The truth about landman salaries is less cinematic and more complicated than the show lets on.
In the oil patch, myth travels faster than a flare stack fire. So when Taylor Sheridan’s latest West Texas drama, “Landman,” premiered on Paramount+ — complete with cartel stand-offs, beer-soaked lease negotiations, and Billy Bob Thornton playing a devil-may-care fixer named Tommy Norris — it didn’t take long for viewers to ask: Is that what a real landman does? And more to the point: Do they actually make that kind of money?
The short answer? Not usually.
“Landman,” like Sheridan’s previous shows, plays in a heightened sandbox of Texas iconography — men with power, men without it, and the wide, hot land they’re all fighting over. The show is based loosely on Christian Wallace’s podcast “Boomtown,” which documents how the Permian Basin — a massive oil-producing region stretching across West Texas and southeastern New Mexico — is reshaping global politics and the American economy. But it reshapes something else too: perception.
Take Thornton’s character. Norris is a landman, the same way a Marlboro Man is a ranch hand. He’s not chasing signatures in a dusty county clerk’s office — he’s dodging cartel hits, bribing cops, and swallowing anxiety meds with longnecks. In the show’s second episode, Norris claims that a group of deceased rig workers were earning $180,000 a year. That figure sounds impressive. It’s also, in most cases, fiction.
To understand what a landman really earns, you have to first understand what a landman really does. These are the professionals — some in-house, some freelance — who secure the mineral rights that allow energy companies to drill. Their days are spent researching title histories, negotiating lease agreements, and managing legal documents, not chasing down drug lords in the desert.
According to a 2023 compensation report from the American Association of Professional Landmen, the average in-house landman in the United States earns about $157,700 per year. That includes bonuses and other incentives for those working inside energy firms. On the contract side, independent landmen make slightly less — around $112,400 annually, based on day rates that usually range from $300 to $700. Those figures are solid, even enviable — but they’re a long way from the $180K that Sheridan’s characters throw around like pocket change.
Indeed.com lists the average Texas-based landman salary at just over $101,000. ZipRecruiter pegs it at $103,500. Even top-performing petroleum landmen — those with years of experience and access to premium deals — typically top out around $120,000 to $150,000. There are exceptions, of course. Senior staffers at companies like Chevron can rake in north of $190,000 — and during boom years in the Permian, some contractors cleared $250,000 or more. But those cases are the outliers, not the standard.
If “Landman” oversells the paycheck, it does manage to capture something else accurately: the high-stakes atmosphere of oil country. There’s pressure, competition, and enough quiet backroom power to make or break entire towns. Norris calls himself a “crisis executive,” and while real-life landmen might not use that term, they do have to manage relationships between landowners, company reps, and occasionally, local officials.
But Norris doesn’t just manage people — he manipulates them. He sidesteps legal liability, bluffs cartel bosses, and operates in a moral gray zone so vast it may as well be an oil lease map. In one scene, he tells a colleague, “Babysit the owners, babysit the crews. Then manage the police and the press when the babies refuse to be sat.” It’s a poetic summation of a job that, in reality, is far more paperwork than poker face.
And while Norris’ fictional bank account may be as empty as his prescription bottles — he admits to being in debt and drowning in stress — the real professionals in his role are typically more stable. Their income is tied to the market, yes — but most are college-educated, certified through the AAPL, and working long hours in courthouses and conference rooms, not bars and border towns.
The oil industry has always been cyclical — and so is land work. During a surge, the demand for experienced landmen skyrockets. Lease hounds can pull six figures with a laptop and a four-wheel drive. During a downturn? Courthouse hallways grow quiet. Independent contractors can go months without work.
That’s part of what makes the mythology so sticky. In Texas, it’s easy to romanticize the boom — the man who walks into town and walks out with signatures worth millions, the dusty loner who knows who owns what, where, and how to get it. Sheridan knows this mythology better than anyone. He’s built an empire on it.
But for the average landman, the job isn’t cinematic. It’s strategic, meticulous, and often invisible to the public eye. The money’s good. The hours are long. And the biggest explosions usually happen on spreadsheets.
