Why We Love (and Hate) the Greatest Characters in Fiction

Every unforgettable story begins with characters who feel alive. The best ones aren’t simply good or evil—they’re complex, contradictory, and deeply human. They make us care, even when we don’t want to.

Think of The Brothers Karamazov. Dostoevsky’s genius was not just in his sweeping moral questions but in his ability to put those questions in the hearts of broken men. Dmitri, torn between passion and self-destruction. Ivan, the intellectual wrestling with God and morality. Alyosha, the quiet, faithful brother whose strength lies not in muscle but in compassion. None of them are flawless, and that’s what makes them unforgettable. Their struggles are our struggles, magnified.

Or consider Tolkien’s Sam and Frodo. Their journey to Mordor is more than a quest to destroy the Ring—it’s a meditation on loyalty, weakness, and endurance. Frodo falters under the Ring’s weight, but Sam, plain and stubborn, carries him when he cannot walk. That bond of friendship is what makes the story soar above battles and armies. It’s why we remember Sam’s tears as clearly as any clash at Helm’s Deep.

In Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove, the partnership of Gus McCrae and Woodrow Call carries the same weight. Gus, the joker with a philosopher’s heart, and Call, the stoic driven by duty, are opposites who complete each other. We follow them across the cattle drive not for the dust and the gunfights, but to see how these men live, argue, love, and endure. They remind us of people we know—or wish we did.

Great characters aren’t always heroes. Sometimes it’s the villains who refuse to leave us alone. Saruman, fallen from wisdom into corruption. Captain Ahab, consumed by obsession until he becomes more myth than man. Hannibal Lecter, who horrifies us even as we can’t look away from his brilliance. Dorian Gray, whose charm masks a rot that grows with every page. They embody the parts of ourselves we fear most—pride, obsession, cruelty, vanity—and force us to stare into the mirror.

What ties all of these characters together is not perfection but truth. They react to life and challenge in ways that feel real. They struggle with flaws, make compromises, surprise us with grace or betrayals. They may be larger than life, but they are never hollow.

And these kinds of characters aren’t confined to the classics—they thrive in modern thrillers too. Gregg Hurwitz’s Orphan X, Evan Smoak, is a government-trained assassin who chooses to save rather than kill, haunted by the tension between what he was made to be and what he longs to become. Jack Carr’s James Reece, driven by grief and betrayal, is as much a man searching for meaning as he is a warrior seeking justice. Brad Thor’s Scot Harvath embodies the costs of relentless duty, showing us that even victories carry scars.

We don’t follow these men because of their tactics or firepower—we follow them because of their flaws, loyalties, and contradictions. They feel real, and so their choices matter.

That’s the lineage I’m writing into with Guardian Down. Luis Cortez isn’t a perfect hero. He’s a man broken by loss, rebuilt with science, and tested by enemies who know how to strike at the human heart. His fight isn’t only about survival or revenge—it’s about identity, faith, and the cost of holding on to humanity when the world tries to take it away.

The greatness of fiction doesn’t come from spectacle alone. It comes from characters who stay with us long after the last page—those we admire, those we despise, and those we recognize in our own reflection.

B.D. Godard