Once upon a time, we knew exactly who the bad guys were. The Wicked Witch of the West cackled in her tower, Scar schemed his way to the throne, Cruella made every pet owner shudder with nightmares, and Thanos was just another evil big boss battle. All these villains, their motives didn’t need explaining; their wickedness was enough.

But something has changed.

The highly successful Oz spinoff, Wicked, reimagines the Wicked Witch as a misunderstood outcast. Cruella turns a puppy-stealing villain into an antihero with a rebellious streak. Mufasa: The Lion King shifts the narrative from the triumphant king to the Scar, who was the rightful heir. Even Infinity War dares to frame Thanos—a mass murderer—as the selfless messiah of the universe.

Evil is no longer black, but shades of gray entering to the spectrum of white. We are no longer satisfied with simple morality tales. We crave complexity. We want to understand before we judge. We can’t help but feel pity for these so-called villains who may just be a product of the evil system that made them who they are. As a result, our culture is feeding us with these backstories.

But why? And what does that shift say about us?

The Rise of Complexity in Storytelling

The idea of humanizing villains isn’t new. Ancient literature was often more morally ambiguous than we assume. The Bible gave us Samson, a womanizer with anger management issues. The Greeks gave us Achilles, a hero prone to rage, and Odysseus, a cunning trickster who wasn’t always noble. Shakespeare’s Macbeth and Richard III allowed audiences to step inside the minds of the power-hungry and tormented. But in modern pop culture, something distinct has happened. Villains aren’t just being deepened—they are being reframed.

Over the last century, psychology, sociology, and philosophy have reshaped how we see morality. Freud’s theories suggested that human behavior stems from deep-seated traumas and unconscious desires. Postmodernism dismantled the idea of clear-cut heroes and villains, arguing that morality depends on perspective. In a world where grand, absolute truths are increasingly questioned, simple morality tales no longer resonate. The digital age has only accelerated this: we are exposed to countless perspectives at once, bombarded with arguments that show how every hero has flaws and every villain has reasons.

The world tells us: Truth is complicated. Morality is relative. The villain is only the hero of another story.

The result? A world where it feels inadequate to simply say someone is “evil” without asking, Why?

The Appeal and the Risk of Humanizing Villains

There’s an undeniable appeal to this shift. It makes stories richer, more emotionally compelling. When we see the loneliness of the Wicked Witch or the childhood wounds of Cruella, we recognize something of ourselves. We all want to be understood, and these narratives validate the complexity of human nature.

And while this may feel like a progressive step toward understanding, it also blurs the lines of justice. If we humanize the villain too much, do we still have the courage to call evil what it is? Every villain is just a misunderstood victim. If we sympathize too much with Thanos’ burden, do we forget that he is still committing genocide? If we see Megatron as a fallen warrior, do we overlook the destruction he causes? Societies have always wrestled with this balance. Justice systems have long debated between punishment and rehabilitation. Political movements have swung between holding leaders accountable and excusing their actions based on circumstance. And in storytelling, too much moral ambiguity can sometimes leave us with narratives that lack a clear sense of right and wrong.

This is where we need a necessary counterpoint. It is important to affirm human brokenness, but we also need justice. Evil corrupts, but we can agree that no one is beyond redemption. The biblical narrative contains villain backstories—Saul before he became Paul, Peter denying Christ, even the nation of Israel constantly failing and being restored. But it suggests that the backstory cannot erase moral accountability.

Thanos’ pain does not justify his genocide. Cruella’s suffering does not erase her cruelty. Megatron’s fall does not make him less dangerous.

The problem with many of these backstories is that it risks replacing redemption with justification. Instead of a way forward, it offers an explanation for why people become the way they are—without calling them to change.

A Culture That Longs for Mercy, But Struggles with Judgment

At the heart of this trend is something deeply human: the fear of being judged unfairly.

In an era of social media, where a single mistake can lead to public condemnation, people are more aware than ever of how easy it is to be cast as the villain. So, we extend that same hesitation to fictional antagonists. We want their side of the story because we hope that, if we were in their shoes, someone would listen to ours.

This impulse is not wrong. History is full of moments where people once seen as villains were later redeemed—figures who defied conventions, leaders who made controversial choices, even everyday individuals who changed and grew over time. The challenge is holding space for both understanding and accountability, for both complexity and moral clarity.

But our culture, though it craves mercy, does not know what to do with justice. It struggles to believe in both at the same time. And so, we swing between extremes: either condemning people mercilessly (cancel culture) or excusing their actions because of their backstory.

What Does This Say About Us?

Maybe the reason we crave villain backstories is because, deep down, we know we aren’t the heroes of our own stories. We have made mistakes. We have been misunderstood. We have done things we regret. And in a world quick to judge, we long for the same thing these movies offer their antagonists: the chance to be known, to be understood, and to be given another chance.

And that’s what makes this cultural moment so fascinating. It reflects a world searching for something more than judgment—a world longing for grace, for second chances, for transformation.

But here’s where our culture struggles. It tries to find redemption by explaining the past rather than changing the future. It tells us that if we understand why someone became what they are, then maybe they’re not really at fault. But real hope comes not from justifying the brokenness in ourselves and others, but from finding a way forward—a way to be different, to be better.

Stories that matter don’t just ask us to sympathize with suffering; they challenge us to rise above it. They remind us that while our past shapes us, it doesn’t have to define us. That transformation is possible. That justice and mercy can coexist. And that, in the end, what we need isn’t just a reason for why things went wrong—but a path to make things right.

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Written by Joshua. George