An unsolicited exploration of alternative career opportunities.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about changing jobs. Again.
I know. Very exciting. Another episode of me questioning my career choices and wondering whether I should have pursued something entirely different with my life. It has been rather a frustrating period.
The usual options came to mind. Look for another organisation, try a different industry, perhaps consider doing something completely unrelated to my current line of work. All perfectly reasonable things for a person to think about when they’re unhappy with their job.
Except my brain has a rather unfortunate habit of taking perfectly reasonable thoughts and sending them somewhere they have absolutely no business going. AKA intrusive thoughts.
I could be sitting quietly, thinking about what to have for dinner, and suddenly find myself wondering whether I would survive a zombie apocalypse. Not that I have any reason to believe one is imminent, but naturally, I would then spend the next twenty minutes assessing the structural weaknesses of my house, the logistics required to arm it, and deciding which household items could double as weapons.
I don’t know why my brain does this. There are actual problems in my life that could benefit from this level of analysis, but apparently those are way less interesting than deciding whether I could outrun a zombie in slippers.
Anyway, that’s how I ended up thinking about becoming a villain.
It started innocently enough. I was thinking about how nice it would be to have some control over my working hours, the opportunity to actually exercise my judgement, and perhaps not have to answer to people who occasionally make me wonder how humanity has survived this long.
Then a thought occurred to me.
What if I just became a supervillain?
I sat with that thought for a moment.
Actually, why not?
Think about it. Most villains seem to have an extraordinary amount of freedom. They decide what they want to do, assemble the necessary resources, and proceed with their plans without having to send seventeen emails seeking approval.
Nobody asks Darth Sidious to submit a paper explaining why the Republic should be reorganised into an Empire.
Nobody tells Darth Vader that his operational strategy requires further alignment with senior management. Although, considering who his boss is, perhaps I shouldn’t be so certain about that.
And I doubt the Joker has ever had to sit through a meeting where everyone spends forty minutes discussing a problem, only to conclude that another meeting is required.
Suddenly, villainy seemed quite appealing.
Of course, I am aware that there are certain legal and ethical complications associated with the profession, but I thought it was only fair to examine the career prospects before ruling it out entirely… hypothetically.
1. Exploring the Job Requirements
The first thing I considered was whether I was qualified.
This was slightly discouraging.
Most villains are ridiculously accomplished people. Lex Luthor is a billionaire genius. Doctor Doom is both a scientist and a ruler. Darth Sidious somehow managed to become Supreme Chancellor while secretly running an entirely separate operation dedicated to taking over the galaxy.
That’s an impressive amount of multitasking, although I have questions about his calendar management.
And then there’s me.
I have several years of working experience, can manage multiple responsibilities, and have developed the ability to write professional emails while privately questioning the intelligence of the person I’m replying to.
I suppose that’s a start.
But then I looked at what villains actually do.
They recruit people, manage resources, coordinate operations, develop strategies, and oversee the execution of complicated plans.
Hang on. Isn’t that just management?
I started wondering whether Darth Sidious was essentially a manager who had taken organisational restructuring a little too far.
He worked his way through the Republic’s political system, decided the existing arrangement was no longer suitable for his ambitions, and eventually replaced it with an Empire where every major decision came back to him.
I suppose that’s one way to reduce bureaucracy.
Still, I was willing to consider the profession. I might not have the scientific qualifications to build a Death Star, but surely I could outsource that part.
Although knowing my luck, I’d have to obtain three quotations, compare the vendors and prepare an ITQ paper explaining why we needed a planet-destroying space station in the first place.
Imagine being Darth Vader and discovering that construction had been delayed because the procurement team needed another quotation or an evaluation deck.
I’d imagine the breathing would become considerably louder.
But there was something else that bothered me about this imaginary job description.
Where was the part about actually making decisions?
If I were going to manage an entire evil empire, I would at least want some say in how it operated. There’s very little appeal in being given an enormous responsibility only to discover that every meaningful decision has already been made by somebody else.
I suppose I could simply carry out the Emperor’s instructions without questioning them, but I suspect that would become irritating fairly quickly.
Especially if the instructions were ridiculous.
And considering the Empire’s history, I have reason to believe that quite a few of them would be.
2. The Question of Career Development
Next, I considered career progression.
This is important because I don’t intend to leave one job only to find myself stuck in another with no opportunities to grow.
But how exactly does one progress as a villain?
Do you begin by being a minor inconvenience to society before gradually working your way up to becoming a full-time menace? Is there some sort of villainous management trainee programme I don’t know about?
And what would the appraisal look like?
I can imagine sitting across from Darth Sidious while he evaluates my annual performance.
He would probably explain that while my commitment to the Empire was appreciated, I hadn’t demonstrated sufficient initiative in crushing the Rebel Alliance.
I’d point out that the Rebels seem to be remarkably resourceful despite having significantly fewer resources, and perhaps we should examine why our much larger organisation keeps losing to them.
He would stare at me.
I’d ask whether this was an appropriate time to discuss professional development opportunities.
He would probably start producing lightning from his fingertips.
Which brings me to another concern.
Darth Vader has one of the worst reporting relationships in cinematic history.
Imagine being an exceptionally capable employee, handling difficult assignments, managing an enormous fleet and remaining available for urgent matters across multiple star systems, only for your boss to constantly question your loyalty and threaten your life.
And there’s no HR department to escalate the matter to.
Well, perhaps there is, but I doubt anyone would willingly investigate a complaint against the Emperor.
You can imagine the reply.
“Thank you for bringing this matter to our attention. We take all feedback seriously and will review your concerns in accordance with Imperial guidelines.”
Three days later, your access card stops working.
I think I’d rather resign.
But jokes aside, I began to wonder what professional growth would even mean in an organisation like the Empire.
Vader is already one of the most powerful people in the galaxy, yet he spends an extraordinary amount of time pursuing the same group of Rebels, reporting his progress to the same supervisor, and dealing with the consequences of decisions that he doesn’t always control.
He has the title, the authority and an entire fleet at his disposal. Yet somehow, his job still involves being summoned whenever his boss is unhappy.
I began to suspect that having more responsibility doesn’t necessarily mean having more opportunity to grow.
And perhaps that’s something worth considering before accepting any job, fictional or otherwise.
There’s a difference between being given more work and being given work that actually develops you. A person could spend years becoming exceptionally good at handling other people’s problems without necessarily learning anything new.
I imagine Darth Vader must have become remarkably efficient at locating missing Rebels over the years.
Unfortunately, I don’t know how transferable that particular skill would be outside the Empire.
3. A Potential Issue With Work-Life Balance
This was the biggest concern.
I was considering a career change partly because I wanted a better quality of life. I wanted time for myself, fewer unnecessary demands, and ideally a schedule that didn’t require me to rearrange my existence every time somebody decided something was urgent.
Unfortunately, villains seem to have terrible working hours.
They’re always doing something. Planning, plotting, building weapons, invading planets, chasing Rebels. There’s an exhausting amount of activity involved.
Do they ever go home?
Does Darth Vader ever finish his shift and decide that he’s simply not interested in pursuing the Millennium Falcon today?
I mean, the man is already dependent on a complicated life-support system. Surely he should be entitled to a reasonable amount of rest.
Instead, he’s constantly being summoned by the Emperor, attending meetings on Star Destroyers and travelling across the galaxy to deal with people who refuse to cooperate.
I started wondering whether Vader even gets annual leave.
Imagine requesting a few days off to recuperate, only for Palpatine to insist that destroying the Rebel Alliance remains an organisational priority.
Vader might explain that he’s already worked several consecutive weekends.
Palpatine would probably remind him that serving the Empire requires sacrifice.
Ah. That sounds familiar.
Now, I have nothing against working hard. There are occasions when work genuinely requires additional time and effort. Things go wrong, unexpected situations arise, and sometimes you simply have to do what is necessary.
But surely there should be some distinction between an actual emergency and someone’s inability to plan ahead.
If the Death Star is under attack, by all means, call everyone back to work. That seems like a reasonably urgent situation.
But if Darth Sidious suddenly decides on a Friday evening that he wants another update on the Rebel Alliance, I don’t see why Vader couldn’t simply provide it on Monday.
Unless the Rebels are planning something over the weekend, in which case I suppose the situation becomes slightly more complicated.
And that’s another problem.
When everything is treated as urgent, how does anyone determine what actually deserves their attention?
I imagine the Empire must have an extraordinary number of operational priorities, all of which are probably described as critical to the organisation’s success.
By the time I’d finished sorting through them, I’d probably discover that half the requests could have been resolved without involving me in the first place.
There’s also the issue of Jedi appearing without appointments.
Suppose I’ve had a long day, showered, eaten dinner and settled comfortably into bed. Suddenly, Obi-Wan Kenobi appears outside my door insisting that we need to discuss my allegiance to the dark side.
Firstly, how did you find my address?
Secondly, can this not wait until tomorrow?
And thirdly, I would appreciate some advance notice before anyone arrives to discuss my moral alignment.
I know the Jedi have their principles, but surely being guided by the Force doesn’t exempt a person from basic social etiquette.
At that point, I would probably be more annoyed about the interruption than the possibility of having to fight someone with a lightsaber.
Which, admittedly, is not an ideal attitude for a Sith Lord.
4. People Management
Then I remembered the Stormtroopers.
Oh dear.
I hadn’t factored in the fact that becoming a villain would also involve managing employees. You see them in the movies, hundreds of people in matching white armour, standing around waiting for instructions.
But where do they come from?
Who hires them?
Is there a probation period?
And more importantly, who is responsible for ensuring that these people can actually aim?
I understand that Stormtroopers are supposed to be highly trained soldiers, but their track record raises some legitimate questions about the Empire’s training programme.
Imagine being responsible for conducting their performance appraisals.
“Unfortunately, we’ve noticed that your shooting accuracy has remained consistently below expectations.”
The Stormtrooper explains that the targets keep moving.
I’d suggest further training.
He’d explain that the training budget has been redirected towards the construction of another Death Star.
Of course it has.
And then there’s the question of workplace safety.
Have you seen the conditions on the Death Star? Endless corridors, enormous machinery and platforms suspended over terrifying drops, often without proper railings.
Who approved the building plans?
The Empire apparently possesses technology advanced enough to travel faster than light, but installing adequate safety barriers seems to have been beyond its capabilities.
I would probably spend my first month in management trying to rectify these issues.
Someone would tell me that safety barriers are not a priority because the Empire is focused on maintaining control of the galaxy.
I’d explain that maintaining control of the galaxy would be considerably easier if employees stopped falling into enormous holes.
Eventually, I’d probably organise mandatory safety training.
My Stormtroopers would complain that they joined the Empire expecting adventure and instead ended up attending briefings on workplace hazards.
But perhaps what would frustrate me most is that I would probably be expected to solve these problems without having any authority to address their underlying causes.
Imagine being told to improve the Stormtroopers’ performance while the training budget is repeatedly reduced.
Or being held responsible for workplace safety when senior management has already decided that railings are an unnecessary expense.
I could prepare reports, organise training, conduct reviews and issue reminders until I turned blue, but none of that would make much difference if the people making the decisions refused to address the actual problems.
Eventually, someone would probably suggest another awareness campaign.
I would ask whether we could simply install the railings.
They would tell me to be more innovative.
At this point, I suspect I would begin looking for a transfer to the Rebel Alliance.
5. An Uncomfortable Realisation
Somewhere along this ridiculous train of thought, I began to notice something.
Why does being a villain sound so much like working in the corporate world?
The more I compared them, the less I could distinguish between the two.
Both involve powerful people making ambitious plans, demanding loyalty, competing for control, and expecting everyone else to somehow make their vision a reality.
Darth Sidious announces that he intends to establish a Galactic Empire.
A CEO announces that the organisation intends to dominate the market.
Both proceed to organise a meeting.
The only difference is that Sidious is considerably more dramatic.
At least when he starts explaining his master plan, there are sinister robes, dramatic lighting and occasionally a display of Force lightning.
In an office, you get a PowerPoint slide with several arrows pointing towards a circle labelled Synergy.
And let’s talk about how the corporate world uses language.
We’re constantly encouraged to think strategically, eliminate inefficiencies, outperform competitors, take ownership and demonstrate unwavering commitment to organisational goals.
Those phrases sound rather different when delivered by an elderly Sith Lord sitting in a dark room.
I can imagine Palpatine addressing his senior leadership team.
He announces that the Empire is entering an exciting phase of transformation, and everyone must demonstrate adaptability and a willingness to embrace change.
The next thing you know, the Republic has been dissolved, the Jedi have disappeared, and nobody seems entirely sure whether their existing employment contracts are still valid.
Perhaps the corporate world has simply figured out how to make villainy respectable.
They removed the cloaks, replaced the Death Star with office buildings, and introduced employee engagement surveys to make everyone feel involved.
Of course, not every workplace operates like the Galactic Empire. Some organisations genuinely invest in their people, encourage independent thinking and recognise that employees are capable of contributing more than simply following instructions.
But I do wonder how often the language of empowerment matches what people actually experience.
It’s one thing to tell someone to take ownership of their work. It’s another to give them the authority, resources and opportunity to do so.
Sometimes, taking ownership seems to mean being responsible for the outcome of a decision you didn’t make, using resources you weren’t given, while being reminded that everyone needs to remain flexible.
I imagine this would have been a recurring problem aboard the Death Star.
And suddenly, my hypothetical career exploration was beginning to feel rather less hypothetical.
Which led me to an uncomfortable question.
What if I wasn’t actually interested in becoming a villain?
What if I was simply looking for a job where I could make decisions without spending most of my time trying to make sense of someone else’s?
6. Perhaps I’m Just a Terrible Villain
Suppose, for a moment, that someone actually handed me an evil empire.
An enormous secret headquarters, unlimited financial resources, hundreds of loyal henchmen, and complete freedom to do whatever I wanted.
It sounds wonderful, until I imagine what would happen during my first meeting.
My chief henchman would suggest destroying a major city to demonstrate our power.
I’d ask why.
He’d explain that it would send a message to our enemies.
I’d probably suggest sending an actual message.
It’s considerably cheaper, and nobody has to rebuild anything afterwards.
Someone else would propose constructing an enormous weapon capable of destroying entire planets.
I’d ask whether we had learned anything from the Empire’s previous experience with the Death Star.
Because, and I think this deserves mentioning, they built an extraordinarily expensive space station, discovered it had a critical vulnerability, watched it get destroyed, and then decided to build another one.
I’m not a military strategist, but surely there should have been a review after the first incident.
Perhaps a discussion about lessons learned?
A root cause analysis?
Instead, they apparently concluded that the problem was insufficient commitment to the original concept.
I would probably request the documentation.
Someone would explain that the Emperor had personally approved the project.
I’d ask whether that meant nobody was allowed to question it.
The room would go quiet.
Not a good sign.
But I think that’s where my career as a villain would begin to unravel.
I wouldn’t necessarily disagree with an idea because it came from someone above me. I’d disagree if it didn’t make sense, especially when the people expected to execute it were the ones who would eventually have to deal with the consequences.
And I would probably be a rather inconvenient employee in an organisation built around unquestioning loyalty.
Imagine sitting through an Imperial strategy meeting and asking why an organisation with almost unlimited resources was struggling to deal with a relatively small rebellion.
I suspect someone would tell me that I wasn’t seeing the bigger picture.
I’d ask to see the bigger picture.
They’d say it was confidential.
I’d ask how I was expected to contribute meaningfully to something I wasn’t allowed to understand.
At some point, Darth Sidious would probably reconsider his decision to hire me.
But suppose I was actually in charge.
Would I be any better?
I imagine I’d begin by reviewing how things were being done. I’d want to understand why certain decisions were made, whether the resources were being used appropriately, and whether the people carrying out the work actually had the skills and support they needed.
And yes, I’d probably annoy a few people in the process.
I might even discover that some of the problems were harder to solve than they initially appeared.
But at least I’d be doing something that required me to think, learn and make decisions.
Unfortunately, somewhere between reviewing the budget and questioning the construction of another Death Star, I would probably forget that the original objective was to conquer the galaxy.
My henchmen would eventually complain that I had turned the Empire into an organisational improvement project.
Darth Sidious would be appalled.
Darth Vader would probably just stand there breathing heavily, which is not particularly helpful when you’re trying to determine whether someone agrees with you.
And by the end of the afternoon, I would have accidentally initiated an internal audit of the Galactic Empire.
Perhaps I really would make a terrible villain.
Not because I couldn’t manage an organisation, but because I would probably spend too much time trying to make it function properly.
7. The Final Assessment
After conducting what I believe to be a reasonably thorough assessment, I have concluded that becoming a supervillain would be a terrible career choice.
The working hours are questionable, the employee management responsibilities are excessive, and the opportunities for professional development appear rather limited. There’s also an alarming amount of physical violence involved, which I would prefer to avoid.
But somewhere along this ridiculous career assessment, I realised something about my actual job situation.
I don’t think I’m tired of working. I’m tired of being busy without feeling that I’m going anywhere.
I’ve never had an issue with responsibilities or hard work. In fact, I’ve always enjoyed being challenged, learning something unfamiliar and figuring things out along the way. What frustrates me is spending so much time completing tasks that I barely get the opportunity to exercise the skills and judgement I’ve spent years developing.
There’s a difference between being entrusted with meaningful responsibilities and simply becoming the person everyone approaches when something needs to be done.
And I think that’s where my frustration lies. I don’t necessarily want less work. I want work that actually allows me to grow, contribute and have some say in what I’m doing.
Which, ironically, brings me back to Darth Vader.
For all his authority, impressive abilities and terrifying reputation, the man still spends most of his professional life carrying out the Emperor’s instructions, putting out fires and being summoned whenever something goes wrong.
I suppose having an entire galaxy to manage doesn’t necessarily mean you’re having a fulfilling career.
So perhaps becoming a villain isn’t the answer. Perhaps I simply need a job that challenges me for the right reasons. Although I must admit, there is still one thing about villainy that appeals to me.
The entrance music.
I’ve always thought Darth Vader has one of the best entrances in cinematic history. Imagine walking into a Monday morning meeting accompanied by the Imperial March. The doors open, everyone stops talking, and even the person who was about to ask a completely unnecessary question suddenly reconsiders.
I would quite enjoy that.
Unfortunately, knowing my luck, someone would probably turn around and ask whether I could help connect the laptop to the projector.
And because I apparently have absolutely no business pursuing a career in villainy, I probably would. Then I’d return to my desk, open JobStreet and continue looking for a job.
Preferably one that doesn’t require me to operate the Death Star’s AV system.
