Why the Best Villains Think They’re the Hero
What separates a forgettable villain from an iconic one? It’s not just power, cruelty, or a killer aesthetic. The best villains don’t twirl their moustaches and cackle—they genuinely believe they’re doing the right thing. In their minds, they’re the misunderstood protagonist, righting a wrong, restoring order, or simply enforcing the laws of their own personal universe. And honestly? That’s what makes them so damn interesting. Because with a slightly different point of view, they probably WOULD be the hero.
The Psychology of a Strong Antagonist
Nobody wakes up and thinks, “Today, I shall be evil!” Real-life villains (and the best fictional ones) operate under the belief that their actions are justified. Maybe they’re avenging a personal loss, maybe they’ve built an entire philosophy around fate, or maybe they’re just really, really good at compartmentalising their questionable choices.
A villain who sees themselves as the hero doesn’t just create external conflict; they make things messy. They challenge the protagonist’s worldview, force them to confront hard truths, and, in the best cases, make the audience wonder: Are they actually wrong?
Villains Who Believe They’re The Hero
Anton Chigurh (No Country for Old Men)
Anton Chigurh isn’t your run-of-the-mill bad guy. He’s not driven by revenge, greed, or even personal hatred. No, Chigurh sees himself as something much bigger—an agent of fate, a walking inevitability. His philosophy is terrifyingly simple: life is random, dictated by forces beyond human control. And he? He’s just enforcing the rules.
That’s where the coin toss comes in. It’s not a gimmick. To him, it’s a cosmic decision-maker, absolving him of responsibility. When he tells a shopkeeper to call it, he’s not playing games—he’s giving them a chance to let fate decide their future. The fact that he follows through every single time is what makes him so terrifying. There’s no mercy, no hesitation—just cold, unwavering logic.
And that’s the kicker: Chigurh doesn’t think he’s cruel. He genuinely believes he’s neutral, acting within a set of principles that are, in his mind, beyond reproach. That consistency—no emotional outbursts, no random sadism—makes him scarier than any villain who revels in chaos. He doesn’t just believe he’s right. He knows it.
Amy Dunne (Gone Girl)
Amy Dunne is a master manipulator, but let’s get one thing straight—she doesn’t see herself as the villain. She sees herself as a woman taking back control. Betrayed, discarded, underestimated? Not on her watch. Amy’s actions aren’t about revenge in the traditional sense; they’re about rewriting the narrative so that she remains the hero and her cheating husband becomes the ultimate villain.
Every move she makes is precise, methodical, and devastatingly effective. The fake diary? Ingenious. The staged crime scene? Flawless. The calculated reinvention of herself to gain public sympathy? Chef’s kiss. She’s playing a long game, and the most chilling part? She’s absolutely convinced she deserves to win.
Amy’s warped morality is rooted in her upbringing as “Amazing Amy,” the perfect child created by her parents’ book series. She was raised to be an ideal rather than a person, so when her husband stops worshipping that ideal, she doesn’t just walk away—she destroys him. And in her mind? That’s justice. She’s not chaotic or reckless; she’s an architect of vengeance, sculpting her world into something she can control. And when she wins? She doesn’t see it as a victory over Nick. She sees it as balance restored.
Killmonger (Black Panther)
Killmonger isn’t just one of the best Marvel villains—he’s one of the best-written villains of the 21st century. Why? Because he’s right. Well, at least partly. His goal—to end the oppression of Black people worldwide—is valid. His rage is justified. His criticism of Wakanda’s isolationist policies? Absolutely on point. What makes him the antagonist isn’t what he believes, but how he chooses to act on it.
Killmonger was raised in Oakland, watching systemic oppression unfold while knowing that Wakanda—the most advanced nation in the world—was sitting on the resources to help. That betrayal cut deep. So when he returns to Wakanda, it’s not just about claiming his birthright; it’s about forcing the nation to take action. He wants to burn down the old system and build a new one where the oppressed become the rulers.
His biggest flaw? He mirrors the very systems he wants to destroy. He’s so consumed by his vision of revolution that he’s willing to impose his own brand of oppression to achieve it. But even in death, he refuses to be conquered. His last words—”Bury me in the ocean with my ancestors who jumped from ships, because they knew death was better than bondage”—are devastating because they reflect his unshakable belief in his cause. And honestly? The fact that he forces T’Challa to rethink Wakanda’s role in the world proves that he wasn’t just some power-hungry warlord. He was a catalyst for change.
Miranda Priestly (The Devil Wears Prada)
Miranda Priestly isn’t evil—she’s iconic. But make no mistake, she is the antagonist to Andy’s journey in The Devil Wears Prada. From her own perspective, though? She’s just maintaining the high standards required to survive in an unforgiving industry.
Miranda doesn’t throw tantrums or scream threats. She doesn’t have to. Her icy stares, her devastating one-liners, and her impossible-to-please demeanour are enough to strike fear into the hearts of assistants everywhere. But is she cruel? Not in her eyes. She simply expects the best because she is the best. If you can’t keep up, that’s not her problem.
Her best moment comes in Paris, when Andy finally calls her out for betraying a colleague. Miranda, unfazed, explains that she did what was necessary to survive. “Everyone wants this,” she tells Andy, not as a flex, but as a hard truth. In Miranda’s world, being soft means being devoured. She doesn’t have the luxury of kindness. And what makes her such a fascinating antagonist? She doesn’t change. While Andy walks away, Miranda stays right where she is—untouchable, unapologetic, and, in her own way, victorious.
Villains who think they’re the hero aren’t just more interesting—they’re more dangerous. They don’t monologue about world domination; they act with conviction, making them harder to defeat. They push protagonists to their limits, force them to evolve, and make audiences squirm with the uncomfortable realisation that, under the right circumstances, maybe—just maybe—they’d make the same choices.
So, the next time you write an antagonist, don’t ask yourself, “How can I make them evil?” Ask, “How can I make them right?” Because nothing is scarier than a villain who genuinely believes they’re saving the world.
