'The guy we finally asked to stop coming to game because he'd wheeze excitedly every time the GM said 'women', and who'd turn up at your door covered in a haze of orange Cheet-O dust with his eyes wide, his skin oily, like somebody at the bottom of a long cocaine binge but--'
'fuck, yeah, I remember him. Why do I have to remember him. Why. You fucking hate me, don't you, you ratbastard pigfucker.'
'Where do you think he games anymore?'
And my friend pointed over there at one of the open gaming tables. There was Bill the Cheet-O junkie, whose personally distressing habits of 'cleanliness' and 'socialization' were no handicap to One Afternoon's RP At The Con.
I would submit that perhaps online gaming has an appeal to Bill and his orange-dusted ilk.
The above applies to WoD and Comicbook mudders equally, though. So let's try to figure out why more Comicbook mudders are fucking nutso while WoD players are loonies, but somewhat less so.
I think this may be caused by the point of origin of their work.
WoD? That comes from such brilliance as James Whale's exquisite Frankenstein movies, Bela Lugosi's performance in Dracula, Bram Stoker's novel which begat Bela Lugosi's performance...
The superhero is adolescent wish-fulfillment escapism, at the point where it was born. Yes, it's definitely come to be more than that, but there's still, in a lot of ways, a veneer of the adolescent over it. Mr. Moore & Mr. Gaiman, along with several other bright folks, have done a fair amount to strip that veneer and give the genre some real scope.
But they haven't done a thing to the fans.
So the fans go out in the real world, and often as not, they get mocked. And are chased back to their mother's basement, like Frankenstein's monster returning to the laboratory in the middle of act 3 of the film, and then something horrible happens.