When you hear Wicked is a musical about witches, you might picture a kids’ show with glitter, talking animals, and a happy ending. But if you’ve ever sat in a theatre seat as an adult-coffee in hand, maybe a little tired from work-and let the first notes of "No One Mourns the Wicked" wash over you, you know it’s something else entirely.
Wicked isn’t just a fantasy musical. It’s a story about power, prejudice, and the cost of being different. And adults? They feel it deeper than anyone.
It’s not about good vs. evil-it’s about who gets to decide
As a kid, you root for the hero. In Wicked, you’re asked to flip that script. Elphaba, the green witch, is labeled a monster. Glinda, the golden girl, is praised for being perfect. But as the story unfolds, you start to wonder: who’s really the villain here?
Adults understand this. You’ve been told you’re "too much"-too loud, too opinionated, too different. You’ve seen good people get punished for speaking up. You’ve watched the system rewrite history to make the powerful look innocent. Wicked doesn’t just entertain-it mirrors real life.
The song "Defying Gravity" isn’t just a showstopper. It’s a cry from someone who’s been told to shrink. When you hear it as a 30-year-old, not a 13-year-old, it doesn’t feel like a fantasy. It feels like a release.
The humor lands harder when you’ve lived a little
Yes, there are jokes. Lots of them. The Cowardly Lion’s panic, the Wizard’s shady PR tactics, the way the citizens of Oz cheer for anything that looks like a miracle. As a kid, you laugh because it’s silly. As an adult, you laugh because you recognize it.
Ever worked for a boss who talks big but can’t deliver? Seen a politician promise change while quietly maintaining the status quo? That’s the Wizard. You don’t just get the joke-you’ve lived it.
Even the side characters hit differently. Madame Morrible, the manipulative headmistress? She’s not a cartoon villain. She’s the type of person who rose to power by playing nice, smoothing over problems, and blaming others. You’ve met her. Maybe you’ve even worked for her.
The music doesn’t just move you-it haunts you
"As Long As You’re Mine" isn’t just a love duet. It’s two people clinging to each other in a world that wants them gone. As a teenager, you think it’s sweet. As an adult, you hear the fear underneath. It’s not just romance. It’s survival.
"The Wizard and I" is a heartbreaking anthem of self-delusion. A woman believing that if she just works hard enough, gets the right title, wears the right smile, she’ll finally be seen. That’s not a fantasy. That’s a resume. That’s a LinkedIn post. That’s every person who’s ever swallowed their truth to fit in.
And then there’s "No One Mourns the Wicked." It opens the show. It closes the show. And every time you hear it, you realize: they’re not singing about a witch. They’re singing about how society forgets the inconvenient truths. About how the people who challenge the system get erased.
It’s not just a musical-it’s a mirror
Adults don’t go to Wicked for the costumes or the special effects. They go because it’s one of the few shows that lets them sit in the dark and feel seen.
It’s about the friend you lost because you grew apart. The job you took because you were scared to be yourself. The way you’ve learned to laugh off insults because speaking up cost you too much before.
There’s a moment, right after Elphaba’s final transformation, when the lights dim and the music fades. People don’t rush out. They sit. They breathe. Sometimes they wipe their eyes. No one says anything. Because you don’t need to. You just know.
Wicked doesn’t ask you to believe in magic. It asks you to believe in the courage it takes to be yourself-even when the world tells you to change.
Who is this show really for?
Is Wicked fun for adults? Yes-but not in the way you think.
It’s not fun because it’s loud or flashy. It’s fun because it’s honest. Because it lets you laugh at the absurdity of the world, then quietly cry about how true it all is.
You don’t need to be a theatre fan to get it. You just need to have been told "no" too many times. You need to have wondered if you’re the villain in someone else’s story. You need to have wanted to fly, but been afraid of what people would say if you did.
That’s why adults come back. Not for the spectacle. Not for the tickets. But because Wicked reminds them they’re not alone.
What you’ll notice the second time you watch
First time? You’re dazzled by the costumes. The flying. The big notes.
Second time? You notice how Glinda’s voice cracks when she says, "I’m not the girl who’s supposed to save the day." You hear the guilt in her tone. You see the way Elphaba never looks at her directly after that.
You catch the small gestures-the way the Wizard’s hand trembles when he hands out medals. The way the citizens of Oz turn their backs when Elphaba walks by, even though they’re the ones who created her.
It’s in the details. And those details? They’re the ones that stick with you long after the curtain falls.
Is it worth the price of a ticket?
If you’re asking that, you’re thinking like a tourist. Wicked isn’t a show you pay for. It’s one you carry with you.
Think of it this way: you spend hundreds on a concert, a weekend getaway, a new phone. What do you get? A memory. A photo. A gadget.
Wicked gives you a new way to see yourself. And that? That’s worth more than a ticket.
It’s not about whether you "like" it. It’s about whether you feel it. And if you’ve ever been told you’re too much, too loud, too strange-then you already know the answer.
