If a Psychiatrist were to explain why True Vampires are often cruel, what would be their reasoning?
Oh wow, what a complex question! It’s definitely a stimulating one. The first thing that came to mind as I read it was Zimbardo’s “guards and prisoners” experiment, which I read about years ago in my psychology textbooks. I remember it clearly, among others, because of the results of that experiment—which was supposed to last two weeks, but was interrupted after just six days. For a very specific reason.
Before I go on, let me clarify the usual: I studied psychology, but I’m not a psychologist, and certainly not a psychiatrist, so I’m not trying—nor am I qualified—to make any kind of diagnosis. That’s important to keep in mind.
So, going back to Zimbardo and the Stanford Prison Experiment (1971): Stanford University launched a study to investigate the psychological effects of taking on the roles of guard and prisoner. They selected 24 healthy college students, randomly assigned them to one of the two roles, and placed them in a simulated prison built in the basement of the psychology department. The experiment was intended to last two weeks, but it was terminated after only six days due to the extreme levels of stress exhibited by both groups.
The “guards” developed sadistic, arrogant, and increasingly authoritarian behaviors.
The “prisoners,” within just a few days, began to show signs of disorientation, depression, and passive submission.
Three prisoners voluntarily left the study by day four due to psychological trauma.
The experiment revealed just how profoundly situational factors and imposed roles can transform human behavior. People who are otherwise “normal” can adopt cruel and dehumanizing behaviors when placed in contexts of power and control.
The Stanford Prison Experiment is one of the most well-known examples in social psychology where depersonalization and dehumanization clearly and disturbingly emerged. Depersonalization is a subjective experience. It occurs when a person stops feeling like themselves, perceiving a sense of detachment from their body, emotions, or social role. It is common in situations of trauma, extreme stress, or contexts where the individual loses control over their actions and decisions. Dehumanization, on the other hand, is an active act, carried out by others. It happens when an individual or group denies another human being their humanity, treating them as an object, an animal, or a tool.
In the context of the experiment, the dynamic of depersonalization became evident from the very first days. The “prisoners,” for instance, no longer had names—they were identified by numbers. They wore identical uniforms, were subjected to strict rules, and had to ask permission even for the most basic needs. Little by little, many began to internalize their role, ceasing to perceive themselves as free and autonomous individuals. Some broke down in tears, others fell into passive silence, and some completely lost their sense of what was real or right. They were no longer students participating in a psychological simulation, but actual inmates who believed they were truly imprisoned. This is where depersonalization comes into play: when you're stripped of your identity, your name, your rights—you stop recognizing yourself. And if you don’t recognize yourself, you don’t resist.
The same process occurred, though in reverse, for the “guards.” They too wore uniforms, dark glasses that blocked eye contact, and carried batons as symbols of authority. Soon, even the most mild-mannered among them began to behave in authoritarian, humiliating, and in some cases openly sadistic ways. They were no longer individuals accountable for their actions, but instruments of the role they were playing. Power, combined with anonymity and emotional distance, transformed them. Not because they were evil, but because they felt authorized—shielded by a system that justified every behavior.
This, ultimately, is the heart of the problem: when people are stripped of their personal identity, dehumanized, and placed within a closed system where every action is dictated by rigid and authoritarian roles, it becomes much easier for them to lose their moral compass, their empathy, and their critical thinking. After all, those people aren’t seen as people anymore — they’re seen as things. And that’s how depersonalization and dehumanization feed into each other.
That’s why, despite its later criticism and methodological flaws, the Stanford Prison Experiment remains so relevant — and so frightening: because that kind of evil can be seen in the real world, too. You don’t need to be a monster to commit monstrous acts.
You just need the right context.
You just need the absence of limits.
Power, in itself, is neither good nor bad. It’s a social force — a dynamic that exists wherever human relationships do. But when it’s exercised without responsibility, without external limits or ethical boundaries, it can easily turn into a tool for domination and abuse. That’s precisely what happened inside the simulated prison of the Stanford experiment.
And this is exactly where the figure of the vampire in Baldur’s Gate 3 comes into play — particularly in the cases of Cazador and Vellioth before him — both deeply entangled in power dynamics within a closed system, where dehumanization and depersonalization are not only evident but systematically reinforced within the "families" ruled by these vampire lords.
Let’s take our favorite vampire lord, Cazador, as an example. His spawn are no longer individuals — they are tools, property, things to be broken down and reshaped in pursuit of a perfection that doesn’t exist. He strips them of freedom, will, and desire. They have no possessions of their own, no room of their own, no relationships outside the family. He calls them “children,” “littles,” “pathetic.” This is exactly the kind of forced depersonalization we see in real-world power structures — in prisons, cults, or abusive relationships. Identity is shattered. Language becomes a weapon that defines and confines. And power becomes an end in itself: domination for the sake of domination, harm for the sake of harm. Let’s not forget — Cazador is a sadist.
And what happens to those on the receiving end? Much like the “prisoners” in the Stanford Prison Experiment, the spawn internalize their role as victims: they stop resisting, lose their sense of self, develop emotional dependency, blind obedience, or even trauma bonding. Astarion is the only one who manages — through immense struggle — to break that cycle. But not without consequences. For a long time, he too saw himself as nothing more than a pleasure object, a creature with no value except through the satisfaction or desire of others. And even in seeking his identity and purpose, he initially searches for them within the very system that stole them from him.
And so far, I’ve only talked about social dynamics that are common even to our real world. But if we also take into account that vampires are, by definition, undead creatures driven by bloodlust and violence — animated by monstrous hunger and plagued by a fundamental distortion of emotions and feelings — then it all comes together. That’s how vampire cruelty finds fertile ground in a context that is already inherently susceptible.
But there’s another level to consider — one that ties cruelty not just to power, but to identity itself.
A true vampire is, by definition, something unnatural. Neither truly alive nor truly dead, a creature condemned to eternal hunger and endless night, existing outside the natural rhythm of life. In a sense, they are suspended in a state of existential limbo — immortal, yes, but hollow. And without power, without control, without a role to perform… what remains? Nothing but a pitiful being, cursed to rot in the dark through the ages. Pathetic, damned, a fragment of what was once human.
And that’s why cruelty becomes not only instinct, but meaning. Violence becomes a necessary ritual. Domination becomes the scaffolding that supports a fractured sense of self. The vampire lords of Baldur’s Gate 3 — like Cazador — aren’t cruel only because they can be (or because they perform the role of the patriarch, the one who has the “right” and “duty” to enforce discipline — context and role are key as we’ve seen in the Zimbardo experiment). They are cruel also because, deep down, that cruelty is the only thing that confirms their existence. It makes them feel alive, reflected in the eyes and bodies of their broken victims. It’s what tells them they are still something. Still powerful. Still feared. Still in control.
But this power only truly exists within the closed system they govern. Cazador can do whatever he wants with his spawn. Within the walls of his estate, within the boundaries of his "family," he is a god — absolute arbiter of life and death. But outside of that microcosm, his rule is not as recognized. His authority doesn’t carry the same weight. His invincibility is an illusion, confined to an environment entirely controlled by him. To everyone else, he’s just another Baldur’s Gate noble — perhaps more reclusive than most, but nothing more.
And so, he builds that environment to sustain himself — to create a world where his power is total, where his ego is constantly reinforced, and where no one dares challenge him. Because outside that system, he is only a mask... or the monster to be slain — vulnerable to confrontation, to exposure, to rejection, and even to death. His entire identity depends on the survival of the system he built — a system where cruelty isn’t just permitted, it’s expected.
In this sense, cruelty isn’t merely a tool for true vampires: it is their armor, their mirror, their only way of feeling real. Alive.
Their violence isn’t random — it is ritual.
It protects them from the unbearable thought that, without that domination, they might be nothing at all.
In this context, power and suffering go hand in hand.
We must never forget Cazador’s own words about his existence — about the never-ending monster and how he mourns the person he once was.
Vampirism is a curse.
And power might seem to ease its torments, but as both psychology and literature have taught us, power without control corrupts.
The examples that immediately come to mind are The Lord of the Rings and Macbeth. The power of the Ring is the ultimate symbol of corruption. Even the purest characters (like Frodo, Bilbo, and even Gandalf) are tempted by it. Gollum is the most extreme example: once a hobbit, he becomes a deformed, obsessed creature. The Ring doesn’t just grant power — it erases identity and destroys will.
Macbeth, on the other hand, begins as a valiant general, but a prophecy and unchecked ambition turn him into a bloodthirsty tyrant. Power consumes him: he loses clarity, isolates himself, and kills anyone who threatens his throne. Sound familiar?
In Astarion’s original playthrough, after the Ascension, the newly risen vampire lord even considers killing his former companions, as they might become a threat in the future.
Essentially: a closed system, rigid roles fueled by dehumanization and depersonalization, vampirism with its inherent implications, and power — these are the perfect ingredients for unchecked cruelty. And if we also consider psychiatric traits like narcissism, paranoia, and an obsession with control — which True Vampires often develop as distortions of themselves and of everything that consumes them (eternity, power, hunger) — it becomes easy to understand how and why this cruelty is so particularly extreme.
At this point, I think it’s impossible not to mention Stanley Milgram’s experiment. It’s another cornerstone of social psychology and speaks directly to the issue of authority and blind obedience. Milgram designed it in the early 1960s, while the world was closely following the trial of Adolf Eichmann, the Nazi official who famously declared he was “just following orders.” The question haunting Milgram was simple and terrifying: how far will ordinary people go when urged on by an authority figure?
In the experiment, participants were told they were taking part in a study on memory. They were assigned the role of “teachers” and instructed to administer electric shocks to a “student” (actually an actor) whenever the student gave an incorrect answer. The shocks weren’t real, but the participants didn’t know that. The “authority,” played by a stern experimenter in a lab coat, remained present at all times, urging them to continue—even as the student screamed, begged, or eventually went silent.
The result? The majority of participants—about 65%—delivered the maximum shock level of 450 volts, despite showing clear signs of distress, anxiety, and even nervous breakdowns. They did it because the authority figure told them to, because the setting felt legitimate, and because the moral responsibility appeared to fall on someone else.
And I believe this mechanism is crucial to understanding the “cruelty” of the spawn when they deliver victims to Cazador. Astarion and the others are victims—but in certain moments, they are also enforcers. Not because they’re evil, but because they were placed in a system where their identities were destroyed and replaced. They internalized the belief that obedience is the only way to survive—or, in the worst cases, to be loved.
Cazador, like Milgram’s authority figure, leaves no room for dissent. He is an all-consuming presence, cloaked in absolute power, legitimizing every command and dehumanizing every victim (the "cattle"). In a system like that, losing your moral compass takes no time at all... especially when disobedience means being buried alive.
And I’ll say this again, for everyone who underestimates Astarion’s context and thinks it’s easy to judge from their own high ground of moral safety: what Milgram and Zimbardo both show us is that you don’t need to be a monster to do harm. You just need to be in the wrong context, surrounded by the wrong people, and without anyone to remind you of who you really are.
But let’s move away from the social and situational level — the one explored by Zimbardo and Milgram’s experiments — and return to the psychiatric and clinical perspective. In this case, the issue of cruelty becomes even more nuanced. Especially when cruelty is not an impulsive act or a one-off reaction, but something systematic, repeated. Here, explanations intertwine with personality disorders, defense mechanisms, and even the ways in which an individual constructs (or destroys) their own identity.
One of the first clinical profiles that comes to mind is narcissistic personality disorder (as I mentioned earlier). We’re talking about individuals who have an extreme need to feel special, superior, revered. The problem is that this grandiose self-image is fragile, and whenever something threatens it — rejection, disagreement, disobedience — the reaction can be fierce. The narcissist punishes to reassert control and reestablish their value. Cruelty, in these cases, is not a release: it’s a “necessary” act to protect the ego. When Cazador humiliates, punishes, or kills a spawn who dared to think for themselves, he doesn’t do it solely for sadism — or rather, not only. He does it because his power is fragile, and every act of freedom puts it at risk.
But narcissism can also blend with something even more dangerous: antisocial personality disorder, or psychopathy. In this case, cruelty can become a tool — a way to get what one wants, with no guilt whatsoever. Other people’s pain means nothing. Empathy is absent or reduced to a useful simulation. Some individuals even find pleasure in humiliating or destroying others — not because they are wounded, but because they are emotionally empty, and the only way they can feel anything is through domination. A vampire with psychopathic traits is the perfect predator: calculating, seductive, and ruthless.
There are, however, more ambiguous cases, where cruelty is born not from coldness but from emotional confusion. Some individuals with borderline personality disorder, for instance, may hurt the people they love out of fear of being abandoned. Pain becomes proof of love, or a desperate attempt to avoid feeling powerless. This isn’t the same “cold” cruelty of someone like Cazador, but it can still be devastating. One can imagine certain spawn who, while being victims, in turn hurt others — maybe to gain a scrap of attention, a privilege, or simply to avoid being at the bottom of the food chain.
And then there are true sadists, which is where Cazador fits once again. That is, those who feel genuine pleasure in witnessing the suffering of others. Sadism as a personality trait is no longer included in official diagnostic manuals, but it continues to be recognized in clinical settings, especially in cases of organized abuse, torture, or sadistic-predatory relationships. Here, cruelty is not a means but an end. It is part of the identity. It’s an erotic act, a symbolic one, a spiritual one. A constant affirmation of power. And what could be more iconically sadistic than a vampire who imposes hunger, fear, and dependency as acts of “love”? Like a father toward his prodigal son.
But not all cruelty is deliberate. In some cases, it’s the result of deep, unprocessed trauma. There are victims who, over time, end up identifying with their abuser. It’s a survival mechanism called introjection: if I imitate the one who hurts me, maybe I won’t be hurt anymore. This can lead to compulsive repetition: someone who was abused may reproduce the same dynamic with others. Not out of malice, but out of desperation — to feel in control, to no longer be the prey. Some spawn in Baldur’s Gate 3 seem to act this way. They have internalized the violent system they were raised in, and they repeat it because they know no other way. Like Astarion, who yearns to ascend as a form of revenge and self-rehabilitation.
Lastly, there are cases where cruelty stems from paranoid beliefs (again, as mentioned above): “the other is a threat,” “they will betray me,” “I must punish them before they strike.” Here, power isn’t just exercised — it’s defended at all costs. Every action is interpreted as hostile. Every relationship becomes a battlefield. In these situations, violence is justified as self-defense — even when it’s wildly disproportionate. A paranoid vampire doesn’t kill for pleasure, but out of fear — because they believe the alternative is their own destruction. This concept is perfectly illustrated in how Astarion, post-Ascension, even considers killing his former companions to eliminate future threats — before those threats have even taken shape.
In all of these scenarios, the most disturbing part is that cruelty never appears as cruelty to those who enact it. It’s justified. It’s necessary. It’s a right — or even a mission. Power, especially absolute power, corrupts one’s perception of reality and of others. And when morality bends to the logic of domination, the suffering of others becomes just a detail.
To conclude, I believe that the motivation behind the cruelty of true vampires cannot be pinned down to a single cause or reason, but must be sought across various domains — which can be roughly summarized as relational, experiential, contextual, and pathological.
They’re called contributing factors. And the matter is honestly much deeper and broader than what I’ve been able to sum up (perhaps a bit simplistically) here in this post.
This makes the figure of the vampire and their spawn truly layered and complex. Certainly not easy to judge.
Okay, I’ve written another of my massive rambles. Apologies for the avalanche of clumsy concepts, and thank you for giving me the opportunity to indulge in my ravings. xD
Zimbardo, P. G. The Lucifer Effect (2007) – On the mechanisms that turn ordinary people into perpetrators.
Milgram, S. Obedience to Authority (1974) – On blind obedience to authority figures.
Bandura, A. (1999). Moral Disengagement – On how cruel actions are morally justified.
American Psychiatric Association. DSM-5® (2013) – Official diagnostic criteria.
Baumeister, R. F. Evil: Inside Human Violence and Cruelty (1997) – A psychological analysis of evil.
van der Kolk, B. A. The Body Keeps the Score (2014) – Trauma and how it’s stored in the body.
Herman, J. L. Trauma and Recovery (1992) – Survival mechanisms and the repetition of trauma.
Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings (1954–55) – Power as moral corruption.
Shakespeare, W. Macbeth (1606) – Ambition, moral decline, and tyranny.
