Table of Contents
Let’s start with a truth that most writers won’t admit until it’s too late: you can’t build a great story on the back of a character your reader doesn’t care about.
Not admire. Not agree with. Not even like, necessarily. But care about. Fear for. Hope something breaks through the armor.
Which is why the antihero is one of the hardest character types to get right.
Because if you miss the emotional mark, what you end up with isn’t a darkly compelling protagonist. You end up with an asshole. Or worse: a villain in disguise.
And if that’s what you wanted—fine. But if you meant to write a tortured soul, and accidentally wrote someone whose entire personality is one-note rage and edgy one-liners, don’t be surprised when your readers bounce.
The antihero isn’t just a bad person doing good things. And they’re definitely not just a good person making “gritty” choices. They’re something messier. They’re someone we shouldn’t root for—but kind of do. Someone whose victories feel both earned and dangerous. Someone who, despite everything, makes us feel something real.
So why do so many writers screw it up?
The Antihero Is Not the Villain in Fancy Boots
There’s a myth—thanks to Tumblr and prestige TV—that the antihero is just the villain we decided to empathize with. That if we show enough flashbacks and trauma scars and moral speeches, the villain becomes complex enough to carry the whole story.
But that’s not how stories work.
A villain becoming the protagonist is only interesting if they’ve changed. If they’ve gained something they don’t want to lose. If they’ve started caring about something that softens the blade.
Otherwise you’re just watching a slow, joyless descent. Which can work (Breaking Bad, Gone Girl, Nightcrawler)—but only if the audience is in on the trick. If they know they’re not meant to root for redemption.
Most of the time, though, writers try to have it both ways. They give us a morally bankrupt lead who kicks dogs, lies compulsively, abuses power, and then slap a tragic backstory on them like it’s a coupon for reader forgiveness.
But readers aren’t stupid. If your protagonist doesn’t fear consequences, doesn’t crave connection, doesn’t try—on some buried, failing level—to be better, we won’t follow them. Not even out of morbid curiosity.
Because the villain can’t be the protagonist unless the story becomes a tragedy. And most of the time, YA or genre fiction doesn’t want to end that way.
Likability vs. Charisma
"Likability" doesn't mean being pleasant—it means being magnetic. Readers must be intrigued by the antihero's complexity. Han Solo from Star Wars lies and cheats but exudes charm and wit. He's likable precisely because of his flaws, not despite them.
The biggest mistake writers make is confusing edgy behavior with depth. Snarky dialogue, leather jackets, and brooding monologues aren't substitutes for meaningful stakes and emotional vulnerability. Without vulnerability or something deeply valued, your antihero isn't complex—they're just a jerk.
A Real Antihero Still Has Something to Lose
This is the part that gets skipped the most: antiheroes don’t work unless they’re emotionally exposed. Not constantly. Not obviously. But there has to be something in them that can break. Something they don’t want to lose—maybe even something they don’t deserve to keep.
That’s what makes them human.
Kaz Brekker from Six of Crows is a classic antihero. He manipulates, he steals, he tortures. But he also trembles when Inej is taken. He also builds walls around a heart that hasn’t entirely gone cold. Leigh Bardugo doesn’t pretend Kaz is a good person. She just shows us the tiny fragments of light still buried in the dark—and lets us hope he doesn’t grind them to ash.
Compare that to Light Yagami from Death Note. He’s technically the protagonist. But the longer the story goes, the more we understand we’re watching a villain ascend. The emotional core isn’t about sympathy—it’s about horror. That works because the story knows what it’s doing. It doesn’t try to redeem him. It lets him rot.
The problem is when a writer puts a character like Light in the center and thinks they’re writing Kaz.
The difference? Stakes.
Joel from The Last of Us can lose Ellie. Zuko (after his arc begins) can lose the fragile trust he’s clawed back. These characters are selfish. Violent. But they want something good. Something noble. Something that makes them question the worst parts of themselves.
If your antihero doesn't have that?
They're just a villain with main character syndrome.
The Reader Must Still Feel the Pulse
Even if your antihero is cruel, they must be wounded. If they’re manipulative, they must also be afraid. If they’re in control, show us when they lose it—and why it matters.
The heart of any antihero is vulnerability. Their actions can be morally dubious or outright terrible, but something must matter deeply to them. You don’t have to make them cry. But you have to let the reader glimpse the raw edge under the mask. And not just once. Consistently. Subtly.
Give them a moment of hesitation. Give them a line they won’t cross—until they have to. And when they do? Make it hurt.
That’s what keeps us with them. Not righteousness. Not relatability. Risk.
Quick Litmus Test: Does your antihero have something they'd sacrifice anything to protect? If not, readers won't care enough to follow them.
Why This Usually Fails
Because too many writers think “unlikable” means “cool.” They confuse edgy with deep. They think detachment reads as mystery, when it just reads as emotional vacancy.
Or they lean so hard into moral ambiguity that every character becomes gray goo. No stakes. No tension. No one cares what happens to whom, because everyone sucks equally and nothing matters.
Or they make the mistake of punishing the good characters and rewarding the bad ones—and think that’s edgy. It’s not. It’s just bleak.
And here’s the thing: readers don’t need your characters to be morally clean. But they do need something to hold onto. A reason to turn the page.
And the easiest way to give them that?
Write someone who cares about something they might lose.
The Rare Exceptions (And Why They Work)
Can you write a story where the protagonist becomes the villain and the reader still follows them?
Yes. But it must be intentional. It must be structured as tragedy.
Gone Girl works because Amy Dunne knows she’s the villain—and she weaponizes the audience’s hunger for catharsis.
Breaking Bad works because every arc is a descent, and the show is ruthless about showing us what it costs.
Examples of Antiheroes Done Right
- Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders): Ruthless gangster, haunted by PTSD. His fierce love for his family and hidden fragility under the brutality make him irresistible.
- Fleabag (Fleabag): Self-destructive, selfish, but desperate for love and forgiveness. Her emotional rawness keeps viewers invested, despite constant questionable decisions.
- Rorschach (Watchmen): Brutal, uncompromising, yet fiercely principled in his twisted morality. His tragic backstory and unwavering commitment to his own code make readers empathize, even reluctantly.
These stories are rare. And they’re hard to pull off. And most writers don’t actually want to write a tragedy. They want the redemption. They want the reader to cry for the character, not because of them.
And that’s okay. Just don’t lie to yourself about the line you’re walking.
Redemption Isn't Required—But the Possibility Is
Readers don't need your antihero to become a better person. However, they must believe the character might change. Jaime Lannister from Game of Thrones is the perfect example. He starts despicable but gains our sympathy as he struggles with guilt, vulnerability, and the possibility of redemption—whether or not he achieves it.
Compare that with Maven Calore from Red Queen. Initially intriguing, his descent into villainy feels rushed and ungrounded, leaving readers detached. Genuine internal conflict about his morality would’ve strengthened his antihero status, rather than shifting him swiftly into irredeemable villain territory.
How to Write Your Antihero (Practical Steps)
- Identify Core Vulnerability: What terrifies them emotionally? What will they risk everything for?
- Establish Moral Ambiguity Early: Show morally questionable actions balanced by relatable motivations.
- Internal Conflict is Essential: Give them contradictions they struggle to reconcile.
- Consistent Emotional Stakes: Never lose sight of what they're fighting for, even subtly.
- Redeemable Potential: Readers must believe redemption is possible—even if it never happens.
When the Antihero Becomes the Villain (And Vice Versa)
Sometimes authors try to flip traditional dynamics completely: protagonist becomes villain, antagonist becomes hero. It's incredibly hard to pull off because it can alienate readers unless handled masterfully.
A classic example that succeeds: Vicious by V.E. Schwab. Victor Vale and Eli Ever both start sympathetic. Both become monstrous. Schwab shifts protagonist-antagonist roles multiple times. We keep caring because they're defined by clear, emotionally-charged motivations. Victor wants revenge and validation. Eli believes he's chosen by God. Their obsession keeps readers tethered to their journeys even as morality dissolves.
Less successful is Anakin Skywalker’s arc in the Star Wars prequels—despite his complexity, the abrupt shift from troubled antihero to child-slaughtering villain makes audiences detach emotionally. It feels forced, not earned. He moves too quickly from "morally ambiguous" to "clearly monstrous," losing the emotional thread that could keep viewers sympathetic.
Antihero Cheat Sheet (Ask Yourself):
- What is their greatest fear?
- What line won't they cross—until they must?
- Who or what could break their emotional defenses?
- Why should readers root for them despite their actions?
Writing Exercise: Emotional Stakes Check
Write a scene where your antihero must choose between their self-interest and something they deeply care about. Make the choice painful, and show the emotional cost.
The Villain Protagonist Trap
Not every compelling villain is an antihero. Characters like Joe Goldberg (You) or Amy Dunne (Gone Girl) are villain protagonists—fascinating but intentionally irredeemable. Their stories aren’t about potential redemption but psychological exploration. Clarify your intention early to avoid reader confusion.
Final Thoughts (Or: How Not to Screw This Up)
Writing antiheroes well means mastering emotional stakes, believable contradictions, and keeping readers emotionally involved. You can’t take shortcuts here—no amount of sarcasm or brooding monologues will fix a hollow character. Readers don’t fall for edgy posturing; they fall for the painful, messy, recognizably human ache beneath it.
Here’s the one rule to tattoo on your writer’s brain:
Your antihero must be a protagonist first and an asshole second.
They must have something to lose—love, sanity, freedom, dignity. We must see them struggle to keep it, even as they sabotage their own happiness. Show us a thread of humanity, and we'll follow them anywhere.
Forget that, and you risk creating characters readers might find interesting—but won’t ever truly love.
And in fiction, interesting isn't enough.
