Why I Love Villains (Even Though I Can’t Write Them): Challenging Constructed Realities

The other day, my husband made a comment to me: “You’re in a villain phase.”

He’s not wrong. I’m obsessed with movies and TV about villains, criminals, and all-around bad guys, and I’ve been on a rewatching spree lately. The funny thing is, I don’t often write villains into my novels. My big bads are usually something more abstract, like the apocalypse or Low Self-Esteem. But I learn more about complex characterization from villains than almost anywhere else. (Disclaimer: my familiarity with comic book supervillains is slim to none, sadly. This post is about a different kind of baddie.)

Villains make terrible decisions. Not just morally, but logically. Example: Walter White deciding to cook meth in Breaking Bad. He rationalizes it to himself and to the audience, but when it comes down to it, the reality is he’s too proud to accept financial help from a rich friend (whose fortune is, arguably, thanks to Walt in the first place). He has choices, but he seemingly refuses to consider them. That bitter, spiteful streak in Walt is what builds and builds over 5 seasons until there’s no one left to defend his actions.

This is what draws me to villains—their choices. Specifically, how their choices seem bounded by lines and constraints that don’t exist in my world. I suspect that if those villains could turn the lens around and take a look at my life, they would feel the same about me. Every day I limit my choices based on factors that have become invisible to me: my circumstances, my upbringing, my life experiences, my assumptions. When I’m angry with my spouse, I debate between fighting with him or cooling off. What I don’t consider is the infinite universe of alternatives. I could leave him in the middle of the night. I could murder him. I could set his car on fire. Sure, all these choices are technically available to me. But I don’t think through each of them and make a judgment on their merit (“Should I kill my husband? Ehhh, not today.”). I don’t even perceive them as choices.

So what about the choices villains make? It’s interesting to see how they justify horrific actions and go on with their lives, despite sometimes revealing very human, compassionate sides. They always have a reason why they had to do that really bad thing. In Sons of Anarchy, it’s usually family. Jax and Gemma Teller can talk themselves into almost anything—no matter how brutal, despicable, or selfish—by claiming it’s to protect their family. It’s a theme that comes up again and again in the show, and you can practically reach out and touch the palpable M.C. (motorcycle club, not main character) culture that fosters it. In the rules of their world, if someone threatens your family, you kill them. There’s no decision tree involving lesser interventions, like going to the police or talking it out. Those paths are invisible to the Tellers, just like murdering my husband is invisible to me (which I’m sure he finds a huge relief).

The same is true of how Christopher Moltisanti deals with his fiancé Adriana in The Sopranos. (Warning: spoilers for a 20-year-old show ahead). When Christopher finds out Adriana has been talking to the FBI, he immediately tells his mob boss uncle, knowing it will lead to Adriana’s murder. He’s distraught, but in his eyes, he has no choice. There’s an inviolable rule in his family: You. Don’t. Rat. If you cooperate with the police, you die. It’s almost a law of nature. Most of us would never consider turning over our significant other to be brutally slaughtered, no matter the circumstances. But we live in a very, very different world than Christopher Moltisanti. In other words: when a person (or character) chooses to abstain from violence or not, how impactful that choice is depends on whether violence was ever really an option.

These “bad guys” are extreme examples of what’s true for us all: we exist in a reality of our own construction, where our assumptions are treated as fact. Our beliefs about ourselves limit what we can do. Our beliefs about others limit how we interact with them. And we rarely question those beliefs. How could we? Without those assumptions, each time we were faced with a choice, we’d have to eliminate all 10,000 possible options instead of the two or three we restrict ourselves to.

So where’s all this rambling leading? Isn’t this post supposed to be about, like, writing? Okay, I’ll wrap it up. We all know that creating fictional characters involves putting yourself in their shoes: seeing from their perspective, feeling what they’re feeling, reacting with their personality traits instead of your own. But I would argue it goes deeper than that. These characters don’t even live in the same reality as you. Okay, as a fantasy writer, that’s always true for me, but what I’m saying is that a character’s constructed reality may be as different from your own as a fantasy setting is from the real world. They’re operating under different assumptions, bound by different constraints. And they don’t even realize it.

Look at a character who struggles with self-loathing. That’s not just their personality—it’s a law of their world. “Don’t hate myself” isn’t an option. How does that affect their inner monologue, the way they rationalize decisions or make logical leaps? How many doors do they close for themselves automatically, reflexively? To this character, self-loathing is as real and immutable as gravity, or the mobster’s gospel truth that snitches get stiches. To you, the writer, or to your readers, it might seem obvious that the character has many fine and admirable traits. How do you resolve that gap in perception? How do you convince readers that in fact, this character has no choice but to hate themselves, because everything leading up to this moment in their lives has substantiated that worldview? And how are you, as the author, going to challenge that worldview with such devastating force it shatters? It’s not as simple as changing the character’s mind. It’s convincing them gravity is fake.

On a craft level, constructing your character’s reality can be more about what isn’t said than what is. Letting your character fumble around an obvious point, missing it entirely, can be a powerful statement about their assumptions. When a villain resorts to violence without hesitating, it tells us a lot about the rules they adhere to. They aren’t weighing the pros and cons of shooting that guy who disrespected them; they just shoot him. What a character doesn’t factor into their decisions speaks volumes.

All of this is to say that characters are more than the sum of their personalities, cultures, and experiences. They’re self-contained universes, with their own natural laws and fundamental forces. Your task as a writer is to build your character’s reality so convincingly, so seamlessly, that the reader forgets it’s an illusion. For villains, that constructed reality might involve an unthinkable downward spiral of violence and destruction. For other characters, it’s about the subtle, hidden beliefs that control their daily lives. Either one can be fascinating to explore.

And to all of you out there who write the cruel, complicated, compelling villains we love to hate: hats off to you. Maybe someday you can teach me.