If you’ve ever expressed even a passing desire to visit Disneyland in Anaheim or Walt Disney World in Orlando, Fla., you may have had friends who raised their eyebrows, groaned or even sneered.
The heart of their criticism isn’t just that they think Disney is for kids, or that it’s so prohibitively expensive. It’s what I call the “authenticity objection” — the belief that there’s something fundamentally wrong with visits to theme parks like the Magic Kingdom because they occur in a wholly manufactured environment. The artificial mountains and rivers, the rides that provide nothing more than mindless distraction, the “cast members” dressed up as characters.
It’s all so fake.
While some express this view in jest, others believe the false environments border on a cultural abomination. One online forum explicitly cites the manufactured nature of Disney parks as a reason not to go, noting that the “smiling staff, the piped-in music, the perfect landscaping” can feel “creepy and overly controlled.”
Journalist EJ Dickson, herself a Disney fan, admits that visitors to the parks “willingly spend thousands of dollars on an authentic emotional experience that they know, at least on some level, isn’t really authentic at all.” And a popular Trip Advisor review dismisses Disney World as “a hot, commercialized, fake experience.”
But as a philosopher who recently published a book, “The Magic Kingdom and the Meaning of Life,” I find criticisms of the parks as fake to be a bit difficult to understand.
Marketing professors George Newman and Rosanna Smith note that philosophers have tended to think about authenticity through the lens of whether “entities are what they are purported to be.” Apply that standard to the worlds of Disney: Do they present themselves as anything other than Disney-themed amusement parks?
There are legitimate reasons to complain about the authenticity of some experiences. If you buy a ticket to a Van Gogh exhibit, you could rightfully complain if you discover only reproductions on display. The fact that you hadn’t been able to tell the difference while viewing the paintings wouldn’t matter. By contrast, Disney attractions don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are.
When people at Disney’s Hollywood Studios ride Mickey and Minnie’s Runaway Railway, they know they’re not actually on a runaway train being incompetently driven by a talking canine named Goofy. If Disney had marketed the attraction as something else — say, an Amtrak trip for kids — perhaps there would be grounds for complaining.
If the initial form of the authenticity objection is relatively easy to handle, another concern lurks in the vicinity: The idea that Disney fans are somehow inauthentic, due to their willingness to turn themselves over to the trappings of an artificial world.
The precise nature of this concern is difficult to characterize. But it involves the belief that people who spend a lot of time in manufactured environments tend to delude themselves in ways that evade understanding and engaging with their true selves. Terms like “existential authenticity” or “self-authenticity” seem to capture what’s at stake.
This supposed connection between the fake world of Disney and the corruption of one’s authentic self is on full display in descriptions of so-called “Disney Adults.”
As Dickson characterizes this view in Rolling Stone, “being a Disney fan in adulthood is to profess to being nothing less than an uncritical bubblehead ensconced in one’s own privilege, suspended in a state of permanent adolescence… refusing to acknowledge the grim reality that dreams really don’t come true.”
But I would strongly push back on the idea that a love of Disney renders people fake or inauthentic in any meaningful way.
As A.J. Wolfe argues in her 2025 book, “Disney Adults,” even the most passionate devotees resist simple categorization. None of them, she explains, seem to be running from their true selves or even trying, in the slightest, to live in an imaginary world.
In her book, Wolfe profiles Lady Chappelle, a British tattoo artist who relocates to San Diego, where she exclusively inks Disney-themed tattoos. Then there’s Brandon, a Hollywood drag queen who designed a Carousel of Progress-themed kitchen in honor of the attraction that now resides at Disney’s Magic Kingdom in Orlando.
These people are representative of pretty much all Disney Adults: They’re passionate about Disney, but they’re also passionate about tattooing and drag and myriad other pursuits.
For Disney Adults, Wolfe writes, an affection for the parks mostly adds “extra color and brightness — maybe definition, motivation, or inspiration if you’re lucky — to the complex and evolving masterpiece that is [their] life.”
And if that complexity applies to the most committed Disney fans, it’s that much harder to cast casual visitors in such a negative light.
If theme parks aren’t your thing, that’s perfectly fine. You can have a wonderful life without setting foot in EPCOT or the Animal Kingdom.
But Disney World has a number of virtues that its critics often miss.
I think it’s a great place for people of all ages, backgrounds and abilities to create valuable memories together. When I ride Tiana’s Bayou Adventure with my wife and our intellectually disabled daughter, there’s a little something for everyone: just enough thrill and storytelling for the adults while not being overwhelming for my daughter. It’s a combination that can be difficult to find in many other places.
Moreover, because we are transported out of our daily routines, the parks can present surprising opportunities for reflection. I’ve thought a lot about cultural expectations around happiness while at Disney. Should I try to maximize my pleasure during this short trip? Or simply take each day as it comes? I’ve learned to embrace the latter.
Yes, there are many people who simply want to use the worlds of Disney — theme park, films or otherwise — to escape the grind of everyday life. But is seeking such an escape a greater threat to authenticity than checking out by playing video games, watching sports, reading smutty novels or using drugs and alcohol?
Is it possible for people to lose themselves in fantasy? Of course — just as it’s possible for anyone to lose themselves in their careers, relationships or hobbies. But in an age of curated social media accounts, influencer marketing and political doublespeak, the manufactured worlds of Disney might offer more authenticity than you’d think.
Adam Kadlac is Teaching Professor of Philosophy at Wake Forest University and author of “The Magic Kingdom and the Meaning of Life.” This article was produced in partnership with the Conversation.
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