Fire Your Villain
The Subtle Difference Between Tension vs. Takedowns
If you lead a startup, run a nonprofit, shape media, or parent a child in 2025, your challenge isn’t just to inform, it’s to connect.
You’re speaking into a cultural nervous system that’s overstimulated, overwhelmed, and exhausted by conflict.
What people crave now isn’t a louder voice. It’s a wiser one. One that can name the tension without needing a villain.
In fact, West Virginia University recently conducted a study which found that during COVID-19, messages that were rooted in fear, shame, and polarization were significantly less effective than those that emphasized shared responsibility and communal well-being.
We’ve been taught that every good message needs a villain. That the best branding paints a bad guy—sometimes a competitor, sometimes the customer’s own laziness.
But conflict isn’t the same as tension.
Conflict divides. Tension connects.
One tries to win.
The other tries to understand.
Most brand stories today are still built like war rooms.
But what people actually want is a round table.
Conflict vs. Tension
The word conflict comes from the Latin confligere, meaning "to strike together" or "to clash." It suggests collision—a zero-sum event where only one party walks away intact. By contrast, tension comes from tendere—"to stretch." It's the taut pull between two poles, the unresolved space before resolution, the elastic pause that holds a relationship, an idea, or a system in place just long enough to evolve.
So here’s the difference, plain and simple:
Conflict demands a loser. Tension invites a reckoning.
If conflict is about defeating the other side, tension is about discovering what’s underneath.
And in a culture stretched to its limit—politically, economically, digitally—the leaders who know how to stretch with it, not snap, are the ones who will shape the next chapter.
From a messaging standpoint, it’s the difference between:
“You’re doing it wrong.”
And: “We’ve all felt this. Let’s do it better.”
It’s the shift from:
“Be smarter. Be faster. Be MORE.”
To: “You’re not alone in this. Here’s something that makes it easier.”
From Saviors to Co-Creators
Villain-exhaustion brings a new dilemma: People really don’t care to be the hero anymore. They’re tired of being cast in stories built on conflict—where they’re either battling bad guys, overcoming themselves, or constantly proving their worth. That’s conflict messaging: always adversarial, always a fight.
What we’re now seeing is a shift in audience behavior from hero to narrator.
Narrators live in tension. They don’t need enemies to matter. They need context. They need a voice. And they want to co-author a story that feels honest about the stretch they’re in—the space between what is and what could be.
Tension-centered messaging gives them that space. It doesn’t flatten them into caricatures. It invites them to help shape the story itself.
Airbnb collaborates with hosts to co-author one-of-a-kind hospitality experiences.
LEGO invites users of all ages to build the story themselves—literally. The product isn’t the end; it’s a medium for personal expression .
Duolingo also thrives on co-creation. As more users engage, provide feedback, and contribute to discussions, the platform adapts—making its language lessons more responsive, personalized, and culturally relevant over time. The product literally gets smarter because people use it.
These aren’t hero journeys. They’re co-authored narratives—adaptive, participatory, and deeply human. They don’t demand an enemy. They invite a community.
The Lasso Effect
It was just supposed to be a throwaway promotional sketch for soccer! It became a global, culture-shifting franchise. Back in 2020 (You remember—that time when media was dominated by outrage and villain arcs—VERY different than it is today) Ted Lasso did something different: it embraced tension.
If Tiger King made us wonder if humanity was fundamentally broken, Ted Lasso showed us how to believe again (without downplaying our anxiety).
Instead of rewarding takedowns or rooting for one-dimensional heroes, the show built its message on people working through contradictions: Resentment versus empathy. Judgement versus curiosity. Ambition versus acceptance.
Even characters who were unlikeable on the surface—Jamie Tartt, Nate, even Rupert—weren’t canceled or destroyed. They were reconciled. The story didn’t punish them. It stretched them.
It wasn’t a feel-good gimmick. It was a strategic shift in storytelling—one that resonated deeply in a culture starved for something more than the junk food they’d been served. The show didn’t sell conflict. It sold possibility — the idea that people could change if they were seen instead of conquered.
And it worked.
Ted Lasso spawned an entire genre of hopepunk shows like Shrinking and Nobody Wants This, captured global fandom, and officially cemented Jason Sudeikis as the most bankable actor in history. Because tension, when messaged right, doesn’t just entertain. It builds franchises. It builds trust. It scales.
The Better Question
“What is the tension we work hard to resolve?”
In the world.
For our customers.
As a team.
If you haven’t stared that question down, kicked the tires on it, and wrestled it to the ground like partly assembled IKEA furniture, chances are you’re still trying to “Hero’s Journey” your way out of a message problem that’s gotten more complex.
And don’t get me wrong: Hero’s Journey messages work for simple stories. “Fire=Bad” works on a toddler. But once you start growing, it’s time to stop looking for myopic enemies and begin digging for the nuanced tension beneath.
There’s nothing quite as powerful as the day you look your villain in the eye and say, “I’ve outgrown you.”