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I wonder when an ascendance to godhood became a prerequisite for villainy.
When did it start? Where did it become cliché? How many times did it have to happen before every bad guy with a bone to pick with existence who had read a little too much of the Fountainhead needed to morph into a godlike being with powers beyond comprehension to achieve their goals? And why do they never seem quite capable of snuffing out the first team of three or four people that get in their way?
Admittedly, the ascendance to godhood can be an intriguing aspect of a villain’s development, and done properly it can reflect the gravity of the situation, the idea that the world literally hangs in the balance; it can also reflect the concept of good versus evil, that, in the face of such dangers, good will triumph against all odds and in spite of all obstacles.
Far more likely, however, is that it winds up becoming a running joke, a game within the game to see how many times the villain still fails, how many references to real-world religions or mythologies can be made, and how many times the villain can cast a lengthy spell that clearly destroys the entire solar system to moderately injure a handful of people. The “god” is there to look pretty, provide a bitchin’ final boss tune, and explode spectacularly. Development has ended. Their role as a human being stops here.
It wasn’t always this way. It doesn’t have to be this way.
Must bad guys always morph into something that represents the epitome of evil? Is it not possible to base an RPG around two men, two normal men, who see things in drastically different ways? Can we not get around the idea that bigger is better, that villains must be systematically dehumanized and turned into an ultimate threat to be a worthy foe?
There are other ways to induce drama besides increasing the scale. In the final minutes of Suikoden, the emperor Barbarossa, leader of a broken nation, commander of a defeated army, stands alone inside his garden. Acknowledging his fate, he nonetheless draws his sword and dares your party to take another step. For one moment, for one brief, beautiful moment, it looks like he’ll simply go down fighting, like a warrior, like a hero.
Then he turns into a gold three-headed dragon that looks evil, and is certainly impressive, but is ultimately easy to manage. The drama of fighting a human opponent is lost. Compared to other confrontations within that same game – the one-on-one duels between McDohl and his father, or Kwanda Rosman – the scene is devoid of poignancy, the desperation of another man, another human fighting for what they believe in.
Consider a more recent example, the end of the bonus Orc campaign in Warcraft III, the Frozen Throne expansion. A series of isolated clashes between the new Orc settlement and a band of mysterious humans leads to a conflict between one man trying to secure his people’s survival – Thrall – and one man who cannot let go of his hatreds – the human admiral Proudmoore. The final battle literally is a melee of epic proportions, as Orcs storm the human city and Proudmoore’s forces fight to the last man, including Proudmoore himself. Even to the very end, with defensive towers trashed, forces beaten and hostile troops approaching from all directions, he fights not to end life, but – from his point of view – to save it. He isn’t a monster, he’s just human.
There are ways to create an epic adventure without threatening the world, and without cheapening a villain by robbing him of his humanity. Perhaps it’s time to explore those ways.
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