Keep It in the Shadows

The world of What We Do in the Shadows is a low-magic, modern urban fantasy setting that exists almost entirely within the contemporary real world, with New York City functioning exactly as it does in reality. Technology is fully modern—cell phones, the internet, social media, cars, office jobs, and bureaucratic systems all operate normally—but are frequently misunderstood, misused, or outright feared by supernatural beings who are centuries out of date. Magic exists, but it is rare, specialized, and deeply impractical, often ritualistic rather than flashy, and treated less like a structured system and more like an inherited superstition that sometimes works and sometimes catastrophically backfires. What sets this world apart is that the supernatural is hidden in plain sight. Vampires, witches, werewolves, ghosts, necromancers, and other occult entities coexist alongside humans not because of elaborate secrecy systems, but because humans are generally oblivious, dismissive, or easily hypnotized. Supernatural powers—hypnosis, flight, transformation, resurrection, curses—are real, but they are constrained by petty rules, personal incompetence, and social consequences rather than grand cosmic laws. Immortality is not glamorous here; it is stagnant, bureaucratic, and often humiliating, turning epic monsters into bored roommates arguing over chores and local politics. The defining tone of the world is absurdist realism: ancient mythological beings are subject to mundane frustrations like landlord disputes, city council meetings, workplace harassment policies, and immigration laws. There is no epic destiny driving the setting forward; instead, the world is shaped by inertia, bad decisions, and the slow erosion of relevance that comes with living forever. Magic and monstrosity exist, but they are filtered through comedy, decay, and emotional pettiness, making the setting uniquely grounded despite its supernatural population.

In What We Do in the Shadows, there are no traditional kingdoms in the medieval sense; instead, the world is shaped by modern cities overlaid with informal, often dysfunctional supernatural territories. New York City is the most important urban center in the series, functioning as both a global human metropolis and a densely populated supernatural ecosystem. Each borough operates like an unspoken domain where vampires, witches, werewolves, and other entities coexist under loose hierarchies enforced by custom, reputation, and occasional violence rather than formal law. The city’s sheer size, anonymity, and constant influx of people make it ideal for supernatural beings to feed, hide, and feud without drawing serious attention. Staten Island serves as the primary geographic anchor of the story and acts almost like a backwater province within the larger supernatural world. The vampires’ decaying mansion is both a personal fiefdom and a symbol of faded power—once meant to be a base for conquering the New World, now reduced to an embarrassing relic surrounded by suburban sprawl. Staten Island’s isolation from Manhattan mirrors the vampires’ own cultural irrelevance, reinforcing the theme that they are powerful beings stranded in the least glamorous corner of immortality. Beyond New York, the world implies a network of international supernatural centers—London as a bureaucratic heart for vampire governance, Eastern Europe as an old-world cradle of vampiric tradition, and various global cities that function as feeding grounds and political hotspots. These locations are treated less as epic landscapes and more as extensions of modern infrastructure: airports, council chambers, abandoned buildings, sewers, nightclubs, and office parks. Geographic features that matter most are not mountains or rivers, but urban liminal spaces—basements, rooftops, tunnels, forgotten neighborhoods, and historic buildings—places where the supernatural can persist just out of sight, shaping a world defined not by grand borders, but by neglect, habit, and urban decay.

The world of What We Do in the Shadows is inhabited by a variety of supernatural races layered invisibly over human civilization, with humans remaining the dominant population simply because they are numerous, unaware, and easily manipulated. Vampires are the most prominent race and exist in multiple subtypes—traditional blood-drinking vampires, energy vampires like Colin Robinson, and rare hybrids—each with their own social expectations and taboos. Vampires organize themselves into loose territorial claims tied to cities or neighborhoods rather than nations, with authority enforced through reputation, ancient customs, and the occasional intervention of vampire councils. Relationships among vampires are deeply political but absurdly petty, marked by rivalries, romantic entanglements, and centuries-old grudges that rarely lead to meaningful progress. Humans occupy all major cities and regions by default, unknowingly sharing space with the supernatural. Most humans serve as food, labor, or emotional sustenance, though a small subset—familiars—actively enter into servitude, hoping to be turned into vampires themselves. Familiars form a strange underclass within supernatural society: tolerated, exploited, and often mocked, yet essential to the vampires’ survival in a modern world they barely understand. Human institutions—government, law enforcement, workplaces—unknowingly shape supernatural behavior by creating obstacles that ancient beings are ill-equipped to navigate. Werewolves exist as a separate and often antagonistic race, organized into packs rather than territories, with strength, dominance, and ritual combat defining their social structure. Their relationship with vampires is openly hostile, rooted in ancient conflicts that persist mostly out of tradition rather than necessity. Werewolves tend to inhabit marginal or liminal spaces—parks, industrial zones, forests near urban areas—places where they can gather without scrutiny, reinforcing their identity as outsiders even among supernatural beings. Witches, necromancers, ghosts, demons, and other occult entities exist on the fringes of the supernatural hierarchy, each operating within narrow domains of influence. Witches often control specific neighborhoods, businesses, or social niches, engaging in transactional relationships with vampires that swing between cooperation and exploitation. Ghosts are bound to specific locations, shaping haunted spaces that function as informal supernatural landmarks, while demons and necromancers interact with the material world through summoning, possession, or ritual rather than permanent residence. Overall, the relationships between races are defined less by grand alliances or wars and more by mutual inconvenience, exploitation, and an unspoken agreement to coexist quietly within the cracks of modern society.

Political tension in What We Do in the Shadows arises not from grand wars or world-ending threats, but from the dysfunctional governance of the supernatural world colliding with modern society. The existence of vampire councils—ancient, ego-driven, and wildly inconsistent—creates constant instability. These councils enforce obscure laws, revive long-forgotten vendettas, and issue arbitrary punishments, often placing local vampires under sudden scrutiny. A minor infraction, an old insult, or a misunderstood tradition can escalate into exile, execution, or forced political service, creating frequent opportunities for intrigue, sabotage, or reluctant heroics. Territorial disputes are another persistent source of conflict. Vampires lay claim to neighborhoods, cities, or regions based on tradition rather than practicality, leading to clashes when feeding grounds overlap or when newcomers arrive without permission. In densely populated urban areas like New York, rising human surveillance—security cameras, smartphones, social media—has made secrecy harder to maintain, increasing tensions between cautious elders and reckless immortals. A single viral incident, botched feeding, or supernatural exposure can trigger cover-ups, memory wipes, or council intervention, drawing unlikely participants into dangerous cleanup operations. Recent events such as familiar rebellions, the emergence of empowered or independent familiars, and the growing visibility of supernatural hybrids threaten the rigid hierarchy that vampires rely on. Guillermo’s arc exemplifies this shift: familiars are no longer universally submissive, and rumors of humans fighting back—or possessing latent supernatural traits—undermine vampire dominance. This creates fertile ground for espionage, liberation movements, secret alliances, and moral conflict, especially for vampires who are already disillusioned with immortality. Beyond vampires, inter-race hostility continues to simmer. Werewolf packs clash over territory and honor, witches manipulate supernatural politics through curses and bargains, and necromancers disrupt the balance between life and death for personal gain. Meanwhile, ghosts, demons, and lesser entities are increasingly restless, often due to neglect or abuse by immortal landlords who no longer care for their domains. These tensions rarely explode into open war, but they generate a constant hum of threats, grudges, and power struggles—perfect conditions for small-scale, chaotic adventures driven by ego, boredom, and the eternal fear of becoming irrelevant.

Magic in What We Do in the Shadows is real, old, and deeply unrefined, functioning less as a formal system and more as a collection of inherited practices, half-remembered rituals, and supernatural instincts. It is not governed by consistent rules or schools of study; instead, magic works when tradition, intent, and circumstance align—and often fails in humiliating or catastrophic ways when they do not. Most magic is ritualistic rather than spontaneous, requiring spoken incantations, symbolic objects, blood, candles, or arcane artifacts, and its effects are frequently exaggerated, unpredictable, or inconvenient rather than elegant or powerful. Different beings access magic in different ways. Vampires possess innate supernatural abilities—hypnosis, transformation, flight, immortality—that function automatically but are limited by strange taboos and weaknesses rooted in folklore. These powers are instinctive rather than learned, and many vampires never fully understand how or why they work. Witches and necromancers, by contrast, practice learned magic through study, bargaining, and experimentation, often treating magic as a transactional resource rather than a gift. Their spells can rival or surpass vampiric abilities, but usually at the cost of personal sacrifice, moral compromise, or grotesque side effects. Energy vampires represent a bizarre, modern evolution of magic, feeding psychically on emotional or mental exhaustion rather than blood, blurring the line between supernatural power and mundane human behavior. There are no active, benevolent gods shaping the world in a traditional religious sense. Deities, if they exist at all, are distant, forgotten, or irrelevant to daily supernatural life. Instead, influence comes from ancient beings, legendary vampires, folkloric figures, and quasi-divine entities that function more like powerful ancestors than true gods. Vampires may revere historical conquerors, mythical progenitors, or infamous elders, but this reverence is rooted in ego and tradition rather than worship. Occasional demonic or otherworldly entities can be summoned or encountered, yet they operate on transactional logic rather than divine morality. Overall, magic in this world is decaying alongside the immortals who wield it. It persists not because it is well-maintained or understood, but because habit, arrogance, and tradition keep it alive. Magic is powerful enough to reshape lives, resurrect the dead, or erase memories—but rarely enough to fix the underlying problems of boredom, pettiness, and stagnation that define supernatural existence in the modern age.

In What We Do in the Shadows, other planes of existence do interact with the material world, but not through grand cosmological structures or constant overlap. Instead, these planes exist as adjacent, poorly maintained layers of reality that bleed into the physical world through accidents, rituals, emotional residue, or bureaucratic incompetence. The boundaries between planes are thin in specific locations—haunted houses, cursed buildings, graveyards, basements, and long-abandoned properties—places saturated with death, memory, or neglect. These sites act as informal gateways rather than permanent portals, allowing brief, chaotic interactions rather than sustained contact. The afterlife and ghostly plane is the most commonly encountered other realm. Ghosts are the lingering consciousness of the dead, bound to places, objects, or unresolved obsessions rather than moral judgment. They can manifest visually, possess the living, or influence the physical environment, but their presence is unstable and often temporary. Necromancy allows limited interaction with this plane—summoning, binding, or seeing the dead—but such interference is treated as taboo and tends to produce grotesque or emotionally damaging results rather than enlightenment. More hostile or abstract planes—such as demonic realms or shadowed infernal spaces—are accessible only through deliberate summoning, curses, or extreme magical misfires. These realms do not seek conquest; instead, their inhabitants exploit curiosity, desperation, or arrogance. Demons and infernal entities behave less like cosmic evils and more like predatory opportunists, engaging with mortals through bargains that are legalistic, petty, and cruel. Other esoteric planes, such as astral or dreamlike spaces, are occasionally accessed through magical artifacts or supernatural accidents, but they are unstable and poorly understood. Crucially, no other plane actively governs or oversees the material world. There is no divine balance, cosmic war, or higher order enforcing meaning. Interplanar contact is reactive, localized, and often pointless, reflecting the broader theme of the setting: even the supernatural beyond reality is disorganized, underwhelming, and burdened by the same inefficiencies and frustrations as the world it intrudes upon.

The history of What We Do in the Shadows is defined by overlapping eras of supernatural ambition followed by long periods of decay, rather than cleanly separated ages or heroic timelines. The earliest remembered era is the Age of Ancient Conquest, when vampires like Nandor rose as warriors, tyrants, or nobles, openly ruling or terrorizing human populations. During this time, supernatural beings shaped history directly—burning villages, commanding armies, and establishing blood-soaked legends that later became distorted into myth. Very little physical evidence of this era remains intact; its legacy survives mostly through exaggerated personal stories, half-ruined castles, and the inflated egos of the immortals who lived through it. This was followed by the Age of Secrecy and Assimilation, when increasing human organization, religion, and technology forced supernatural beings into the shadows. Vampires abandoned overt rule in favor of manipulation, infiltration, and quiet survival. Grand strongholds were allowed to rot, converted into forgotten estates, or swallowed by expanding cities. The ruins of this era are subtle rather than monumental: hidden tunnels beneath cities, sealed rooms behind modern walls, abandoned churches used for rituals, and ancestral mansions—like the Staten Island house—that once symbolized conquest but now stand as decaying, embarrassing relics of lost purpose. The modern era could be called the Age of Stagnation, marked not by collapse but by irrelevance. Supernatural beings still exist, but they are disconnected from the world they helped shape, clinging to outdated customs while humans unknowingly surpass them. The legacies of earlier ages persist in dysfunctional institutions like vampire councils, obsolete laws still enforced out of habit, cursed objects no one remembers how to use, and unresolved hauntings tied to centuries-old grudges. Rather than inspiring awe, these remnants are burdens—physical and cultural ruins that trap immortals in cycles of nostalgia, denial, and petty conflict, offering endless opportunities for small, tragic, and absurd adventures.

In What We Do in the Shadows, civilization is sustained by a dual economic reality: the fully functional human economy and a parasitic, informal supernatural economy that feeds off it without ever truly integrating. Human currency—money, credit, wages, property, and debt—remains the dominant system, and supernatural beings rely on it despite barely understanding how it works. Vampires accumulate wealth through centuries of hoarding, forgotten investments, inherited estates, or by exploiting familiars to manage finances, often losing fortunes just as easily through ignorance, scams, or legal oversight. Modern banking, rent, taxes, and utilities are treated as incomprehensible curses rather than predictable systems. Within the supernatural world, the true currency is access and sustenance rather than coin. For vampires, blood functions as both a literal resource and a social commodity, with feeding rights, quality of victims, and exclusive hunting grounds acting as markers of status. Favors, secrets, introductions to councils, and protection from punishment carry more weight than money ever could. Magical artifacts, cursed objects, rare spell components, and occult knowledge are traded quietly between witches, necromancers, and vampires, often through verbal agreements that are dangerously vague and enforced by retaliation rather than law. Trade routes in this world are not roads or caravans, but modern infrastructure and social systems. Cities with nightlife, universities, hospitals, call centers, and bureaucratic offices become feeding hubs for different supernatural needs—blood, emotional energy, or magical reagents. Airports, shipping networks, and digital communication allow ancient beings to move globally with ease, though they frequently fail to exploit these tools effectively. Supernatural trade occurs in back rooms, abandoned buildings, online classifieds, underground clubs, and forgotten basements, piggybacking entirely on human commerce. Overall, the economic system of the world is exploitative, stagnant, and inefficient, mirroring the immortals who depend on it. Nothing is built to last or grow; it merely continues out of habit. Civilization persists not because the supernatural contributes meaningfully to it, but because humans do—and the monsters have learned, awkwardly and begrudgingly, how to live off the margins without being noticed.

Justice in What We Do in the Shadows operates through two disconnected systems: human law, which functions normally and unknowingly, and supernatural justice, which is arbitrary, ancient, and deeply dysfunctional. Human legal systems—police, courts, prisons—exist as a constant background threat that supernatural beings avoid through hypnosis, bribery, falsified identities, or simple intimidation. Vampires and witches do not respect human law so much as they circumvent it, viewing it as an inconvenience rather than a moral authority. When supernatural actions spill too far into public view, the response is usually damage control rather than accountability: memory wipes, scapegoats, or abandoning the location entirely. Supernatural justice is enforced by vampire councils and informal power structures, which rely on tradition, reputation, and fear instead of consistent rules. Crimes such as unauthorized turning, breaking ancient taboos, insulting elders, or embarrassing the community can result in punishments ranging from humiliating tasks and exile to execution. Trials, when they occur at all, are theatrical, biased, and driven by ego rather than evidence. Justice is less about fairness and more about maintaining appearances and hierarchy, ensuring that immortals remain obedient to customs no one fully remembers the purpose of. In this world, “adventurers” are not celebrated heroes, but tolerated nuisances or useful idiots. Those who take on dangerous tasks—cleaning up supernatural messes, retrieving artifacts, silencing witnesses, or negotiating between rival factions—are viewed with suspicion by established powers. Vampires see them as disposable tools; witches view them as pawns or test subjects; councils use them to avoid personal risk. Among humans, such individuals are either invisible, dismissed as eccentrics, or remembered only as urban legends. Despite this, adventurers occupy a vital niche. They move between social strata, interact with multiple supernatural races, and address problems powerful beings are too bored, afraid, or petty to solve themselves. Society does not honor them, but it relies on them, quietly and ungratefully, making justice and stability in this world something maintained through exploitation rather than heroism.

The greatest threats in What We Do in the Shadows are not apocalyptic monsters seeking to end the world, but persistent, corrosive forces that destabilize the fragile balance of supernatural secrecy. Rogue elder vampires, forgotten progenitors, and exiled ancients occasionally resurface, driven by boredom, resentment, or wounded pride rather than grand ambition. These beings possess immense power and outdated worldviews, often attempting to reassert dominance through conquest schemes that are wildly impractical in the modern age. Their threat lies less in their success and more in the collateral damage they cause—exposure, chaos, and the forced intervention of vampire councils desperate to preserve appearances. Various cults and occult movements also pose danger, particularly those formed by humans who have partially uncovered supernatural truths. These groups may worship vampires as gods, seek immortality through forbidden rituals, or attempt to summon demonic entities they do not understand. Such cults are erratic and dangerous precisely because they lack restraint; their rituals tear at the boundaries between planes, unleash hauntings, or attract infernal attention. Unlike vampires, they are not invested in secrecy, making them a destabilizing presence that threatens to draw human institutions too close to the supernatural world. Other threats emerge from neglected supernatural entities—restless ghosts, botched necromantic creations, cursed artifacts, and experimental magic gone wrong. These dangers often originate from laziness or incompetence rather than malice, such as forgotten familiars turned vengeful spirits, improperly disposed bodies, or spells cast centuries ago that continue to warp locations and people. Over time, these unresolved problems accumulate, creating haunted zones, corrupted neighborhoods, or recurring supernatural disasters no one wants to take responsibility for. Ultimately, the most insidious “ancient evil” in this world is stagnation itself. Immortals who refuse to adapt, councils clinging to obsolete laws, and supernatural societies rotting from within pose a slow but constant threat to stability. The world is not at risk of dramatic destruction—but it is perpetually on the brink of exposure, collapse, or absurd catastrophe, driven by ego, neglect, and the refusal of powerful beings to change.