“It’s okay, Bruce. I talk to myself all the time. To be honest, my voices haven’t been letting up lately, either.”

Lurking beneath the boundless grotto of effective fictional antagonists, The Joker stands as an exceptional paragon of literary fluidity and a brimming emotional framework. A fusion of chaos, manipulation, and foremost authority, the conventional Joker is facile to bring to life, but demands an almost deranged panache to elevate beyond mediocrity. Each premier incarnation stands alone in a verifiable manner, whether it be the zeal and poise of Ledger’s portrayal, or the flexibly ethical mettle of Alan Moore’s drawn rendition. The Joker’s ability to dominate the virtuous saints of Gotham, its criminal parasites, and even the meta-physical audience is the truest component of his villainy, which is what makes Telltale’s depiction so subversive. Beneath the keen cuts of John Doe’s vivacious wardrobe and naive disposition lies an evolution the likes of which hasn’t been attempted in comic-adapted stories before.

The course of John’s vocation, friend or foe, lies in the audience, and the lives he endangers rest in each player’s hands. But the person controlling the mouse and keyboard, toying with the tangled strings of Gotham’s cast, is not the only powerful hustler of John.

“It didn’t feel great, y’know? Stealing from her. It felt like there was a little Harley with a halo on this shoulder telling me not to do it, and then the bat on the other whispering, “Just get it, John!”

Or did you have the halo and Harley the horns?”

The critical litmus test for the success of a character lies in their winsomeness, a renegade lure which can be utilized to elicit emotion from the audience. John’s wavering appointment as the deuteragonist of Telltale’s Batman series makes the credibility of his motivations and decisions all the more pivotal in the writing process. Marching alongside one of fiction’s greatest antagonists at the genesis of his transformation, witnessing and permuting his metamorphosis, is an audacious effort, commendable even if its execution had missed the mark. But that’s perhaps the substratum of Telltale’s coup, in treating the character of John Doe as the deuteragonist, and the Joker as an antagonist, it presents the player with a clear understanding that one is not entirely destined to lead to the other. The stark divide emboldens the idea that the two instruments of chaos are autonomous, equal halves creating an unsteady whole, with a duo of distinct authorities wringing the indecisive sway between good and evil.

One of the most poignant alterations to the Joker formula in Telltale’s incarnation is the fabric of his liaison with Harley Quinn, a more overt, surface-level variation with an array of secluded roots. The Machiavellian “romance” the two typically share is functionally opposite here, John himself being the gull whom Harley molests and manipulates. It is now Harley who actively molds into the role of being John’s quarry, a prize to be sought and snared at any cost. John is frequently cited as being callow and effectively wet behind the ears, his gullibility and attachment making him easy prey for manipulation from both Bruce Wayne’s heroic pursuits and Harley Quinn’s villainous pact.

But John is not stupid.

“Did you know you’re not supposed to put a new male guinea pig with a female who just had pups? I didn’t. Do you know what they do? They kill them. All of them.”

Quite the contrary, John proves himself an intellectual powerhouse, a proverbial kingpin in assuring the Pact’s success. This is a trait that is not exclusive necessarily to this idealization of the Joker, but it does pair uniquely with his naive personification. The mentally skewed man easily deciphers the confidential playing card that Bruce Wayne holds to his chest, seeing through the mask. He references Perseus of Greek mythology and has an unorthodox knowledge of rodent mating practices, all symbolic of elements of the underlying plot. The question remains, how did a psychologically tormented and immature patient like John pick up any of his intellect in Arkham Asylum? The answer to that inquiry has been withheld for the time being, and in conjunction with the core mystery of John Doe, may never be truly answered.

It’s been said that for an incarnation of the Joker to be effective, they must channel both an unnerving lack of morality and an equally horrifying comedic disposition. John Doe balances these tenets with crucial splendor, possessing jovial fun in spades. In fact, the core of John’s moral compass, or lack thereof, is a sense of humour, in a strange amalgam with respect. John’s inevitable decision to tiptoe the line between insanity and justice comes down to his repugnance toward The Agency, using his immense intellect to realize that both Harley Quinn and The Agency had preyed on him to achieve individual objectives of “righteousness”. He decries his enemies as “rude” at every turn, a childish representation of the outline of John’s moral backbone. To confuse the identity of the Joker as synonymous with pure chaos is a mistake many mainstream audiences have made since Ledger’s monumental performance, but an incarnation motivated by clownish aversions to insolence brings a new layer to an antiquated mold.

“You corrupt pigs. You’re supposed to stand for justice! But you’re liars. And you’re murderers. And you’re so goddamn rude!”

Those are some of the last words John Doe uses to close out Episode 4 of The Enemy Within, a staunch summation of his final transformation, assuming the player steers him on the right path. Assuming the player doesn’t abuse John’s trust in the way that Harley Quinn is guilty of, the direction of John’s characterization is steered away from Joker-esque insanity, the typical chaotic brew most often associated with his character. This lane is where the characterization excels beyond standard fare, and where, in avoiding the mantle of The Joker, Telltale embodies him incomparably.

In what is decisively an origin moment, the fourth act concludes with a paramount verdict: embracing the tender relief of madness, or becoming a paladin for one’s own ambit of justice.

It all culminates in one bad day, one instance of wit’s end, and that’s when you really see the funny side.

Utmost thanks to Joshua Ezzell for the visual additions to this article.

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