As a piece of literature, Andor is genuinely exceptional. I’d contend that it’s a landmark in how it approaches character construction and steps away from conventional monomythic frameworks, devices, and narrative contours. And its core message is startlingly prescient. And I’m not necessarily referring to its overt commentary on authoritarianism—at least not directly.
We live in a culture where “humble” nearly functions as a pejorative. The incentive architecture of social media has elevated grandiose narcissism and performative behaviour into routine, even celebrated, traits. Phrases like “NPC” or “do it for the plot” have bled into common vernacular.
Andor actively rejects this.
Cassian is more than the archetypal reluctant protagonist—he’s wilfully passionless (outside of familial ties), and absent traditional charisma. Notably, he is written with a degree of passivity that would typically be frowned upon in screenwriting. For much of the series, he is swept along by the inertia of others—those with ambition, influence, and presence. He actively dismisses any suggestion that he is destined for something. And in what is functionally the finale of his story (Rogue One), he, the titular character, functions as a supporting character to Jyn Erso, who by birthright assumes the lead.
In truth, Andor’s plot is driven by its supporting characters, developed with more depth than I’ve encountered in nearly any series. One of the franchise’s most quoted lines is delivered by a nameless hotel clerk. In contrast to many of these side characters, Cassian’s own backstory is relatively boring. These minor characters, in several cases, contribute more directly to the Death Star’s destruction than even Cassian does.
The series doesn’t just explore the “banality of evil” through the ISB—that’s fairly evident—it also illustrates a “mundanity of heroism”. Moments that, in any other setting, might be utterly forgettable. In some instances, the acts are even passive: the hotel clerk who simply doesn’t log Cassian’s name; the hangar tech who looks the other way as Cassian steals prototype Tie fighter. Or Brasso inventing an alibi for Cassian, then later feigning betrayal to protect his farmer neighbour. Or marrying your daughter off for political gain or Lonni reading his colleague’s e-mails.
These are not acts of traditionally heroic swashbuckling. But they grow. Slight gestures compound, each one a little bolder, more costly, more resolute. They layer into something formidable. The message is quietly radical: the power of unremarkable, decent, quietly determined people—many of whom possess no extraordinary skills, abilities, no ambition, no hunger for credit.
And often their ends are brutally unsentimental: Nemik crushed in a loading mishap, Cinta struck down by a stray shot, Lonni’s corpse found by a dog, Kino unable to swim. There’s a striking contrast here between romantic, virtue-signaling grandiosity and the unsung grunt work that truly moves the needle. It’s an empowering presentation of the accessibility of heroism.
