There was a time when stories made it easy for us to choose a side. The hero, almost always noble and selfless, stood tall in the light. The villain, clad in shadows, was the one to be feared, hated, and defeated. But somewhere along the way, this moral compass began to spin a little differently. We still cheer when the hero wins, but often, it’s the villain who stays with us—the one we talk about, quote, and, strangely, understand.

This shift in sympathy isn’t just about better costume design or more compelling monologues. It taps into something deeper: the way we’ve come to view the world, and ourselves, in all our flawed, messy humanity. The villain has become more than just the obstacle to a happy ending, they’ve become the mirror we sometimes dare to look into.

In most traditional stories, the hero is built to inspire. They stand for justice, courage, and virtue. But they’re also often too perfect, too polished. They make the “right” choices, say the “right” things, and live by a code that doesn’t always hold up in the real world. Heroes feel aspirational but distant. We respect them, sure, but we don’t always relate to them.

Villains, on the other hand, are allowed to be real. They get angry. They make mistakes. They say things that we might think but never admit. They’re impulsive, emotional, reactive—human. And in a world that increasingly values authenticity over appearance, that rawness resonates.

Think about someone like Killmonger from Black Panther. He’s the antagonist, but his motivations, rooted in abandonment, loss, and centuries of injustice, hit uncomfortably close to home. His rage isn’t just villainous; it’s justified. We may not agree with his violence, but we understand where it comes from. And that understanding turns hate into empathy.

This is what villains do best: they make us question the very idea of good and evil. They live in the grey zones where most of life actually happens. The Joker, in The Dark Knight, doesn’t have a plan for world domination. He has a question: What happens when society’s structures collapse? What happens when the line between order and chaos dissolves? His message is terrifying because it feels true. And when truth comes from the mouth of a madman, it leaves a mark.

Part of our growing affection for villains also comes from their emotional depth. We’ve grown tired of characters who always “do the right thing.” It feels dishonest. Real people don’t always choose selflessness over survival. Real people feel jealousy, bitterness, insecurity, and they don’t always hide it behind righteousness.

Take Loki, the trickster god of the Marvel universe. He lies, cheats, and manipulates, but he also longs for acceptance, battles with his identity, and wrestles with being overshadowed. He’s not evil for the sake of it. He’s wounded, and his chaos is just a cry for significance. That vulnerability, masked behind sarcasm and theatrics, is what draws people in.

Even in animated stories, the so-called villains often steal the emotional spotlight. Maleficent was once just a spiteful witch who cursed a baby out of pettiness. But when reimagined through her own eyes, she becomes a victim of betrayal, a woman wronged and robbed of her wings. Her darkness isn’t born of evil, it’s born of pain. Watching her love and protect the very child she once cursed makes us question what villainy really means.

Villains also carry a certain charisma that heroes often lack. They’re witty, unpredictable, and sometimes even funny. They break rules and say what everyone else is too polite to voice. Hades from Hercules is snarky and petty, but also impossible not to enjoy. Gru from Despicable Me wants to steal the moon, but becomes a soft-hearted father along the way. Even Dr. Doofenshmirtz, with his bizarre backstories and laughable plans, earns affection because of how relatable his failures are.

There’s a kind of relief in watching villains. They don’t hide their flaws, but they flaunt them. In a world obsessed with appearances and perfection, that honesty is oddly comforting. When everyone is trying to be Instagram-perfect or morally infallible, villains come in like a breath of fresh air—messy, emotional, and real.

This rawness also offers a form of catharsis. We all carry frustrations, at injustice, at the system, at the expectations placed on us. Villains don’t suppress those feelings. They act on them, loudly and unapologetically. They scream what we whisper. Watching someone like Cersei Lannister take power in a world that constantly tries to control her isn’t just dramatic but also deeply satisfying. She may be ruthless, but she’s also unfiltered, and in a society that still tells women to be agreeable, that matters.

Or take Raavan. Traditionally vilified in the Ramayana, he’s now being reexamined through different lenses. In some retellings, he’s not a monster but a scholar, a ruler, a man bound by his own code of honor. He abducted Sita, but never harmed her. Compare that to the way Rama treated Sita after rescuing her, and suddenly the moral lines start to blur.

These alternative narratives aren’t about justifying bad actions. They’re about understanding where those actions come from. They challenge us to look beyond what we were told and see what might have been hidden. They make us re-evaluate who we call heroes, and why.

And then there’s the underdog factor. So many villains begin at the bottom—abandoned, rejected, ignored. Voldemort was a lonely orphan. Duryodhana was mocked for being born into the “wrong” family. Beera from Raavan (in Mani Ratnam’s adaptation) is a tribal leader who fights back against systemic oppression. Their rebellion doesn’t come from entitlement. It comes from desperation. They weren’t chosen or blessed or guided by prophecy. They chose themselves.

That’s powerful. Because in real life, most of us aren’t the chosen ones either. We stumble. We fight. We try. And when we see someone rise from nothing, even if they do it the wrong way, we understand the need behind the action.

This shift in sympathy also mirrors a broader cultural change. We’ve moved past the black-and-white morality that dominated older tales. Today, we know that people aren’t wholly good or wholly bad. We know that context matters. That someone who does something “wrong” might be reacting to something deeply unjust.

Characters like Walter White or Bhiku Mhatre reflect this complexity. Walter starts as a struggling teacher and ends as a feared criminal, but at every step, we see the slow unraveling of his morality, and we understand it. Bhiku, in Satya, is a gangster, but also warm, loyal, and grounded. He isn’t trying to be a hero. He’s just surviving in a world that offers few choices. And we respect that honesty.

Our love for villains is, in many ways, a rebellion against the idea that people need to be perfect to be lovable. We don’t crave flawless role models anymore. We crave truth. Emotion. Humanity.

When we see villains who cry, rage, break down, and still keep going, we see a version of ourselves that isn’t filtered or approved, but felt. Deeply.

We also see the hope of redemption. Because if someone so broken, so flawed, can be loved or can change, then maybe there’s hope for all of us. Villains show us that transformation is possible. That pain can be turned into power. That even if you’ve made mistakes, your story isn’t over.

And maybe that’s the real reason we love them.

Because behind the darkness, the chaos, the cruelty, there is always a beating heart. A story that makes sense, even if it ends in tragedy.

We don’t love villains because we support evil. We love them because they tell the truth about what it means to be human. They remind us that we are not defined by perfection, but by complexity. That our anger doesn’t make us monsters. That our flaws don’t make us unworthy.

So yes, we may still cheer for the hero at the end of the story. But it’s the villain who lingers in our minds. Who makes us feel? Who forces us to think? Who reminds us that being real sometimes matters more than being right.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the most heroic thing of all.

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