“I have a very toxic relationship with awards,” says Natalie Palamides, who won best newcomer at the 2017 Edinburgh comedy awards. “Obviously, I think they’re dumb, and art shouldn’t be qualified or quantified in that way. I’d like to say that, but if I’m being totally honest with you, I always want to win.”

The 42nd Edinburgh comedy awards, founded in 1981 and run by Nica Burns since 1984, were announced last week. This year, 563 shows are eligible for either best show or best newcomer. But there can only be two winners.

When you’re in the fringe bubble, people are constantly talking about who will make the awards shortlists. “It feels like such a behemoth, the awards, floating around in everyone’s minds. I’ve seen it do bad things to people’s mental health and bank balance,” says comedian and filmmaker Stuart Laws. “The fringe, for so many people, feels like an all-or-nothing moment. The reality is that often it isn’t.”

In the summer of 2022, the fringe was back at full scale for the first time since the pandemic. A backlog of performers who’d been waiting to debut their first hour-long shows were descending on Edinburgh. The awards were back too – including best newcomer, which debutants only get one shot at.

Laws has been performing at the festival for more than a ­decade, and has directed shows for the likes of James Acaster and Nish Kumar. Spotting the dramatic potential, he followed five new acts: Sikisa Bostwick-Barnes, Lily Phillips, Josh Jones, Amy Gledhill and Anthony DeVito. His new documentary, The Debuts, charts their experience behind the onstage laughs. So many pin hopes of future success on a good fringe run, and as the month unfolds, we see awards loom large.

“I worry newcomers especially are pushing themselves into doing shows about things they aren’t mentally ready to talk about,” Laws says. Jones describes trying to mine his life for a sad story then reverting to a fun show packed with jokes. “The fact he got nominated was cool, because that decision paid off.”

We see acts start to experience “the buzz” – that rising sense of hope as people tell them they’re bound to be nominated. Laws had seen friends experience both sides: “The noise is unavoidable when you’re up there, whether you’re getting nominated or not.”

While making the ­documentary, Laws tried an experiment. He pretended he was doing a show and had friends spread word that this was his best yet. By the end of the fringe, he’d been nominated at the Comedians’ Choice awards. “It taught me that a lot of buzz can start from someone doing it themselves.”

American clown Palamides hadn’t even thought about the awards until she was nominated. “Then I’d go on a jog every morning saying a mantra: ‘You’re gonna win, you’re gonna win.’”

When she returned in 2018 with her brilliant show Nate, exploring issues of consent, “Everyone was like: ‘You’re going to get nominated this year.’” But the nomination didn’t come, which felt like “a punch to the gut”.

“But then that show ended up getting a special [on Netflix].” She feels the pressure again this year as she returns with new show WEER after six years away from the fringe.

The buzz came for comedian Liam Withnail last year. He lives in Edinburgh and says it “never felt possible” for most Scottish acts to get a nomination, as few had agents or producers. But with Chronic Boom, a show about being hospitalised with a chronic ­illness, “people in the industry who’d never had interest in me before were suddenly interested”.

While there was excitement, “the stakes felt so high that it became really gruelling. It should’ve been a special, creative, fulfilling time. But you get caught up in the nominations.”

The process is also intense for the judges deciding the shortlist – I saw about 80 shows while serving on the panel last year.

Jon Ronson, who’d been attending the fringe as a punter since he was a teenager, got his own time in the judging seat in 1997 while making ­documentary series Critical Condition.

In an instalment filmed at the fringe, he followed critic Ian Shuttleworth debuting his first comedy show. Ronson was allowed to film inside the judging room on the condition that he join the panel. Judging and ­filming simultaneously was “so exhausting”, Ronson says, that one day he skipped a show he’d been assigned.

He thought another panel ­member would have seen it, but alas. “In the judging room, everyone turns to me, so I said: ‘I couldn’t decide whether this person was amazing or bad.’ All the other judges went: ‘Whoa, that sounds so intriguing.’ So they sent every single judge to the comedian’s show. Afterwards, every judge came up to me and said: ‘What the fuck are you talking about – the guy was terrible!’”

Ronson’s documentary brilliantly captures the essence and intensity of the fringe. But Critical Condition might also confirm some ­comedians’ worst fears. When I asked performers for their opinions on awards, many spoke of unfairness, and that maybe you can game the system using PR, producers and writers.

Shuttleworth had a friend on the panel and another reviewing his show, giving him five stars. Ronson captured critic James Christopher watching only half of his friend’s show yet effusively praising it in the judging room. “I would say, though, it was rooted out,” says Ronson, who went on to cast the deciding vote in favour of The League of Gentlemen that year. “Ultimately any ­troubling nepotism displayed in that documentary shouldn’t reflect negatively on the panel. It was really professional – the ­winner was the right winner.”

Would a world without awards be better? Palamides say they’re a “double-edged sword” but can lend legitimacy. “Maybe part of ­winning, for a lot of comedians, is to show your parents that, look, someone values this.” It’s also a chance to ­celebrate your peers, she says. “In the comedy and theatre world there aren’t that many awards. As much as I hate to admit it, having an award to strive for does push people to build better work.”

Withnail now sees that simply experiencing the buzz was enough – he didn’t need a nomination. “At first it felt like everything I’ve done is for nothing,” he says. “But in the months since, everything I would have wanted happened anyway: I’m with a big agency and I got to tour the show.”

Laws sees both sides. The prize money and attention change lives, “but there will be casualties”.

Ronson has his own experience of losing awards. “Sometimes it can feel like you’ve been tricked into renting a tuxedo,” he says. “In terms of awards, I’m very much always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”

But in Edinburgh, they still feel magic. “As a comedian, it’s very stressful – you’re ripped off by ­landlords; it’s expensive. That’s ­punishing. But on the other hand, it’s the land of dreams. Amazing names have emerged from it.”