The Villains You Hate Are Usually the Ones You Understand Least
Most writers think the key to creating a compelling villain is making them more evil.
More ruthless. More dangerous. More intimidating. More willing to cross lines the hero refuses to cross.
Sometimes that works.
Most of the time it doesn’t.
Because evil isn’t what makes a character believable. Humanity does. The villains readers remember aren’t memorable because they’re monstrous.
They’re memorable because they make sense.
Not moral sense.
Human sense.
You understand why they became who they are. You understand the story they’re telling themselves. You understand the logic behind their actions.
And that’s where many writers run into trouble.
They judge their characters before they understand them.
The result is predictable.
The more judgment they bring to the page, the less believable the character becomes.
That’s the paradox.
The more you judge your characters, the less human they feel.
And the less human they feel, the less powerful your story becomes.
Nobody Thinks They’re the Villain
One of the biggest mistakes writers make is assuming villains know they’re villains.
Most people don’t.
History alone should make this obvious.
Very few destructive people believed they were creating destruction. Most believed they were solving a problem.
Protecting something. Fixing something. Defending something. Advancing something. The actions may have been horrific.
The self-perception rarely was.
Human beings are storytelling machines.
We constantly create narratives that explain our behavior. When we succeed, we explain why we deserve it. When we fail, we explain why it happened. When we hurt people, we explain why we had no choice.
We are always telling ourselves stories.
Villains do the same thing.
The corrupt politician doesn’t see corruption. They see a necessary compromise. The controlling parent doesn’t see control. They see protection.
The jealous lover doesn’t see manipulation. They see devotion. The dictator doesn’t see oppression. They see order.
This distinction matters because characters become believable when they stop viewing themselves through the author’s lens and start viewing themselves through their own.
The moment a writer understands how a villain justifies their behavior, the character begins to breathe.
Moral Certainty Creates Flat Characters
Writers often begin with conclusions.
The hero is good.
The villain is bad.
The sidekick is loyal.
The mentor is wise.
Then they spend hundreds of pages proving those conclusions.
The problem is that real people rarely fit into clean categories. People contradict themselves constantly.
The generous friend becomes selfish.
The honest partner tells a lie.
The brave leader becomes afraid.
The compassionate parent loses their temper.
Human beings are complicated.
Stories become compelling when characters reflect that complexity.
Yet many writers fear complexity because complexity creates ambiguity.
Ambiguity makes judgment difficult.
Judgment feels comfortable.
If the hero is unquestionably right and the villain is unquestionably wrong, the moral landscape becomes simple.
Unfortunately, people become simple too.
Readers stop encountering human beings.
They start encountering positions.
Arguments.
Symbols.
Representatives of ideas.
The story becomes less about people and more about proving a point.
Readers notice this immediately.
They may not know why the story feels flat.
But they feel it.
Because human beings instinctively recognize when a character has been reduced to a conclusion.
Empathy Is Not Kindness
When writers hear the word empathy, they often misunderstand it.
Empathy does not mean approval.
Empathy does not mean agreement.
Empathy does not mean forgiveness.
Empathy means understanding.
That’s all.
You can understand someone’s motives while completely rejecting their actions.
In fact, understanding often produces stronger conflict.
Because simple villains are easy to dismiss.
Complex villains are harder to ignore.
A villain who wants power for power’s sake is forgettable.
A villain who desperately wants security after a lifetime of instability becomes more dangerous.
Not less.
Because now their behavior emerges from something recognizable.
Fear.
Loss.
Insecurity.
Humiliation.
Loneliness.
These motivations exist inside nearly everyone.
The methods differ.
The emotions don’t.
This is why empathy improves storytelling.
Empathy forces writers to investigate causes rather than settle for labels.
Instead of writing an evil character, they begin asking harder questions.
What does this person want?
What are they afraid of?
What wound are they protecting?
What story are they telling themselves?
Those questions create depth.
Labels create shortcuts.
Understanding Isn’t Endorsement
Many writers avoid exploring dark motivations because they fear being misunderstood.
They worry readers will assume understanding equals approval.
But literature has never worked that way.
A writer’s responsibility is observation.
Not prosecution.
Not defense.
Observation.
The novelist studies human behavior. The same way a psychologist studies behavior. Or a historian studies behavior. Or a journalist studies behavior.
The goal is comprehension.
The goal is to see clearly.
Understanding why someone commits a harmful act does not excuse the act.
Understanding why someone lies does not justify the lie.
Understanding why someone becomes cruel does not transform cruelty into virtue.
It simply answers a different question.
Not whether an action was right.
But how did it become possible?
This distinction matters because stories weaken when writers become preoccupied with proving moral points.
Readers rarely remember lectures.
They remember people.
The most memorable characters force readers into uncomfortable territory.
They reveal motives that feel understandable.
Desires that feel familiar.
Thought processes that feel plausible.
The reader doesn’t approve.
The reader recognizes.
And recognition is far more powerful than agreement.
Every Character Lives Inside a Story
One of the most useful questions a writer can ask is this: What story is this character telling themselves?
Because behavior rarely exists in isolation.
It grows from narrative.
Every person has a private explanation for who they are and why they do what they do.
The ambitious executive tells themselves they’re building a better future.
The resentful friend tells themselves they’re finally standing up for themselves.
The criminal tells themselves the world forced their hand.
The hero tells themselves they’re saving people.
Everyone operates from a story.
Even when the story is wrong.
Especially when the story is wrong.
The external plot is only half the story.
The internal narrative is where the real conflict lives.
Because people rarely fight over facts.
They fight over interpretations.
Two people experience the same event and construct different meanings.
Different meanings produce different choices.
Different choices produce conflict.
This isn’t only how stories work.
It’s how life works.
The Lesson Beyond Writing
This idea extends far beyond fiction.
Every person you meet is living inside a narrative.
A story about their childhood.
A story about success.
A story about failure.
A story about what they deserve.
A story about what the world owes them.
Those stories influence behavior more than facts ever could. This doesn’t mean every perspective is equally valid.
It means every perspective feels valid to the person holding it. And that distinction changes everything.
Because once you understand that people are responding to the stories they believe, their behavior becomes easier to understand.
Not easier to excuse.
Easier to understand.
Writers who grasp this create better characters.
People who grasp this understand humanity more clearly.
Both begin with the same skill.
Curiosity.
The willingness to ask why before deciding who.
The Real Purpose of Character Creation
Most writers think character creation involves inventing people.
In reality, it involves understanding people.
The strongest villains are not the most evil.
The strongest villains are the most convincing.
The strongest heroes are not the most virtuous.
The strongest heroes are the most human.
Readers don’t connect with perfection.
They connect with complexity.
They connect with contradiction.
They connect with people who feel real enough to exist beyond the page.
And reality begins where judgment ends.
Which brings us back to the paradox.
Writers often believe harsh judgment creates stronger villains.
The opposite is usually true.
Judgment creates distance.
Curiosity creates depth.
Because the moment you stop asking whether a character is good or bad and start asking why they became who they are, something changes.
The character stops feeling like an invention.
And starts feeling like a person.
That’s where great storytelling begins.
This made me think about parenting more than writing. Sometimes my daughter reacts to something in a way that makes no sense to me until I stop focusing on the behavior and start wondering what she’s feeling underneath it. That doesn’t mean every reaction is okay but understanding where it’s coming from changes how I respond. The same idea seems to apply to characters. Thank you Idris Elijah for continuing to provide quality content that can be applied to our relationships and daily lives!
I can relate to the line about writers judging characters before understanding them. I’ve caught myself doing exactly that. The moment I decide a character is “the bad one,” they immediately become less interesting on the page. The more curious I become about their internal logic, the more alive they feel. This felt like a writing lesson disguised as a lesson about people. Great storytelling and character building tips here, Thank you Idris Elijah for another valuable writing newsletter!