Introduction: Tracing the Tensions
Societies across time have grappled with forces of change, adopting a range of responses that sometimes involve pinpointing a single culprit for broad social ills. We call this phenomenon “scapegoating,” referring to placing blame on a specific person, group, or product when complex problems defy simple solutions. In modern culture, media forms—comic books, music, role-playing games, and video games—have repeatedly served as convenient scapegoats. Although moral anxieties are not new, the late 20th century and early 21st century saw a surge in moral panics tied to evolving popular entertainment. These panics highlight society’s dual impulses: to protect youth and to find an easy answer to perceived threats, even when those threats are far too intricate to solve with a lone measure.
The scapegoating process typically involves moral panic, a concept sociologist Stanley Cohen introduced to describe how certain issues become magnified well beyond their real threat. When communities sense cultural or moral destabilization, they displace anxieties onto a “folk devil” cast as the root cause of social problems. Historically, these “folk devils” have included witches, communists, or juvenile delinquents. In the late 20th century, a new host of folk devils emerged: media products aimed at or associated with youth, including comic books, rock music, heavy metal, tabletop role-playing games (TTRPGs), and—most prominently—video games. As public figures decry these perceived dangers, they often do so under the banner of protecting children and guarding societal values. By exploring moral panics past and present, we gain deeper insight into the cultural mechanisms behind scapegoating and into how certain forms of entertainment become symbols of fear.
The Concept of Moral Panic
The notion of moral panic outlines how society, amidst rapid changes or perceived threats, can develop a near-hysterical response to a cultural phenomenon. Stanley Cohen’s research underscored that these crises are socially constructed: a behavior, product, or subculture arouses widespread alarm, triggering media sensationalism, public outrage, and heightened calls for regulation. Cohen’s work remains influential because these processes repeat across cultural and historical contexts. Typically, the outraged groups include parents, politicians, and other authority figures who argue for immediate remedial or prohibitive action.
The theory of moral panic crucially introduces the term “folk devil,” an entity that is, at best, only tangentially related to deeper structural causes of social ills. Yet, focusing blame on a folk devil provides a coherent, emotionally satisfying story about what has gone wrong. It also mobilizes communities around a common enemy, which can be politically advantageous. The cycle begins when media outlets highlight an alarming event or trend. Public figures amplify that narrative, spurring legislation or labeling rules. Over time, moral panic may subside—but not without leaving new restrictions or stigmas in its wake. For scholars, moral panic raises questions about how fear and moral duty eclipse critical analysis. Are these campaigns driven by an honest wish to safeguard children, or do they indicate a broader struggle to adjust to the complexities of a changing world?
Moral panics and scapegoating are anything but modern inventions. Western history, for example, is filled with instances of persecuting perceived evildoers to explain or remedy societal woes. The Salem witch trials in the late 17th century stand out as a grimly iconic illustration. Confronted by social tensions and misfortunes, a community found it easier to blame a small group—primarily women—and purge them in the name of eradicating evil. Though seemingly distant from contemporary pop culture debates, the logic is strikingly similar: intangible fears are transferred onto a concrete target, rendering the crisis manageable (or at least punishable).
Fast-forward to the late 19th century, and crusaders like Anthony Comstock turned their ire on dime novels, which were cheap, sensational stories, especially popular with younger readers. Concerned adults denounced them as dangerously corrupting youth with images of outlaws and thrilling escapades. Similarly, the 1950s saw a moral panic over comic books, led by psychiatrist Fredric Wertham, who insisted that “immoral” content would lead to delinquency. Government hearings followed, resulting in industry self-censorship under the Comics Code Authority. Each moral panic reveals a similar thread: the assumption that young minds are fragile, easily manipulated, and predisposed to anti-social behavior if exposed to the “wrong” influences.
The Rise of Rock & Roll: Soundtracks to Rebellion
By the 1950s, rock & roll began to captivate American teenagers, synthesizing African American musical traditions into energetic, rebellious sounds. The older generation perceived it as a threat to social decorum, accusing rock’s driving beat and suggestive dancing of promoting sexual promiscuity. Such reactions stemmed not just from the music’s style but from its broader challenge to racial and generational norms. As a result, the “moral panic” formula played out again: the music was identified as the root cause of youth misbehavior, calls for censorship intensified, and critics demanded that society protect children from these corrupting influences.
Over time, as rock & roll became more accepted, each new permutation sparked its own wave of alarm. By the 1970s and 1980s, heavy metal subgenres incorporated dark, ominous imagery, with bands like Black Sabbath and Judas Priest sometimes referencing occult themes. Although many artists treated these references as theatrical or symbolic, alarmists saw evidence of genuine satanic worship. Their concerns grew louder when a subset of fans embraced the rebellious aesthetic. Alarm quickly gave way to blame-shifting whenever tragedies involving teens surfaced: heavy metal was cited as a possible motivator or instigator of deviant behavior, illustrating how moral panic can hinge on superficial correlations rather than deeper investigation.
In the mid-1980s, the Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC) materialized as a politically and socially influential group. Led by Tipper Gore, among others, it zeroed in on what they deemed inappropriate or explicit content, especially in heavy metal. The PMRC famously published a list known as the “Filthy Fifteen,” citing songs believed to glamorize sex, violence, drug use, or occult practices. Their actions culminated in high-profile Senate hearings in 1985. Musicians like Dee Snider of Twisted Sister and Frank Zappa testified, arguing that censorship would stifle artistic freedom and misrepresent the often tongue-in-cheek, metaphorical nature of rock lyrics.
Under pressure, the music industry introduced the now-familiar “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics” sticker. In practice, this label did little to deter sales; if anything, it served as a badge of rebellion for some fans. Nevertheless, it aligned neatly with the standard moral panic trajectory: an emerging or evolving entertainment form is deemed harmful to children, leading to calls for control measures that seldom address the deeper cultural tensions at play—like adult discomfort with youth expression or the complexities of adolescent identity.
The Satanic Panic: Dungeons & Dragons in the Crosshairs
Parallel to heavy metal’s controversies, a broader “Satanic Panic” swept the United States in the 1970s and 1980s. Spurred by sensational media stories, certain religious perspectives, and at times questionable investigative methods, many Americans became convinced of a hidden network of satanic cults preying on youth. Among the most surprising targets of this panic was the fantasy role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons (D&D). Originating in 1974, D&D let players cooperatively craft epic narratives of magic and monsters. Opponents feared these fictional scenarios could lead impressionable teenagers into occultism or destructive behaviors.
The disappearance of James Dallas Egbert III in 1979 became the movement’s rallying point. Though Egbert’s struggles were personal and unrelated to satanic influences, media coverage portrayed him as a troubled D&D fanatic acting out sinister fantasies in steam tunnels beneath his university. This inaccurate narrative added fuel to the “satanic” storyline, spurring activists like Patricia Pulling to form Bothered About Dungeons & Dragons (BADD). BADD and similar groups filed lawsuits, alleging that the game caused everything from depression to homicide. Despite the lack of evidence, these claims alarmed parents across the country. Ultimately, D&D persisted and remained popular, especially once sustained research found no causal link between the game’s fantasy content and real-world harm. Still, this period showcases how swiftly moral panic can attach to an unfamiliar product, framing it as a gateway to malevolence.
Culture, Religion, and the Persuasion of Fear
Although many factors shape moral panic, religiously inspired notions of evil often undergird these outcries. The biblical scapegoat narrative—where a community’s sins are symbolically transferred to a goat—powerfully resonates across centuries. Contemporary scapegoats are rarely literal animals; instead, media products like video games or role-playing games become stand-ins for malevolence. By “exiling” them through condemnation or censorship, communities feel a semblance of control. This emotional payoff can overshadow more complex causes of social ills, such as economic inequality, mental health crises, or long-standing prejudices.
In the United States, this dynamic repeatedly surfaces when an alarming event triggers calls for moral purification—think of the Salem witch trials, comic-book burnings, and, more recently, anti-video-game crusades. Because many Americans hold religious or morally grounded convictions, aligning a potential threat with satanic forces or immorality ensures a ready audience for alarmist rhetoric. Ironically, the cultural environment that exalts free expression can simultaneously demand rigid controls when the perceived threat involves children’s moral development. The tension between religious moralizing and freedom of expression animates many late 20th-century controversies over pop culture.
Video Games as the New Target
Video games emerged in the 1970s, but their rudimentary graphics and simple premises (like Pong or Space Invaders) did not provoke widespread scrutiny. By the 1980s and early 1990s, however, technological leaps allowed for increasingly sophisticated violence and narratives. Arcade hits like Mortal Kombat showcased graphic finishing moves—so-called “Fatalities”—that critics declared too gory for young audiences. Around the same time, Night Trap featured cinematic sequences of violence against women, raising further alarm about gaming’s moral implications.
The United States Senate held hearings in 1993, led by Senators Joseph Lieberman (Connecticut) and Herb Kohl (Wisconsin), in response to these controversies. The gaming industry, wary of government regulation, created the Entertainment Software Rating Board (ESRB) in 1994. The ESRB rating system (E for Everyone, T for Teen, M for Mature, AO for Adults Only) sought to inform consumers about a game’s content, especially regarding violence, language, or sexual themes. Although many applauded the initiative for helping parents choose age-appropriate games, critics argued that rating labels did little to address the deeper social issues behind youth violence or delinquency. As had happened with music labeling, moral panic led to industry self-regulation: a pragmatic outcome that still left unresolved the broader cultural tensions about media and violence.
The tragic 1999 Columbine High School massacre re-ignited debates about gaming’s potential role in real-life violence. Discovering that the perpetrators played Doom, a first-person shooter, news outlets and politicians swiftly cited video games as a probable catalyst. In the ensuing moral panic, many overlooked that Doom had millions of players who never engaged in violence. Desperate for an explanation, some parents and community leaders latched onto video games as the clear cause, overshadowing the fact that the two shooters also displayed numerous warning signs of serious mental health and social struggles.
Subsequent investigations into Columbine underscored complexities like bullying, social isolation, and the availability of firearms. Despite this, the public often returned to the simpler scapegoat—violent entertainment—whenever similar tragedies occurred. This cycle parallels earlier panics over rock music and D&D. Although voluminous studies have offered no conclusive link between playing violent games and committing violent acts, the emotional power of scapegoating endures. In times of crisis, identifying one distinct product—like an M-rated video game—feels far more direct than grappling with systemic factors.
Social Science and the Quest for a Definitive Cause
Given the recurring anxieties, social scientists continue studying whether violent media correlates with increased aggression or criminal behavior. While some controlled laboratory experiments show a brief uptick in aggressive thoughts after playing violent games, long-term studies often fail to find a direct causal relationship with real-world violence. The problem is that violence reflects a complex interplay of psychological, social, and environmental variables—factors like poverty, mental illness, childhood trauma, or even genetic predispositions can converge. Focusing solely on video games as the primary cause overlooks the broader network of contributing factors.
Critically, moral panic does not thrive on nuanced explanations. It thrives on the urgency and clarity of a single villain. Politicians and moral crusaders may cite any initial research that points to possible harm, often ignoring subsequent findings that contradict the narrative. From a sociological perspective, this emphasis on simple causal chains speaks to larger patterns of fear-based social control. Correlation is not causation, and moral panic often conflates them.
Across moral panics, “protecting children” serves as the battle cry. Whether the target is a violent video game, a horror-themed comic book, or a racy rock lyric, crusaders position themselves as defenders of youth. The underlying assumption is that children absorb moral lessons from media passively, lacking critical thinking or skepticism. While children are certainly vulnerable to certain influences, numerous scholars argue that adolescents are also capable of complex media engagement. Restrictive or fear-driven responses often overshadow constructive alternatives like media literacy, which teaches young people to interpret content, recognize tropes, and distinguish fantasy from reality.
Still, “think of the children” remains an especially potent argument. Politicians and advocacy groups who frame their cause in these terms garner sympathy and broad-based support, as few want to be seen as apathetic to youth welfare. Over time, however, the rhetoric can backfire or prompt misguided policies. In some cases, labeling or banning content even heightens its allure for adolescents. Even though these kinds of moral panics tend to come and go, the urge to protect children from new types of entertainment remains a strong cultural instinct.
The Parallel of Violence in American Culture
A notable paradox emerges when we consider a society that simultaneously condemns violent video games while celebrating violence in other contexts. American culture’s historical narratives—revolutions, territorial expansion, frontier myths, and patriotic commemorations of warfare—reflect a deep-rooted valorization of violence as a means to an honorable end. Major holidays champion soldiers, and movies depicting heroic acts of war are considered patriotic. This cultural acceptance of certain forms of violence coexists uneasily with condemnation of digital or fictional portrayals.
Moral panic often sidesteps deeper cultural contradictions, instead zeroing in on a newly visible or evolving threat. From a cultural studies perspective, this disconnect is revealing: it suggests that violence is not only tolerated but even celebrated in certain contexts, while being framed as entirely corruptive in others. Video games—especially those marketed to children or teens—become targets of concern precisely because they blur the line between entertainment and simulated, interactive aggression. But if we zoom out, these anxieties may say as much about America’s selective comfort with violence, particularly when framed in patriotic terms, as they do about the actual content of the games themselves.
During the 1990s, moral panics targeted not just violent video games but also other children’s phenomena like Pokémon, a sprawling franchise encompassing games, cards, and anime. Critics claimed it encouraged gambling (because of its trading card format) or promoted occult practices. Allegations emerged that children were hypnotized by Pokémon’s vibrant creatures and might stray from traditional beliefs. Similarly, one Pokémon anime episode in Japan, “Electric Soldier Porygon,” caused seizures in hundreds of viewers, sparking alarm worldwide about whether the show was intrinsically harmful.
Meanwhile, traditional television also drew scrutiny. The Children’s Television Act (1990) mandated more educational programming, reflecting widespread concern that cartoons and other TV content were harming kids academically and morally. Shows like Barney & Friends and Sesame Street were lauded for their positive messages and educational focus, seen as a counterbalance to perceived destructive influences. Although these endeavors signaled serious investment in children’s well-being, they did not stop panic from arising whenever a new “dangerous” children’s trend emerged.
Media Amplification in the Digital Age
The dawn of the Internet and social media intensified moral panics in fresh ways. Platforms like Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube facilitate rapid-fire rumor-spreading and collective outrage. A sensational story about a niche gaming community or a disturbing viral challenge can quickly spark global alarm. Without careful vetting, such stories can escalate within hours, engendering new scapegoats. The “Gamergate” controversy, for instance, evolved into a massive online clash, mixing debates about misogyny, ethics in journalism, and free speech. Though not a classic “moral panic” driven by children’s protection, it underscored how pop culture controversies can dominate social discourse, with each side casting the other as a threat to core values.
Online platforms can also intensify the emotional temperature: repeated images of violence or scandal feed a cycle of commentary and reaction. Authentic analysis becomes harder amid the noise, reinforcing the same dynamic that fuels moral panic offline. Even as knowledge becomes more accessible, emotional triggers can outpace careful research, leaving new forms of online entertainment vulnerable to scapegoating. Scholars of digital media point out that moral panics have always come in waves, but social media speeds things up—causing quick spikes in outrage that can either fade away or grow stronger, depending on how widely they spread online.
The Role of Politicians and Pressure Groups
Politicians often see electoral advantage in tapping moral panics. Proposing simple solutions—like banning a contentious video game—may overshadow the complexities of addressing systemic problems such as mental health, poverty, or gun control. Public anxieties about societal change can be alleviated, at least temporarily, by pointing a finger at a newly demonized object. The same pattern surfaces in pressure groups, which may coalesce around moral or religious platforms. Groups such as the PMRC harnessed parental fears to influence legislative agendas, eventually forcing self-regulation upon the music industry.
In fact, moral panics frequently transcend party lines. In the 1990s, for instance, Democrats and Republicans alike criticized teenage mothers for rising crime rates, a narrative Barry Glassner famously challenged in The Culture of Fear. Similarly, in debates over violent video games, leaders from varied political backgrounds have pinned blame on gaming after horrific events—thereby avoiding deeper conversations about social inequities. Bipartisan scapegoating is powerful precisely because the concept of “protecting the vulnerable” resonates regardless of one’s broader ideology.
Moral panics exemplify the contradictions inherent in modern societies—what George Orwell called “doublethink.” At once, Americans champion free expression and individuality yet demand censorship or intense regulation when a new medium appears threatening. Religion can champion love and acceptance while simultaneously labeling certain music or games as vehicles for satanic corruption. These contradictions do not necessarily mean society is disingenuous; rather, they reveal how cultural values conflict depending on context.
The emotional nature of moral panic also explains why data rarely settles the debate. If a tragedy has an apparent link—like a shooter who played violent games or read disturbing comics—many are quick to assume causation, ignoring the broader pattern that millions of other individuals consume the same content without incident. This doublethink can persist because it satisfies a need for clarity and immediate solutions. In scapegoating, complexity is the first casualty.
The Persisting Need for a Scapegoat
Why does scapegoating endure, despite repeated evidence that media is rarely a sole cause of social crises? One key reason is the human hunger for meaning. Particularly during times of profound uncertainty, blaming a recognizable target (e.g., a controversial video game) provides an immediate sense of agency and resolution. Deep-seated issues such as inequality, family dysfunction, or mental health demands far-reaching interventions that seldom deliver quick results. By contrast, restricting an “immoral” product or slapping on rating labels appears actionable.
Another driver is communal bonding: moral panic fosters unity among those who share the fear. Setting aside deeper differences, people can unite around the cause of “defending our children.” This unity can temporarily quell societal anxieties and offer a semblance of moral order. Yet it does not solve the underlying issues, so the pattern inevitably resurfaces whenever the next moral threat arises. The scapegoat, unfortunately, is often an easy mark—especially if it is a new, poorly understood medium.
Rather than prohibitions and condemnations, a constructive alternative might be to champion media literacy. By teaching children and adults to question the purpose, context, and design of entertainment, society might learn to view controversial content critically. Media literacy encourages individuals to recognize satire, interpret tropes, and discern fiction from real-world behavior. This framework fosters autonomy rather than alarm. For example, a first-person shooter can be examined for its narrative, mechanics, and artistic elements without concluding it automatically promotes violence.
Dialogue between creators, parents, and educators could also temper knee-jerk moral panics. Game developers or film producers who understand genuine parental concerns might label or design content more thoughtfully. Conversely, parents and policymakers who appreciate the creative process might avoid demonizing entire genres. This approach shifts the conversation from blanket censorship to a more nuanced, communicative model, where context and intention are vital.
Academic Approaches to Understanding Panics
In an academic setting, analyzing moral panics can be an interdisciplinary affair. Sociologists track how fears spread within social networks. Media scholars scrutinize the role of sensational headlines in heightening alarm. Psychologists investigate why communities resort to scapegoats during crisis. Political scientists outline how regulations and public policies form under pressure from moral guardians. Even with abundant research disputing direct links between media content and violence, moral panics continue. Emerging technologies—ranging from augmented reality (AR) and virtual reality (VR) to smartphone apps—attract watchful eyes. If these new platforms incorporate realistic violence or addictive mechanics, panic can flare. Some worry about VR’s immersive power, concerned it could blur lines between reality and simulation, especially for children. Others point to smartphone usage as a potential cause of mental health crises. While these topics warrant research, the pattern of labeling them existential threats reflects the established cycles of moral panic.
A hallmark of modern moral panic is the speed of escalation. Social media can amplify a rumor within hours, rallying concerned citizens before facts can surface. Yet the essence remains the same: fear of the unknown, frustration at social change, and anxiety about youth. The cycle repeats—outrage, blame, rapid labeling or censorship proposals—until a new crisis diverts attention. In the aftermath, rating systems, disclaimers, or formal guidelines often remain, testaments to how each generation legislates or codifies its anxieties.
Time and again, the complexity of societal problems gets overlooked when moral panic fixates on a narrow cause. Factors like socioeconomic conditions, psychological well-being, and cultural narratives can all catalyze harmful behaviors. Yet moral panics direct public energy toward singular scapegoats. This fosters an environment where real solutions—often requiring robust, long-term strategies—struggle to gain traction.
A Balanced Perspective
The patterns of moral panic and scapegoating reveal how media are often blamed in ways that oversimplify complex social issues. While concerns about protecting children are valid, reflexively targeting media can distract from deeper, more systemic problems. The idea of "harm" is rarely straightforward—many people engage with supposedly harmful content without experiencing negative effects. Instead of condemning an entire medium, it’s more productive to explore how media interact with individual vulnerabilities and broader societal dynamics.
Adopting a balanced perspective means considering historical and cultural contexts. If violence or occult references appear frequently in certain media, they may be reflecting, rather than causing, social fascinations with power, domination, or the unknown. Similarly, if youth gravitate toward challenging or provocative music, it could indicate broader generational shifts or dissatisfaction with mainstream norms. By situating each panic in this cultural landscape, we see that moral panic often arises from conflict between evolving youth subcultures and entrenched adult values.
Looking forward, the march of technology promises to introduce new challenges—and, inevitably, new scapegoats. Virtual reality simulations, immersive online worlds, AI-generated content, and other emerging media could stoke anxieties among those who fear that young people cannot distinguish virtual illusions from moral or physical realities. But if we carry lessons forward from the Dungeons & Dragons debacle, the PMRC battles, and the video game controversies, we might respond differently. Instead of orchestrating moral panics, societies can encourage dialogue, research-based policy, and better education about media consumption.
Developers, creators, parents, and educators can all play proactive roles. Parents willing to learn about emerging media will likely be more effective guides for their children than parents reliant on sensational headlines. Likewise, creators who engage with community feedback can build experiences that acknowledge parental concerns. If moral panics are cyclical, perhaps critical awareness and open communication can soften the next wave of scapegoating, leading to more thoughtful, evidence-based reactions.
Conclusion
The recurring drama of moral panics and scapegoating reveals profound tensions at the heart of evolving cultures. From the witch hunts of colonial America to rock & roll hysteria, the Satanic Panic of the 1980s, and the blame laid on video games post-Columbine, the patterns are remarkably consistent. Episodes of panic unfold in predictable stages: sensationalized media coverage, public outcry, political posturing, regulations or labeling systems, and finally a cooling period—until the cycle restarts with the next emerging trend. Each time, deeply rooted social issues remain largely unaddressed, overshadowed by an emotionally compelling yet oversimplified narrative.
Recognizing this pattern can offer a more enlightened path. If researchers, policymakers, and the public accept that moral panic obscures underlying complexities—ranging from mental health to socioeconomic disparities—then we can refocus on systemic solutions. Rather than ostracizing each new form of entertainment, we can harness rigorous inquiry, media literacy, and measured regulation to ensure children have both protection and the freedom to explore creative experiences. In short, moral panic endures because scapegoating serves certain immediate needs; but an honest reckoning with cultural anxieties demands we look beyond the scapegoat and confront the challenging, nuanced realities that truly shape societal well-being.
Tags
Student Readings
A great read!
ReplyDelete