtually. Teens today are “kind of just thrown into the internet,” according to Williams. It’s easy to stumble upon inappropriate work; all authors can do is utilize relevant content warnings, she added. 

Ultimately, Luo is a writer. They aren’t in it for the online quarrels, but, rather, for creative fulfillment: “[I’m] really just doing it for all the invisible readers,” they said. 

The call of fandom 

In fandom, the “gratitude for having found your people” can be both positive and negative, according to Williams. Fandom may feel even more “emotionally charged” than reality because of shared interest — and like any pursuit, can be taken too far.

It’s important to occasionally step back, combat obsession and “touch grass,” Williams said. But while fandom can be toxic, it still helps society more than it hurts. 

Fandom is a safe space for stigmatized communities like furries; a hub for like-minded people to geek out over K-pop or video games; a potential birthplace for future careers.

Fandom also has broader political implications. In Luo’s home country of China, where free speech is restricted, writers are obligated to conform to the Chinese Communist Party’s ideologies. Fanfiction is how one can produce self-expression that “comes out of your own heart,” said Luo.

Which is, perhaps, fandom at its brightest light.

“Being able to say, ‘I care really passionately about lots of different things, and this is how I want to make friends’…I think that’s a really healthy way of looking at fandom,” Williams said. 

Existing only in the digital ether, unchained from oppressive laws and conformist social norms, fandom attracts individuals from every walk of life. Communities are countless, diverse and textured. Fandom is mystical — and therefore, irresistible.

According to Luo, “if fandom calls out to someone, it’s not something you can really deny.”