I think it’s funny how we’ll refer to various things as fantasy when we mean we shouldn’t take them seriously or the connections to reality are tenuous at best. Fantasy world-building on the scale of a Tolkien or Bradbury is a common enough occurrence that we’re not fussed with dissecting every bit of well-that-couldn’t-really-happen.
It’s when you’re talking reality-adjacent fiction that has started to bother me lately, the I’m-just-a-regular-guy and then all of a sudden, bam, you’re the last hope, the sole savior, some heretofore unknown messiah. This can be done well and believably, or it could be done like how the Twilight novels had it, someone reluctant to join what seems their destiny, but when they do it’s amazing. No, no, don’t throw me in that briar patch, boss.
This is also the issue with wish fulfillment in those sitcoms, where you know that these people clearly belong together, and yet through circumstances are not, until they are and then all the tension and fun of that show is popped and the will-they-won’t-they becomes one of those historical questions: well, of course they do/did. Perhaps that says more about my consumption habits, or that the things we love are actually killing us.