Empathy in writing is not about excusing horror—it’s about understanding its roots. In Monster: The Ed Gein Story, empathy becomes a lens through which we confront the uncomfortable truth that monsters are often made, not born.
In the age of true crime saturation and desensitized audiences, the act of writing with empathy—especially about figures like Ed Gein—becomes both a moral challenge and a narrative necessity.
Monster: The Ed Gein Story, the third instalment in Ryan Murphy’s Netflix anthology, dares to tread this fraught terrain. It doesn’t simply recount Gein’s grotesque crimes; it interrogates the conditions that shaped him, the cultural machinery that mythologised him, and the viewers who consume his story with morbid fascination. In doing so, the series offers a provocative case study in how empathy, when wielded responsibly, can deepen our understanding of horror rather than dilute its impact.
The empathetic lens in Monster: The Ed Gein Story
It was shaped by co-creators Ryan Murphy and Ian Brennan, with director and co-showrunner Max Winkler playing a pivotal role in deepening the character study of Ed Gein.
Murphy and Brennan, known for their provocative reimaginings of true crime, set the tone for the series’ controversial blend of horror and humanization. However, it was Max Winkler who most explicitly articulated the show’s empathetic intent. In interviews, Winkler emphasized that he wasn’t interested in glorifying Gein’s crimes but in exploring the emotional and cultural conditions that shaped him. He described the series as a “character study” rather than a horror spectacle.
Winkler’s approach was to peel back the layers of Gein’s psyche, portraying him not as a monster but as a man fractured by trauma, mental illness, and cultural desensitization. This vision was supported by the writing team, who crafted scenes that emphasized Gein’s isolation, hallucinations, and longing for connection—particularly through imagined conversations with figures like Ilse Koch and Christine Jorgensen.
The result is a series that walks a controversial line: it doesn’t excuse Gein’s actions, but it contextualizes them, inviting viewers to confront the uncomfortable truth that monsters are often shaped by the worlds they inhabit.
Empathy in writing is often misunderstood as a softening of truth
In its most rigorous form, it is a commitment to complexity. It asks the writer to look beyond the act and into the character—to trace the emotional, psychological, and societal contours that led to a moment of rupture.
In Monster, this commitment is evident from the opening scenes. Ed Gein, played with haunting restraint by Charlie Hunnam, is not introduced as a bloodthirsty villain but as a quiet, mentally fragile man shaped by isolation, abuse, and untreated schizophrenia. His voice is soft, his manner timid, his hallucinations vivid. The series doesn’t absolve him—it contextualizes him. It asks not “How could he?” but “What happened to him?” This shift in framing is the essence of empathetic writing.
Director and co-showrunner Max Winkler emphasized this approach, noting that Gein’s story had long been told through the lens of sensationalism, often ignoring the man behind the myth. Winkler’s team made deliberate choices to humanize Gein—not to romanticize him, but to restore the emotional texture that decades of horror adaptations had stripped away.
For instance, the character of Adeline Watkins, played by Suzanna Son, becomes a narrative anchor. Though her real-life connection to Gein was tenuous, the writers expanded her role to give Gein a sounding board, a mirror, a moment of relational clarity. In one scene, Gein proposes marriage to Adeline, only to be gently rebuffed. The moment is tender, awkward, and deeply unsettling—not because it evokes sympathy, but because it reveals the emotional dissonance of a man who craved connection but was incapable of healthy attachment.
This kind of writing demands a delicate balance. Too much empathy, and the narrative risks tipping into apology. Too little, and it becomes voyeuristic.
Monster walks this tightrope by embedding its empathy within a broader critique of cultural desensitization. The series doesn’t just explore Gein’s psyche—it interrogates the audience’s.
In one chilling exchange, a nurse tells Gein he should set the record straight. He replies, “I think enough people have told my story, don’t you think? They seem to know it better than me.” The line is meta-textual, implicating the viewer in the act of consumption. It’s a reminder that every retelling is a choice—and that empathy is not just for the subject, but for the audience who must reckon with their own gaze.
Empathetic writing also challenges genre conventions
Horror, by design, thrives on fear and revulsion. But when empathy enters the frame, it complicates the emotional palette. Monster does this by juxtaposing Gein’s crimes with scenes of historical trauma—images of Nazi concentration camps, the Vietnam War, and the Nixon administration’s brutality. These moments suggest that Gein’s descent was not merely personal but cultural. He was absorbing a world already steeped in violence, already numbed to suffering. In this context, empathy becomes a tool of critique. It doesn’t excuse—it exposes.
One of the most controversial choices in the series is the depiction of Gein’s schizophrenia. Psychologist Dannielle Haig cautioned that dramatisations often exaggerate the link between mental illness and violence, reinforcing harmful stereotypes. Monster attempts to navigate this by portraying Gein’s hallucinations not as monstrous but as manifestations of trauma.
He imagines conversations with Ilse Koch, the Nazi “Bitch of Buchenwald,” and Christine Jorgensen, the first American to undergo gender reassignment surgery. These figures are not random—they reflect Gein’s fractured understanding of femininity, power, and identity.
The writing here is empathetic not because it justifies, but because it seeks to understand the symbolic architecture of Gein’s mind.
Empathy also reshapes the viewer’s relationship to violence
In Monster, the gore is not gratuitous—it’s reflective. Scenes of Hitchcock’s Psycho and Hooper’s Texas Chain Saw Massacre are interwoven with commentary on how horror films have evolved from psychological tension to graphic spectacle. The series suggests that our appetite for violence has grown not despite empathy, but because of its absence. We crave shock, not story.
Empathetic writing resists this trend by reintroducing emotional consequence
A poignant example of empathy in action comes in the final episode, when Gein, now old and dying, sits quietly in a psychiatric institution. A nurse treats him with kindness. He is no longer the centre of spectacle, but a man fading into obscurity. The scene doesn’t ask us to forgive—it asks us to feel. To feel the weight of a life shaped by abuse, untreated illness, and cultural neglect. To feel the discomfort of seeing a monster as a man.
This is the power of empathetic writing: it doesn’t let us look away
In a world increasingly desensitised to violence, empathy in writing is not a luxury—it’s a responsibility. Monster: The Ed Gein Story shows us that empathy doesn’t weaken narrative—it strengthens it. It allows us to confront horror not as entertainment, but as a mirror. It reminds us that every monster has a story, and that understanding that story is the first step toward preventing the next one.
Here are five distilled, field-tested tips for creating empathy in writing—especially useful when navigating morally complex characters or emotionally charged narratives:
- Start with the Wound, Not the Crime
Empathy begins where judgment pauses. Instead of leading with what a character did, explore what was done to them. What shaped their worldview? What loss, neglect, or longing haunts them? By foregrounding formative wounds—emotional, societal, or familial—you invite readers to feel with rather than simply about the character. - Use Specific, Sensory Detail to Ground Humanity
Empathy lives in the granular. A trembling hand, a half-eaten meal, a misbuttoned shirt—these small, humanizing details create emotional proximity. They remind readers that even the most alienated figures share our physical vulnerabilities. - Let the Character Speak—Even If They’re Unreliable
Empathy doesn’t require agreement. It requires access. Give your character a voice, even if it’s fractured, delusional, or morally compromised. Let them explain themselves—not to justify, but to reveal the emotional logic behind their actions. - Mirror the Reader’s Gaze
Empathetic writing often implicates the audience. Ask: Why are we drawn to this story? What does our fascination say about us? By acknowledging the reader’s role—whether as voyeur, judge, or witness—you create a shared emotional contract. - End with Consequence, Not Catharsis
Empathy doesn’t mean closure. It means consequence. Instead of wrapping the story in redemption or punishment, leave space for discomfort. Let the emotional residue linger. This honours the complexity of real trauma and prevents the narrative from becoming exploitative.
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