Trump, Godwin’s Law, and the human craving for archetypal villains
- David Warden
- 7 hours ago
- 4 min read
By David Warden
Why do we so quickly cast political figures as villains? From Godwin’s Law to the figure of Trump, this piece examines how moral heuristics, culture and media shape our reactions – and how humanism can help us think more clearly and rationally.
David is Editor of Humanistically Speaking and Chair of Dorset Humanists, UK.
If you spend enough time in online discussion forums, you will eventually encounter Godwin’s Law. Formulated in 1990 by the American lawyer Mike Godwin, this ‘law’ states that ‘as an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches 1.’
Godwin claimed that such comparisons often trivialise the Holocaust by reducing it to a rhetorical device for scoring points in everyday arguments. It is an example of the reductio ad Hitlerum fallacy – the moment when nuance is abandoned and moral hyperbole takes over.
A young humanist recently suggested to me that ‘Trump is the new Godwin’s Law’. He meant that in many conversations, Donald Trump appears within minutes, almost as a reflex – even when the topic under discussion has nothing to do with him. This is not quite the same phenomenon as Godwin’s Law, which involves rhetorical escalation; rather, it reflects a kind of conversational fixation.
If you're familiar with the BBC Radio 4 comedy programme I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue, the name ‘Trump’ almost functions like the declaration of ‘Mornington Crescent!’ – the terminus of this eponymous game. I've even taken to deducting symbolic points from members who reflexively mention ‘Trump’ in our humanist meetings.
This kind of conversational pull may point to something deeper. In an age of declining religion, political figures can take on a kind of symbolic or quasi-moral significance. Trump, more than most, has become a vessel for projection.
The archetype of an age
Every generation has its symbolic villains – figures onto whom society projects its deepest fears and loathing. For those shaped by the Second World War and its aftermath, Hitler became the enduring archetype of evil. Hence Godwin’s Law: the Nazi comparison marked the end-point of moral escalation. For our own time, Trump appears to occupy a similar psychological role for some people. He represents a convergence of anxieties:
narcissism in powerful figures
the erosion of civil discourse and norms
authoritarian populism versus ‘the rules-based international order’
‘post-truth’ politics
fear of a return of fascism
Trump has become a lightning rod for all such anxieties. As a result, he is often encountered less as a flawed and erratic politician with a mixed record, and more as a symbolic figure.
Why this figure – and not others?
It’s worth asking why this intense symbolic focus falls so heavily on Trump. Other figures on the world stage – such as Vladimir Putin or Xi Jinping, and the recently assassinated Iranian leader Ali Khamenei – represent ideologies that have posed direct and sustained challenges to liberal democratic values, global security and human rights. And yet they do not occupy the same emotional space as Trump in everyday conversation. This suggests that our responses are not driven purely by objective threat. Trump is a highly visible, media-saturated figure within Western societies – familiar, immediate, and culturally ubiquitous. He has become a kind of internal hate figure, and more symbolically potent than more distant threats.
It’s also part of the complexity that Trump does not fit neatly into the role he is often assigned. His interactions with authoritarian leaders are interpreted in different ways – by some as signs of dangerous affinity (‘Trump idolises Putin’) and by others as strategic, transactional, or even messianic. This ambiguity increases his symbolic power. He becomes a screen onto which competing fears and hopes are projected.
Different generational responses
There may also be a difference in how people of different generations respond to such figures. Some younger people, particularly those shaped by digital culture, encounter politics through a more fragmented and ironic lens. For them, Trump may appear as one figure among many – sometimes serious, sometimes absurd, often mediated through humour and memes. Others, particularly those with longer historical memory of political stability or instability, may experience such figures more viscerally, as symbols of rupture or decline. But this is not a simple generational divide. It’s better understood as a difference in tone: between more symbolic, emotionally charged interpretations of political leaders and more detached or sceptical ones.
A more reflective humanism
What does all this mean for humanism? Humanism has always encouraged us to resist the temptation to divide the world into simple categories of good and evil which can so easily distort and impoverish our understanding of the complex world in which we live. It asks us to look more closely at the following questions:
What civilisational, ideological and religious forces are shaping global conflicts?
How and why do media and culture amplify certain figures?
What fears and anxieties are being projected?
How do our own experiences shape our interpretations?
This means resisting the pull of heuristic and archetypical thinking – the urge to turn individuals into cartoonish villains. A more reflective humanism values:
critical scepticism
richer and deeper analyses beyond good and evil
dialogue beyond tribalism
engagement without zealotry
a willingness to tolerate complexity and ambiguity
Conclusion
Godwin’s Law reminds us how quickly arguments can collapse into extreme comparisons and archetypes. The tendency to invoke Trump in a similar way (‘Toddler!’, ‘Moron!’, ‘Fascist!’) suggests that this habit has found a contemporary outlet. We often reach for symbolic shorthand instead of careful thought.
In a fast-moving media environment, these symbolic judgements often form with striking speed – sometimes before evidence has fully emerged or alternative interpretations have been considered. Public figures can be cast very quickly as heroes or villains, making it harder to sustain a more balanced or provisional view.
If humanism is to contribute meaningfully in the present moment, it must help us move beyond these reflexes. That means seeing political figures not as embodiments of absolute good or evil, but as human beings shaped by extremely complex circumstances, systems, and choices – and seeing ourselves, too, as participants in those same processes. In a world that often rewards outrage and simplification, that may be one of the most distinctive forms of intellectual virtue humanism can offer.
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