Your blogs seem to be always in the abstract. Let’s see something about a successful story in the real world. I would love to see a Dramatica setup for real stories that have been successful.
My reply:
Here’s a link to more than 70 complete analyses of novels, movies, stage plays, and television programs:
As for my posts being abstract, yep, you’re right – I’m the abstract one. Chris, the other co-creator of Dramatica is the more practical-minded of the two of us. (All the above links come from his company’s web site, which is far more focused on application.)
The way we work is, I advance the edges of the theory and he figures out how to put it to work. When he turns one of my concepts into something tangible, I used that as a platform to reach for the next concept. That is why we have worked so well together for over 20 years, and why Dramatica has become both so extensive in theory and useful as well.
Does Dramatica software edit and give better solutions for certain parts of a story as an editor may do?
My reply:
Dramatica doesn’t read or process what you write in it. Rather, it asks a series of multiple-choice questions about your dramatic intent. As you answer them, Dramatica’s interactive Story Engine cross-references the dramatic impact of your answers to start building the underlying logistic structure of your story. The more choices you make, the more options are ruled out because of the combined influence of what you’ve already chosen. Eventually, you answer enough questions for Dramatica to go ahead and finish the rest of the structure for you.
This structure is called a Storyform, and it is essentially a map of all your story points and how they relate together in your story. But, this is just the basic bare-bones structural points – it doesn’t include your subject matter or any of your storytelling style. For example, every story has a goal. As a result of your answers, Dramatica may determine that the goal in your story is about Obtaining something. For another story you might develop, the goal might turn out to be Becoming a different kind of person. Clearly those are two different kinds of goals, and each one would be the dramatically sound goal for each particular story.
But, if your goal were Obtaining, Dramatica won’t tell you what is to be obtained. Or, if you have a goal of Becoming, it won’t tell you what kind of person the character is trying to become. That part is up to you. But if you know your goal is Obtaining and NOT becoming, then you understand that underlying structural story point and then need to fill it in with your own subject matter.
You can answer the questions about something you’ve already written, or something you are going to write. Either way, Dramatica will provide that kind of help for over eighty different story points from the Main Character’s personal problem to the overall concern that everyone is worried about in the story at large. Armed with this information, you have a sound dramatic framework from which to write.
Narrative structure has, at its core, a code not unlike that of DNA.
We first documented a model of this DNA of story in our 1994 book, Dramatica: A New Theory of Story, concurrent with the release of our Dramatica software, which implemented the model as a patented interactive story engine that enabled writers to design the genome of their stories’ narratives.
Today, more than twenty years later, there is still much confusion as exactly what Dramatica is, though the model has been successfully used by more than 100,000 writers around the world, on best selling novels, on motion pictures with billions of dollars of collective box office, and most recently by the CIA and the NSA in applying narrative structure to understand and anticipate the actions of terrorist groups and lone wolves.
To help clarify the nature of the Dramatica model, I’ve prepared the following short list of points that may provide a framework from which to appreciate what Dramatica really is:
First, think of the Dramatica model as the DNA of story.
This is not a loose analogy.
In organic genetics, the model of DNA is not a specific genome but a description of how genomes can be formed.
The model of DNA is (in part) defined by having four bases and a double-helix assembly. And this is the level at which the Dramatica model functions as well.
Dramatica is the DNA of narrative structure. It is a quad-helix arrangement with four bases. It describes how narratives can be formed.
From it, you can build specific narrative genomes for species of stories, just as you can create a human genome or one for a cat.
The model of DNA does not change in the case of a human or cat genome just as the model of Dramatica does not change in the case of any given storyform.
Dramatica is not a specific narrative structure – it is a model of DNA from which specific narrative structure are created.
Just as a specific genome holds the instructions for building a particular creature, so too, a specific storyform holds the instructions for building a particular narrative.
In biology, DNA is not weighted. There is no greater tendency for DNA to create a particular genome over another. That is the job of evolution.
Similarly in story, Dramatica is not weighted. There is no greater tendency for Dramatica to create a particular narrative over another.
However, in biology, there is great genetic variance within, for example, the human genome. So, while we can easily identify a species by its DNA, the genetic variance leads to differences in height, weight, bone structure, hair color, and even unseen attributes such as tendencies toward certain diseases.
In species, genes are specific expressions of their common genome, which creates variance among individuals within a species.
In stories, the subject matter and storytelling style are specific expressions of a common narrative, which creates variance among individual stories told from the same storyform.
And so, systems that seek to understand narrative by finding common traits among finished stories is like trying to understand genetics by finding common traits among all animals.
In 1991, we began our three-year exploration into the nature of narrative structure, eventually having a “Eureka!” moment in which we realized that while each character has a full complement of human mental traits, in the story at large, they each function as but a single facet of an overall mind, the mind of the story itself – a story mind.
This occurs in narrative because it occurs in real life, and narrative is our attempt to map out and find meaning in understanding ourselves and our interrelationships with others.
In real life, we each possess the same basic traits such as Reason, Emotion, and Skepticism. And we use all of them to try and parse our problems and discover solutions.
When we gather together in groups toward a common purpose, we quickly self-organize to become specialists, so one person emerges as the Voice of Reason for the group, and another as the group’s resident Skeptic. This provides the group with much greater depth and detail as it explores its issues than if all the members of the group remained as general practitioners, trying to cover all the bases to a lesser depth as we do for our own individual problems.
So, the group organization becomes a map of how individuals interact in society, and the specialties within the group define the traits within us as individuals, and illustrate how those mental processes interact within our own minds.
This is why in stories characters must do double duty. As individuals when working on their own issues, they are general practitioners, and as members of a group, they are specialists. It is these specialist roles from which character archetypes are derived.
Armed with this new manner of assessing narrative structure, we spent years searching for a model that explained it, ultimately discovering the mechanism of the narrative mind and publishing our theory and model.
Hopefully, this short introduction to the nature of Dramatica will provide some corners to the jig-saw puzzle of cognitive science.
Click here for more information about the Dramatica theory and its ramifications.
You know, my partner Chris Huntley oft has said that the best way to rob a main character of motivation is to give him what he wants. If you fill his need, he has no reason to go off and try to do anything. Conversely, if you want to motivate a main character, take away something he wants. Steal his jewels, rip his heart out, put the love his life in danger, violate his morality, end his way of life. You pick it – you are the Author/God and the actions of your main character are pre-destined by the angst you give him.
Suppose you have a main character who’s problem is that he doesn’t want anything, doesn’t care about anything, and hasn’t had anything taken from him that he really cares about. This happens to authors far more often than you might imagine. So how to you solve this problem and get your main character moving?
All you need is one thing – one person or place or way of life that got under his skin, and somebody up and violated it. And now, though he is still just as cynical and jaded about everything else, he is in a blood rage because of that one thing and will go to the ends of the earth (or beyond, in some cases) to satisfy his lust for revenge or to try and save that which he holds so dear.
For example, Keanu Reeves as John Wick (great movie, by the way) is a retired assassin. His wife who drew him out of the business dies of natural causes. Before she died, she ordered a puppy to be sent to him after her death to remind him of her and give him something to love. And this incredible killing machine of a man, remains retired, and learns to love more deeply – until the son of a Russian Mob big wig kills his dog for the fun of it. In the end, everybody dies except for Wick who is now back in business.
The options are endless. Just pick one that is meaningful to you. Choose a loss or a threat to something loved by your main character that matches one for yourself, and you’ll find you have no trouble conveying why he is motivated to do whatever you want him to do.
First let me define what signposts are in stories and then provide a few hints on how to structure them.
Signposts are the markers that separate one act from another. Think about any well structured story you’ve read or seen on the screen. There are always several points at which you feel that you’ve moved from one act to another, such as in the plot when the characters have finished preparing for a journey and actually embark or in the character arc where the main character finally realizes he has been held back by his best friends good intentions and decides to go solo for the first time.
We intuitively know that a major turning point has been reached and that things will no longer go on as they have and that a whole new direction will reveal itself as the story unfolds.
Now all of that is just felt, but it actually comes from something very solid in story structure: the signpost.
Signposts are like road markers that tell you when you need to turn off the highway you are on and take a side road in order to get to where you’re headed. These signposts are just at the juncture points, yet in between them, you have a lot of ground to cover that is part of your journey.
In a standard three-act structure, there are four signposts. To see this more clearly, hold up four fingers on one hand as in the illustration below:
If each finger is a signposts, then you can see three journeys between them.
Readers or audiences feel the journeys because that is the flow of the unfolding of a story over time. But the four fingers define the direction of each of the journeys. So, the first signpost marks the point of departure of the story. The last signpost identifies the destination. the other two signposts in the middle describe the two major turning points in the story when the set up is complete at the end of the first act, and when the climb to the climax begins at the end of the second.
That’s fine conceptually, but how does it play out in actual story development? As it turns out, all four signposts belong a family which is what gives a story a consistent identity as it plays out.
One such family, as an example, consists of the signposts of Learning, Understanding, Doing, and Obtaining. So, in such a structure, the story begins with a general sense that Learning is the undercurrent of what everyone is engaged in. It is the overall background for all that happens. And while not every event or character conjecture has to pertain directly to Learning, there is that feel that establishes that Learning is what the first act is all about.
In practice, the characters in such a story will begin with Learning this or that (the first signpost) and then the act (the first journey) will follow the characters as they learn more and more until they arrive at an Understanding (the second signpost). That’s where we feel an act break as the story changes course from exploring learning to exploring understanding.
In the second act (journey), the characters will progressively grow in their understandings until they are finally able to start Doing (the third signpost). Again, we feel an act break as the internal quest from understanding shifts to the external quest of doing things.
Now the characters do more and bigger things until they are finally able to arrive at their designation, the fourth signpost of Obtaining. End of narrative. End of story.
There are a several families of signposts depending on the kind of story you are telling. And, the signposts don’t always have to be in the same order. In one story, for example, the characters may obtain something that allows them to do something that causes them to learn which leads to an understanding – a complete different order than our first example.
In real storytelling, this second example might be that some kids steal a car (obtaining) and are then able to do (take a road trip across the country), and en route they encounter many people with issues (learning) and eventually arrive home with an understanding about the importance of respecting the property rights of others. Lame, to be sure, but fine as an example of how the signpost order is not locked.
Now as I promised at the beginning, I have now defined what a signpost is. But I still need to explain how to structure them.
To do this, I’m going to share a letter I just wrote to one of my story consulting clients. (Yes, I make my living as a story consultant. Click here to learn more…)
This particular client was taking the precise nature of each signposts way too closely to heart. They were trying to make every single story point in each act tie directly into each signpost, not taking into account that each signpost is just the county you are traveling through and the events in the journey are flavored by that, but not defined by it.
So, here’s the note to my client with some tips for structuring signposts:
Structure should not be applied as rules but as guidelines. Structure gives you the sense of where the meaning is – where the center of the message is.
So in regard to the four signposts, they are like real signposts: they tell you when you have crossed the border from one kind of conjecture to another.
Stories are all about exploration in order to find the narrative because the narrative will provide the understanding of how all the pieces fit together, and therefore what one needs to do to get things to end up in the best possible arrangement.
If a story travels through learning, understanding, doing, and obtaining in that order, it means the story begins with learning. That is the first signpost – the point of departure on their journey. And from there, it starts off on its exploration to learn more and more until it arrives at an understanding (the second signpost). From that point forward, learning is behind and the characters grow more and more in their understanding of what they already learned until they have understood so much that they are finally able to start Doing something about it – the third signpost. From there, learning and understanding are pretty much behind them and their focus is to do more and more until they are finally able to Obtain when they reach the fourth and final signpost: their destination.
As you can see, signposts just mark the dividing lines when the story shifts its focus from one kine of endeavor or outlook to another. You can also think of the four signposts as four rooms in a house. You begin by exploring the first room in which you learn a lot. When you have learned all you can, you move on to the next room where you put all that learning together to arrive at an understanding. When you finally understand all you can, you move on to the next room and begin doing until you have done all you can, and then you move onto the last room to Obtain what you want by taking what you learned, organized into your understanding, turned into the action of doing that results in Obtaining.
Again, in terms of rules vs. guidelines, the signposts give you a general sense of what is going on in each act – what’s the focus or the area of interest. But, that’s not the only thing going on in each act – just the overall background against which everything happens.
Don’t feel that everything that occurs in an act has to somehow connect to the signpost. The signpost is just like the broth in a soup into which all the other stuff is cooked. It gives each act an identifiable flavor but can be filled with all kinds of individual tastes that have nothing to do directly with the flavor of the broth.
Now, looking at your recent work, that is actually WAY too detailed and WAY too focused on each signpost. It is good to have so many opportunities to relate to the signpost – that shows great consistency in your thinking about that act. But, you don’t need nearly a tenth of that many references to the signpost as you have there to convey the overall perspective in that act – you only need enough to clearly establish in the mind of your reader the general background of the kind of exploration that is going on in that act – the kind of activity, interest, or concern.
In other words, don’t try to tie everything that happens in your first act into Learning – that would be forcing the structure and taking structure way too literally. Rather, find as many opportunities as you can in your existing story material for each signpost in each throughline that already is tied into that signpost without forcing it.
W all think in narrative patterns. Our interests are the topics we explore, but we organize the way we appreciate a topic in narrative, which is nothing more than a framework of meaning that ensures we’ve looked at all the meaningful parts of a topic from all the pertinent points of view.
And so, when we write, as with all authors, we automatically organize our story elements into narrative patterns so they make the most meaningful sense. But, we do this by intuition so the perspective is often a bit fuzzy and sometime a little off-true. Structure allows us to focus that already-existing proto-narrative so that each signpost becomes a little more clear as the overall flavor of the background so that all that happens can be seen through that filter before moving on to the next. Like Red, Blue, Green and Brightness, each signpost provides part of the picture through a different filter until we get the full-color version after the last scene at the end.
My advice:
Don’t put so much effort into each signpost. Just find the elements of your story that already point at each signpost and then polish them up a bit so they better reflect it. Let your remaining story elements play against that without trying to force them to direct connect.
A writer in the Ukraine recently wrote me with some questions about the Dramatica theory of narrative structure. First, his questions (indented) and then my answers below each.
Hello!
I’m a big “Dramatica” fan from Ukraine!
Recently I was struggling with understanding some “Dramatica” aspects and especially with translating “Dramatica Dictionary”.
Can you, please, help me? Unfortunately, I haven’t found answers to my questions on your web-site.
Hello to the Ukraine!
Nice to meet you.
Here are some answers to your questions. I’ve put my answers right below each question for easy reference:
1. I agree, that we need Overall Story as bird’s eye view, Main Character Storyline to get to know more about MC, to sympathize and even empathize with him, to see the Story through his eyes nd of course we need MC/IC Storyline to see the battle between two alternate Approaches and Worldviews.
But I can’t understand one thing – why do we need separate IC Storyline? I thought we are interested in IC as long (and as much) as he has direct connection and influence on MC. Yes, we need Impact Character to show MC an alternative way, but having separate IC Line – is it so necessary?
Here are some thoughts on that. First of all, in the mind, the MC represents our sense of self – our identity – “I think therefore I am.” The IC represents the person we might become if we decide to change. And so, in the course of our internal exploration as to whether to retain our identity exactly as it is or to alter it in regard to a particular issue represented by the IC we need to know as much about the IC as we can, in order to make our best educated guess as to whether to stick to our guns or alter our outlook.
Also, the four throughlines represent I (mc), You (ic), we (mc vs. ic) and They (OS). We need all four points of view to understand the environment in which we make our decisions.
2. If we have a Story where there are Main Character and Protagonist (separate characters) – MC goes through a mental emotional journey and decides: he will Change or remain Steadfast. But does Protagonist go through such inner journey or he just goes from Event to Event in a Story (goes only through Outer Journey)? Protagonist doesn’t need to choose between Change and Steadfastness, right?
Correct. Protagonist is only concerned with achieving the goal, though he or she may have very personal and passionate reasons for doing so. But, they are not internally conflicted and do not question their chosen point of view on the matter.
3. When we separate Main Character from Protagonist – does Main Character still have a Goal? Or the main Story Goal is only in hands of Protagonist?
The MC still has a personal goal – it is the kind of angst or anguish they are trying to overcome. The MC’s Concern and Issue and Problem give us some indications as to the nature of that angst. But, keep in mind that the MC, if not the protagonist, must be one of the other characters. If you are using archetypes, the MC could be any of the other 7 archetypes. This is important because the MC’s choice to change or remain steadfast is the lynchpin between the personal issue and story goal that the protagonist is after. The way the MC chooses will determine if the Protagonist finds success or failure, even if the MC is not directly involved in that effort.
4. In the Story Climax there is a battle between Protagonist and Antagonist. But when we have separate Main Character – should he also be involved in this battle? Or he has his own – battle between him and Impact Character?
You suspect correctly, the MC will have a battle of morals or outlooks with the IC in the climax. BUT because the MC will also be one of the objective characters, in that role the “player” that is both MC and an objective character may be involved with the Protagonist in the battle with the Antagonist.
5. If we have a Story with separate Protagonist character and Main Character and also have Complex characters with swapped characteristics like in “Wizard of Oz” – is there a possibility, that Protagonist and Main Character would seem like cardboard cutouts in comparison? Can we accidentally make our supporting character More Interesting than our Main Character or Protagonist? The Only way we can make Main Character complex – is to combine him with Protagonist? The Only way we can make Protagonist complex – is to combine him with Main Character?
Well, any characters can swap characteristics, so if you want a complex “player” then assign the role of MC to a complex objective character. Still, consider that the MC gets a whole class by himself and so does the IC. Also, the MC/IC conflict gets a whole class. But the OS only gets one class and that is where all the objective characters live. So, just by the set-up, stories are designed to give far more exploration to the MC, IC, and their relationship than we find in the OS. You’ll find that this depth of personal, internal exploration makes the MC plenty complex, no matter if their objective player role is archetypal or complex.
6. What came first: Action or Decision? For me it’s really hard to judge. It’s like asking “What came first: Chicken or Egg?”. They are so interconnected. I thought that what if the answer is hiding in Inciting Incident – what Event pushes the Story Forward? If we answer this – we’ll know: Action or Decision, right?
That’s pretty spot on. But, you’ll find that the inciting incident of Action or Decision keeps repeating itself throughout the story. In other words, the inciting incident (action or decision) will occur prompting a response of the remaining item. For example, if an earthquake happens, it prompts decisions about what to do next. If a princess DECIDES to marry someone by the end of the week, everyone springs into action to win her hand. But, once the inciting incident has been dealt with, immediate potential is neutralized. But then, a new inciting incident will crop up requiring a new response. In this manner, .the “driver” will always be the same, throughout the story – in other words, the causality between action and decision is maintained.
The other key point is that whatever the driver is at the beginning that sets things off in a tizzy (action or decision), the plot will be brought to a conclusion by the same driver as the inciting incident. So, action driven stories will end through an action taken at the end that stops the domino effect of the causality. Similarly, decision driven stories will end through a decision that ends that causality.
But that’s just my assumption. For example, first scene in movie “Armageddon” (1997) shows that Meteor “Shower” destroys satellite = Action. Then they are talking about it and trying to develop a plan for rescuing Earth = Decision. Then they arrive to the oil derrick, train men to be an astronauts = Action and so on. So, maybe, in this movie Action is primary.
You pretty much have it. Even though the Bruce Willis character “decides” to sacrifice his life by setting off the bomb, it is the action of the bomb exploding that ends the causal runaway domino effect.
In detective story (like Colombo, Poirot, Sherlock) first we see the Murder = Action and then we see Investigation = Decision.
Yes. And it is an action that is required at the end as well.
In “Ocean’s Eleven” during the whole movie they are trying to develop a plan of the robbery – so it’s Decision Story? But there are plenty of Action (actually performing what they planned).
Yes – keep in mind that the choice of action or decision only determines the causal order of what drives the story. How MUCH of each is in a story is completely up to you and your storytelling. So, a story that begins with a decision, such as The Godfather, can have a tremendous amount of action in it but it ends in the decision to accept Michael as the new Don.
Then what are Decision-movies? Maybe “12 Angry Men”? The whole movie is a Decision-making process. But Inciting Incident was the Murder – Action again.
Well, we never see the murder in 12 Angry Men. It has already happened in the back story. The story begins with the charge to come to a decision. Still, you have to be careful. A story with a decision as the goal does not necessarily mean that it begins and ends with a decision. You really have to look at the back and forth alternation of decision and action to see which one triggers a sequence and which one wraps it up: which creates a potential and which neutralizes that potential.
Yes, I remember that when deciding A or D we don’t need to look at how much A or D there are in a Story.
Indeed. In fact you not only don’t need to look at that, you shouldn’t.
But what is the best, quick and accurate way to identify A or D then?
Look for the moments when a story seems like all the forward momentum has been halted or all the potential has been resolved or all the momentary frenzy has been satisfied. What satisfied it – an action or decision? And what throws another monkey wrench in the story forcing the characters to respond – an action or a decision?
7. Can the Contagonist slow down the Protagonist by accident, can C even not know that he’s doing it? Or he should always be aware about his function and be consciously willing to slow down the Protagonist?
Objective characters, like the protagonist, antagonist and contagonist, are defined by their function in the story. They are defined about how the “work,” not by their opinion of themselves. For example, you could have someone who prides himself on being logical but is actually making all his decisions based on passion. This would be the Emotion archetype, not the Reason archetype for though he things of himself as Reason, his actual function is as passion.
Objective character are objective because we seen them from an objective point of view, like a general on a hill watching a battle. You identify them by their function in the story, not by their awareness of non-awareness of that function.
8. Who can be an Impact Character in a Story:
– Love Interest?
– Sidekick?
– Guardian?
– Contagonist?
All of the above. Any of the Objective Characters can be the IC. Objective characters are identified by role, IC (and MC) are identified by point of view. You can attach a point of view to any of the Objective charactrs.
Seems like each of then can be IC.
Yep.
9. What is the difference between Preconditions and Prerequisites? What are real-life examples (or from movies)? Is it like: if I want to become a student of Oxford, for example, I need to know English not lower than a certain level (this is Precondition). And for this I need to take some necessary steps (Prerequisites) like watching more movies without translation, engage with English tutor or even living in UK for some time to listen to the native speakers. Is my understanding correct?
Best way to think of it is prerequisites are logistically necessary to advance the effort toward the goal. But preconditions are only necessary because someone insists those things are added on. For example, to meet one of the requirements of a goal, the protagonist needs a boat to get across a river. There’s only on person who has a boat and he will let the protagonist use it if the protagonist will take his daughter along. So, the boat is the prerequisite, the daughter is the precondition.
10. What is the difference between Inaction and Protection? It’s the same for me. What real-life or movie example illustrates these terms?
Protection can be like building up defenses or standing between danger and someone else or fighting to keep harm from coming to something or someone. Inaction is not doing anything at all. But, sometimes, just standing by, as in passive resistance, can be a tool for change for it causes forces to change directions to go around you into a new course.
11. What is the difference between Proven and Unproven? It also seems the same for me. Is it just shifted emphasis? Like first i concentrate on what is proven and make my assumptions and decisions based on it. But then I look at clues and shady relationships that are still unproven and try to find evidence to prove they really exist.
Proven and unproven are ways of evaluating. Those focusing on Proven seek to build an understanding based on what is actually known, leaving out anything that is not yet certain. Those focusing on Unproven seek to widen consideration to what might be since it has not yet been ruled out.
“We have proven he was in the same city as each of the three murders at the same time they were committed.” “Sure, and so were 10,000 other people. What you haven’t proven is why he was there.”
Sorry for long letter. I just want to figure out “Dramatica” and, hopefully, successfully use it to make full Stories.
No problem. Always happy to help a seeker.
Thank you for your time and can’t wait to read answers)))
I spent nearly sixteen years avoiding reading anything of substance by (Hollywood) story theorists such as Syd Field, John Truby, Christopher Vogler, Robert McKee and others. As co-creator of the Dramatica theory of story, I didn’t want to influence my development of Dramatica so I avoided direct interaction with competing theories.
In 2006 I decided to lift my self-imposed ban. I figured my understanding of Dramatica was mature enough that I didn’t have to worry about “contaminating” it by exposure to the competing theories. It was past time that I figured out how other story theories are similar and dissimilar to Dramatica, why they are different (assuming they are), and what those similarities and differences mean.
Originally written as a series of articles, I’ve reworked my findings into this single paper. I’ve divided the results into four major topics of comparison: Story Throughlines; Hero, Protagonist, and Main Character; Character Growth and Resolve; and Plot Structure. I’ve also included an overview of the source materials, some initial observations, and a summary at the end. I’ve tried to be as objective as I can and I’m always interested in feedback and notices of errors and omissions. Contact information is provided at the end.
RESOURCE MATERIALS
There are dozens of “how to” books on story structure, especially in the screenwriting field. I chose to compare the Dramatica theory of story with the story paradigms of six popular writing gurus: Syd Field, Michael Hauge, Robert McKee, Linda Seger, John Truby, and Christopher Vogler. Each has written books and lectured widely on the subject of story and story structure. The following describes my research for each author’s work with a few personal comments added.
SYD FIELD: I watched Syd Field’s video, “Screenwriting Workshop.” It’s well made for a talking head instructional video though the opening music is cheesy. Syd comes across as warm and authoritative. He gives good writing advice.
MICHAEL HAUGE: I watched the DVD, “The Hero’s 2 Journeys,” by Michael Hauge (Writing Screenplays That Sell) and Christopher Vogler (The Writer’s Journey). The production values of this DVD were fair. Having these two story guys working together was very interesting. Their story paradigms appear to be very different but are surprisingly compatible. Both Hauge and Vogler are good speakers and communicators.
ROBERT McKEE: I read Robert McKee’s book, “Story.” It’s a good book with lots of great story examples. His “Chinatown” example of writing from the inside out is brilliant (pp 154-176) and shows his writing technique to its best advantage. There is no question that McKee loves story, knows film and theatre intimately, writes well, understands screenwriting as a specialized form, and has a lifetime of experience to back up his writing advice. In many ways, “Story” is inspirational. I recommend reading this book, especially if you are a screenwriter.
LINDA SEGER: I read her seminal book, “Making A Good Script Great,” (Seger, 1984) and read sections of two of her other popular books, “Creating Unforgettable Characters” (Seger, 1990), and “Advanced Screenwriting: Raising your Script to the Academy Award Level” (Seger, 2003). Linda Seger’s greatest strengths are in her methods of getting to the heart of an author’s intent and her understanding of storytelling techniques—what a writer wants to say and how to express it effectively. She uses real world examples and has lots to say about writing, most specifically about writing screenplays. She is also one of the few well-known women in a predominantly male industry.
JOHN TRUBY: For John Truby, I read through my business partner’s class notes of Truby’s basic story structure and advanced screenwriting workshops. These were compiled into fifty-one typed pages. Truby’s workshops go far beyond story structure but the notes were more than sufficient for me to get the gist of Truby’s story paradigm. Truby has some great descriptions of storytelling conventions in various genres.
CHRISTOPHER VOGLER: I read Christopher Vogler’s book, “The Writer’s Journey” (2nd Edition). Chris Vogler has an engaging writing style and strong command of the English language. He goes out of his way to give credit where due and provides appropriate caveats for exceptions and rules. It seems honest, direct, and sincere. And, it goes into greater depth than the “The Hero’s 2 Journeys” DVD. The greatest area of expansion over the DVD is discussion of his character archetypes.
DRAMATICA: I used, “Dramatica: A New Theory of Story,” Special Tenth Anniversary Edition, by Melanie Anne Phillips and Chris Huntley (Write Brothers, 2004) as my source for most of the Dramatica material. As co-author of the book and co-creator of the Dramatica theory of story, I was familiar with the material already.
INITIAL OBSERVATIONS
Though the six non-Dramatica story paradigms I studied are different in their specifics, I was surprised to find that most more or less fit into one of two broad categories. The first category I call the post-Aristotelian story paradigm. This category finds its roots in the work of Lajos Egri (The Art of Dramatic Writing!) who significantly expanded the function of Character in story beyond Aristotle’s Poetics. Its adherents include Syd Field, Michael Hauge, and Robert McKee. The second category I call The Hero’s Journey story paradigm and finds its roots in adaptations of Joseph Campbell’s work (Hero with a Thousand Faces). Its devotees include John Truby and Christopher Vogler. Linda Seger falls mostly into the first category, but acknowledges and incorporates the concepts of the hero’s journey as one of several “myth” forms a story may use.
By contrast, Dramatica does not fall neatly into either category. It appears to be a much broader story paradigm—one that encompasses elements from both categories and then some.
Another generalization is that each of the non-Dramatica story paradigms assumes your story has a Main Character (or Hero) who Changes and is also the Protagonist in a story with a happy ending (Success/Good). With Seger the exception, lip service was given to the idea of steadfast main characters. These structural elements seemed somewhat rigid and overly specific. I assumed that there was more to their understanding of story, so I dug further.
While reading “The Writer’s Journey,” I was surprised that many of Vogler’s observations about character and the hero’s journey “felt” right. Specifically, Vogler discussed the “meaning” of certain archetypes or events in the story and how they correlate to “meaning” in the real world. So much of it sounded good and useful, but I also saw all the conditions where those observations didn’t hold up—places where too many assumptions are made, such as the nature of a Hero. Vogler bends over backwards to illustrate exceptions to the Hero definition. So many that they seem to void any sense of “rules” to go by. But that’s not what really bothered me.
What bugged me was that there seemed to be some “Truth” to his observations about character and plot. These truths didn’t contradict Dramatica so much as suggest deficiencies in the Dramatica theory. It wasn’t until I was talking this over with someone that I had an “aha” moment of clarity. I related how Vogler talked about what elements in a story meant. That’s when it clicked.
An early axiom determined in the development of the Dramatica theory was this: If you look for meaning in your story, you cannot predict how to put your story together. If you want to predict how to put your story together, you cannot know what your choices will mean. In other words, you can try to find meaning in a work OR you can predict how to put it together—but not at the same time from within the same context. Why? The short answer is that we use one as the given in order to evaluate the other. When looking for meaning, we assume a particular story structure. When looking for structure, we assume a particular meaning (author’s intent). It’s tied to the same reason we can see light as particles and waves, just not at the same time within a single context. One aspect defines the basis for the other. Story structure provides the basis for seeing meaning in the story. Meaning provides the basis for understanding and manipulating structure in a story.
In other words, meaning is tied to the audience’s experience of the story while structure is tied to the author’s perspective of the story. The audience perspective allows a synthesis of the underlying story elements to discover its “meaning.” The author’s perspective assumes a given meaning (author’s intent) and allows manipulation of the arrangement of the story’s structure and dynamics. Using the appropriate context is important.
For example, Robert McKee approaches story from the audience’s perspective whereas Dramatica approaches it from the author’s perspective. McKee speaks of author and audience but always with an eye on the story’s meaning—a view only available to someone looking at story from the inside. This view is great for understanding audience reception but limited when trying to fix story structure problems. In this regard McKee is in the same boat as Syd Field, Christopher Vogler, Michael Hauge, Lajos Egri and probably most all other story mages.
One major difference between Dramatica and more traditional story theories seems to be this:
Dramatica works with story from the objective author’s view that allows writers to clearly manipulate elements of a story’s structure. From this author’s perspective, it is difficult to find the meaning of specific author’s choices.
Many other story theories work with story from the subjective audience’s view that allows writers to see the meaning of flow and elements of the story. From this audience’s perspective, it is difficult to predict which story elements are essential and how they should go together.
In retrospect this seems obvious. I’ve known that many story gurus developed their ideas from examining lots and lots of stories. I know Dramatica WASN’T created that way—we developed the theory by identifying the underlying story rules and elements existing in all stories (the Dramatica theory posits that stories are models of human psychology, specifically metaphors for the mechanisms of a mind attempting to resolve an inequity). All it took was recognizing the difference in perspective (audience vs. author) and the difference in intent (meaning vs. prediction) to understand how Dramatica is fundamentally unlike the other story paradigms.
So the question was how this difference in perspective manifested itself in understanding the nature of Story.
STORY THROUGHLINES
A key concept in Dramatica is that all complete stories have four separate but interrelated storylines that are present from the beginning to the end of the story called Throughlines. This differs from Syd Field, Michael Hauge, Robert McKee, Linda Seger, John Truby, and Christopher Vogler who, each in his or her own way, describe at most two essential storylines.
In simplified terms:
Syd Field describes a dramatic structure he calls The Paradigm, which is a plot structure with a Main Character woven in.
Hauge describes two throughlines as the Outer Journey (plot) and the Inner Journey (journey to fulfillment for the Hero).
McKee describes two throughlines blended together—collectively called The Quest and the Central Plot.
Seger describes an “A Story” or “story spine” as the major thread of a story coupled with Main Character development.
Truby describes two throughlines blended together in his “22 Building Blocks” of story (which is an expansion of his 7 Major Steps in Classic Structure). These two throughlines are similar to Vogler’s hero’s inner and outer journeys.
Vogler describes two throughlines as the Hero’s Journey and the Hero’s Inner Journey.
The two throughlines found in each of the other story paradigms correlate to two of Dramatica’s four throughlines:
The Overall Story Throughline (the objective, “big picture” thread) closely resembles Vogler’s Hero’s Journey, Hauge’s Outer Journey, much of Field’s plot structure, McKee’s Central Plot, Seger’s story spine or ‘A Story,’ and the Desire part of Truby’s 22 Building Blocks.
The Main Character Throughline (the character through whose eyes the audience experiences the story) closely resembles Vogler’s Hero’s Inner Journey, Hauge’s Inner Journey, Field’s main character development, McKee’s The Quest, Seger’s main character development, and the Need part of Truby’s 22 Building Blocks.
The two Dramatica throughlines not clearly defined, not deemed essential, or just plain absent in the other story paradigms are:
The Impact Character Throughline—The character whose alternative perspective forces the Main Character to address his personal issues.
The Main Character vs. Impact Character (MC/IC) Throughline—The relationship between the main and impact characters that counters the objectivity of the Overall Story throughline by adding a passionate, subjective perspective.
It is inaccurate to say these two throughlines are altogether absent from the other story paradigms. Here’s what each seems to offer:
Field doesn’t adequately describe anything identifiable as either the Impact Character throughline or the MC/IC relationship throughline.
Hauge has bits of the Impact Character blended into his Nemesis and Reflection characters. One function of the Reflection character is to reveal the Hero’s inner conflict. A function of the Nemesis character is to embody the Hero’s inner conflict. His Romance character implies a relationship throughline—and by extension an Impact Character—but only appears in stories with romantic relationships.
Seger’s “B Story” subplot is similar to (but not the same as) Dramatica’s Main Character vs. Impact Character (MC/IC) Throughline. Where Dramatica’s MC/IC throughline describes an essential emotional component of the story specific to the relationship between the Main Character and the Impact Character, Ms. Seger’s relationship subplots include any important relationship explored in the story (e.g. according to Seger, Tootsie has five subplots [“Making a Good Script Great, p. 38]). Seger’s catalyst character loosely resembles Dramatica’s Impact Character (IC) Throughline. The idea of the Seger’s catalyst character is sound, but Seger’s description of its development is limited and overly generalized.
McKee’s “Quest” is really a blend of what Dramatica calls the Overall Story throughline and the Main Character throughline. McKee calls the Overall Story the protagonist’s Quest for his conscious desire, and the Main Character throughline as the protagonist’s Quest for his unconscious desire. He sees relationship throughlines (e.g. romances) as non-essential subplots separate from the Quest/Central Plot. So, like the other paradigms, McKee sees two threads of a single Central Plot, not four. BUT—McKee is aware that there are at least three areas in which a character finds conflict. He calls them Inner Conflicts, Personal Conflicts, and Extra-personal Conflicts.
Implied in McKee’s three levels of conflict are the makings of three of the four throughlines. I say “implied” because the throughlines are neither deemed essential nor explicit. They are presented as a set of writer’s tools available to create conflict for his characters. The Inner Conflicts are those associated with Dramatica’s Main Character throughline. The Extra-personal Conflicts are those associate with Dramatica’s Overall Story throughline. The Personal Conflicts are a strange blend of Dramatica’s Impact Character throughline and Main Character vs. Impact Character relationship throughline. McKee lumps friends, family, and lovers in the Personal Conflicts level and describes them by their relationship to the Innermost Self. He obviously recognizes the importance of the MC/IC Relationship throughline but can’t seem to separate it from the Main Character (I) perspective. His writer’s instincts are on target, he just doesn’t describe how they all fit together objectively. That’s the disadvantage of analyzing and creating stories from the audience’s perspective.
Truby identifies an Impact-like character in his Opponent. However, his Opponent character is intimately tied to functions of an antagonist in the Overall Story throughline that limits its flexibility. Truby understands the importance of the special relationship between the Hero and the Opponent, but does not describe or imply the need for a special throughline for this relationship for the duration of the story.
Vogler’s character Archetypes may embody aspects of the Impact Character, but their functions in the story may or may not correspond to the functions of the Impact Character. Vogler describes many relationships between the Hero and the other characters in the story, but none is specific enough to constitute a MC/IC throughline.
Stories without an Impact Character throughline and Main Character vs. Impact Character relationship throughline feel incomplete for a number of reasons:
It is the Impact Character that forces the Main Character to address his personal issues. The Impact Character represents an alternative way to resolve the Main Character’s problems and as long as it is around the Main Character cannot ignore it. So, to get the Main Character to deal with his personal problems, the Impact Character needs to be present (in some form or another) for the entire story. No Impact Character throughline—no realistic Main Character growth.
The Main Character vs. Impact Character (MC/IC) relationship throughline provides the “passionate” perspective in the story. Whether the relationship is romantic, professional, familial, or otherwise, the conflicts in the relationship provide an emotional connection for the audience. Without the MC/IC throughline, the story lacks heart.
As a theory of Story, Dramatica offers an explanation for why a story has four throughlines and not one, two, three, five, seven, or any other number. Here’s the nutshell version:
Dramatica defines a story (grand argument story) as an analogy to a human mind trying to resolve an inequity. In other words, stories are fictional representations of problem solving.
There are four perspectives available to everyone while trying to identify and resolve troubles.
In our own lives:
We can experience firsthand what it is like to have a personal problem (the “I,” Main Character perspective).
We can experience firsthand what it is like for someone to have an alternative viewpoint on a problem (the “you,” Impact Character perspective).
We can experience firsthand what it is like to have a troubled relationship (the “we,” MC/IC perspective).
BUT, we CANNOT experience firsthand what it is like to stand outside ourselves and objectively see how we’re connected to a problem (the “they,” Overall Story perspective).
On the other hand, in other people’s lives:
We CAN experience firsthand what it is like to stand outside of them and objectively see how they’re connected to a problem (the “they,” Overall Story perspective).
We can experience firsthand what it is like to have a troubled relationship with them (the “we,” MC/IC perspective).
We can experience firsthand what it is like to have an alternative viewpoint on a problem (the “you,” Impact Character perspective).
BUT, we CANNOT experience firsthand what it is like to be in that person’s troubled shoes (the “I,” Main Character perspective).
Stories have four throughlines because that’s the number of unique perspectives we can experience firsthand in real life. Within the context of our own lives we can see three directly and one indirectly. Within the context of other people’s lives we can see a different set of perspectives directly and a different one indirectly. In real life, we never get the whole picture.
Here’s an amazing thing about grand argument stories: Complete stories provide an author and audience all four perspectives within the single context of the story. They give us something we cannot get in real life. And THAT’s one of the reasons why audiences can watch or listen to a story over and over. Even after the storytelling has gone stale, stories give the audience an experience it cannot have in real life. Stories without all four throughlines lose this special quality and diminish their effectiveness in moving an audience.
HERO, PROTAGONIST, AND MAIN CHARACTER
This brings me to another way in which Dramatica is different from other story paradigms.
Syd Field calls the principle character in a story the Main Character. The Main Character is driven by a Dramatic Need (goal) and a strong point of view.
Robert McKee calls the principle character in a story the Protagonist. “The PROTAGONIST has the will and capacity to pursue the object of his conscious and/or unconscious desire to the end of the line, to the human limit established by setting and genre.”
Linda Seger calls the principle character in a story the Main Character: “The main character is the protagonist. This is who the story is about. This is the person who we’re expected to follow, to root for, to empathize with, to care about. Almost always it’s a positive figure. It’s the hero of the story…” [Making a Good Script Great, p 161].
John Truby calls his principle character the Hero. The Hero has an internal journey to satisfy an inner Need and an external journey to achieve his Desire.
Both Vogler and Hauge call the principle character in a story the Hero. The Hero goes on two parallel journeys: The Outer Journey (plot) and the Inner Journey (a journey of fulfillment).
Dramatica separates the concept of the character who leads the efforts to achieve the Story Goal (protagonist), from that of the character through whose eyes the audience experiences the story on a personal level (Main Character).
The Protagonist is one of many Objective Characters in the Overall Story throughline. The objective characters are defined by their function in the Overall Story throughline. For example, an archetypal protagonist represents the motivation to pursue and consider the goal and problems. Other objective characters in the Overall Story throughline include archetypes such as the antagonist, the sidekick, the skeptic, and others.
The Main Character is a Subjective Character and gives the audience a personal view inside the story. It is through the Main Character’s perspective that the audience gets the first person (I), “This is what it’s like to have personal problems” experience. The other principle Subjective Character is the Impact Character who consciously or unconsciously challenges the Main Character’s world view by offering an alternative way of seeing or doing things.
One advantage to separating the Main Character from the Protagonist is to be able to work with the Main Character and Overall Story throughlines separately. Here’s a simple example:
Let’s say the Overall Story Goal is to find the Holy Grail. Bob is the protagonist leading the efforts to find it. Fred is the antagonist and wants the Holy Grail to remain hidden at all costs. We also have Sally, Bob’s assistant and sidekick, and Angela, Fred’s skeptical sister.
So, who is the Main Character?
Anybody we want.
Following storytelling convention, we would make protagonist Bob the Main Character. A “hero” is typically both the Main Character and Protagonist, among other things. Perhaps we want to get the personal view from “the other side” and make skeptical sister Angela the Main Character. We might want to go the Sherlock Holmes route and make the sidekick, Sally, the Main Character—a la Watson in the Sherlock Holmes books. Or we might want to pick the antagonist as the Main Character. By separating their “objective” functions from their “subjective” functions, Dramatica lets you go beyond the confines of storytelling conventions. And that is the simplest advantage of separating the two.
Though connected, each Dramatica throughline has unique story elements and dynamics.
CHARACTER GROWTH AND RESOLVE
Character change is a major element of most story paradigms.
Syd Field says there are four major qualities that make a good character:
Dramatic Need—What does the Main Character want to gain, get or achieve?
Strong Point of View—The way the Main Character views the world
Attitude—The Main Character’s manner or opinion
CHANGE—Does your Main Character change during the course of the story?
Robert McKee sees change as an essential part of a protagonist [Main Character]: “Character Arc—The finest writing not only reveals true character, but arcs or changes that inner nature, for better or worse, over the course of the telling.” [Story, p 104]
Christopher Vogler sees change as an essential part of the hero’s journey: “CHANGE—Heroes don’t just visit death and come home. They return changed, transformed. No one can go through an experience at the edge of death without being changed in some way.” [The Writer’s Journey, p 160]
Michael Hauge describes the hero [Main Character] change as an inner journey of fulfillment, a character arc from fear to courage. This is a journey from the hero’s identity—the character’s protective mask; his sense of self—to the hero’s essence; the truth of the character after all of a character’s identity is removed.
Linda Seger describes character development in terms of a Character Spine and a Transformational Arc.
John Truby describes how the hero must undergo a change (self-revelation) during the Battle step in the Classic Structure. According to Truby, self-revelation strips away the hero’s facade and is the most heroic thing a hero does.
Dramatica treats character change a bit differently. For one thing, Dramatica makes a distinction between a Main Character’s personal growth and his resolve. Here’s the distinction between growth and resolve:
Character Growth: In order for a character to change or remain steadfast, a character needs to be able to distinguish between the source of conflict and its symptomatic effects. The character is “blinded” from seeing both by either being too close or too far from the problem. The character growth brings the character to the point where all options are visible to the character. Character growth is akin to a “character arc.”
Character Resolve: Once a character has grown, it can stay the course (remain steadfast) or radically alter its perspective (change). Character Resolve is not a value judgment, nor is it a description of what could or should have happened. Identifying a character’s resolve is simply determining whether the character’s perspective is fundamentally the same or different.
Syd Field’s paradigm only allows for Change Main Characters and does not do much to describe different types of growth necessary to change the character, only that growth must occur for the character to change. He suggests there is an event in the main character’s life that emotionally parallels and impacts the story. He calls this, “The Circle of Being.” This traumatic event happens to the main character when he is twelve to eighteen years old. Change, then, is the emotional resolution of the emotional scar. His paradigm does not leave much room for steadfast main characters.
Robert McKee’s paradigm equally emphasizes main character growth (i.e. Character Arc) and a main character resolve. Though McKee’s descriptions of the forces that drive a character’s growth seem more sophisticated than Field’s, he ends up in the same place: a Change Main Character. There is either no room for steadfast main characters in his paradigm or they exist outside its boundaries. Either way, I could not find references to steadfast main characters in Robert McKee’s “Story.”
Both Christopher Vogler and Michael Hauge describe the main character’s growth as the Hero’s Inner Journey. Like the others, they inexorably tie the main character’s resolve (Change) to the journey (growth). In their DVD, “The Hero’s 2 Journeys,” Vogler acknowledges that some heroes remain steadfast but does not describe how this might fit or alter the hero’s journey.
Not surprisingly, John Truby’s paradigm follows Joseph Campbell’s “Hero’s Journey” and sees change as a component of a “good hero.” Accordingly, Truby says true character change involves the challenging and changing of the hero’s basic beliefs, which lead to new moral actions. Character’s growth is made part of the story structure, but leaves no room for deviation from an ultimate, self-revelatory change. Steadfast heroes are not an option.
Seger’s character spine “is determined by the relationship of motivation and action to the goal” [Making a Good Script Great, p 110]. This may describe character growth depending on other factors. My interpretation of Seger’s intent is that the character spine is part character growth and partially a description of the efforts of a protagonist trying to achieve the Story Goal. Seger’s transformational arc describes when a character “comes to the story with certain attitudes, actions, and emotions, and leaves the story having made changes on each of these levels. These changes create the beats which make up the transformational arc” [Making a Good Script Great, p 147]. This probably describes more of the character growth, but definitely describes a change character. I was happy to see that Seger acknowledged steadfast main characters.
Many great stories involve characters that remain steadfast against all efforts to change them. Moreover, the fact that they “stay the course” is an essential component of each story’s message. Imagine Job in the Old Testament of the Bible telling God he’s had too much and is throwing in the towel, or Dr. Richard Kimble in “The Fugitive” giving up his search for the one-armed man and heading off to Bermuda. Both might work as stories but their meaning would be changed considerably. To tell the stories successfully, each would be constructed differently from the originals so that the character growth naturally led to the new character resolve.
How is a main character’s growth affected by the character’s resolve?
The answer is simple and significant:
Change Main Character Growth: A change main character comes to the story with pre-existing “baggage” in the form of justifications (inner walls) that blind the character to his personal problem. Whether you call the baggage the character’s problem (Dramatica), wound (Hauge), inner problem (Vogler), unconscious desire (McKee), Circle of Being (Field), motivation (Seger), or Need (Truby), the main character comes to the story “fully loaded” and ripe for change. Each act describes the tearing down of the justifications that hide the main character’s personal problem from his direct awareness. Once the character has grown enough to see beyond the justifications and recognize the true nature of his personal problems can he then fundamentally alter his world view (change).
Steadfast Main Character Growth: A steadfast main character generally starts off at the beginning of the story with everything in balance. An external force disrupts this balance and the main character responds by committing to a method of restoring balance. Each act describes the main character’s efforts to reinforce his commitment as external forces grow and change. Once the character has reached the edge of his breaking point—when the limit of his efforts to reinforce his motivations match that of the maximum external pressure to alter course—he makes one last commitment and forms a justification that blinds him from his initial choice of action. In this way he remains steadfast in his resolve.
By allowing for Main Characters who change and Main Characters who remain steadfast, Dramatica opens up the story world to the other half not adequately explained by other paradigms. These include steadfast main characters such as Romeo in “Romeo and Juliet,” Jim Starke in “Rebel Without A Cause,” Jake Barnes in “The Sun Also Rises,” Clarice Starling in “Silence of the Lambs,” and Jake Gittes in “Chinatown.”
By separating character growth from character resolve, Dramatica lets you determine both where your character goes and how he gets there. This gives authors flexibility in forming their stories. It also better represents the choices we have in real life and therefore brings greater verisimilitude to an audience’s story experience.
Unlike the other non-Dramatica paradigms, Seger allows for character growth and character resolve. Her film examples are excellent and varied. However, their value in story construction is limited because her descriptions of how to implement them are too generalized. This is further complicated by Seger’s interlocking of the functions of the protagonist with the perspective of the main character.
PLOT STRUCTURE
Plot structure is the temporal backbone of a story. Stories need plot structure to hold them together. Story paradigms need plot structure to explain how to create plots for stories and how to recognize and fix plot problems. A simple plot structure supports a simple plot. A complex plot structure supports complex plots. An ideal plot structure supports both simple and complex plot structures.
Comparing different plot structure paradigms is both easier and more difficult than I expected. There are a lot of similarities between the various plotting systems, as well as areas of difference. I chose not to do an exhaustive comparison. Instead, I chose to focus on the one area each story paradigm manages to integrate (one way or another)—Act Structure.
Here is my plan of attack:
Begin with a word about author and audience.
Give a general overview of my findings about Plot.
Show each system with some brief descriptions.
Share some initial observations and comparisons.
Evaluate Dramatica’s comparative strengths and weaknesses.
A Word About Author and Audience
Human minds are natural problem-solvers and pattern matchers. When something is missing, we natur lly fill in the bl nks. (See what I mean? You filled in the blanks with letters, didn’t you? But, you didn’t fill in the spaces between the words.) We feel compelled to complete patterns when we notice they’re incomplete. If we cannot adequately fill in the missing pieces, we hide the incomplete pattern from our considerations. Literally, out of sight, out of mind. Hiding things from us blinds us to them. These blind spots, however, can show up in our work and create difficulties for us in our writing. That’s where external story paradigms can help our writing. They remind us of how stories work—how they are put together.
Every writer wears several hats. Two important hats are that of author and audience. These are very different roles and every writer plays both of them over the development life of a story. The author is the story’s “creator.” He has god-like knowledge and power to shape the story. The audience is the story’s interpreter. It experiences the story as it is delivered even though the story is colored by the audience’s biases and interpretive abilities.
The tools, skills, and motivations of an author are different than those of an audience. As “god” in the story universe, an author creates and arranges the various story elements including characters, theme, genre, and plot. How the story is put together communicates the author’s intent. Rarely a passive receiver, the audience decodes the bits of story in an effort to uncover the author’s intent. The audience also searches for meaning in the patterns found in and created by the story.
Sometimes a complete and sensible plot from the author’s perspective is incomplete and confusing from the audience’s perspective. When the audience finds holes in the story, it fills them from its own experience. When the holes are too big to fill or the story pieces don’t fit together, the bond between author and audience is broken. That’s when the writer, as author, needs help fixing the story problems.
Which brings us to the plot paradigms under consideration.
Overview
The seven plot paradigms explored are Syd Field’s Paradigm, Robert McKee’s Central Plot and The Quest, John Truby’s Twenty-Two Building Blocks, Christopher Vogler’s Hero’s Journey, Michael Hauge’s Six Stage Plot Structure, Linda Seger’s Story Spine, & and Dramatica’s Act Structure.
I’d like to acknowledge that the plot paradigm examples I use here are simplifications of the originals. The illustrations I use are designed to emphasize the similarities, not the differences. I’ve chosen to give each paradigm the maximum comprehensiveness while remaining true to the creator’s intent and maintaining simplicity.
After building illustrations for each of the plot paradigms I was surprised to see how structurally similar they are to each other. While each is unique, it is quite easy to make broad comparisons and point out Dramatica’s obvious differences.
Most of the paradigms conform to the four-act structure—four more-or-less equal segments. Some systems define “acts” differently, but the pattern appears in most, even if the segments are subdivided or labeled differently (e.g. Act I; Act II-Part 1; Act II-Part 2; Act III). The exceptions to the four-act structure are McKee, Seger, and Truby. McKee and Seger use the more traditional three-act structure, while Truby a heavily modified three-act form.
Looking at the various plot paradigms, it’s easy to see how most of the paradigms only explore two throughlines: an inner journey and an outer journey.
So, without further ado, let’s look at the plot paradigms.
Plot Paradigm Illustrations
Example 1: The Syd Field Paradigm.
Click Illustration to Enlarge
Field’s Paradigm is a four-act structure masquerading as a three-act structure. It starts with a setup and inciting incident, has regular turning points in the plot called “plot points” and “pinches” in the middles, and ends with a climax and resolution. Though not apparent in the illustration, the Paradigm describes both the external journey involving the attempt to achieve the story goal and the internal journey of the Main Character.
Example 2: Robert McKee’s Central Plot and The Quest
McKee uses two different graphic examples to illustrate plot. The first is a simple linear timeline called the Central Plot.
McKee’s Central Plot is a modified three-act structure. It begins with an inciting incident, proceeds with progressive complications, and ends with a crisis, climax, and resolution. What is not shown is McKee’s system of using beats to build scenes, scenes to build sequences, and sequences to build acts. His third act is slightly shorter than the last act in the four-act structure examples. The McKee second act picks up the extra time and is slightly longer than the combined middle acts of a four-act structure.
The second graphic McKee uses is called The Quest.
Click Illustration to Englarge
The Quest describes the flow of conflict in a story. The + and – represent the positive and negative tug-of-war of conflict in the backstory before the inciting incident. The “spine” represents the “through-line” / timeline in the story. The conscious and unconscious desires describe the drive behind the external and internal journeys. The inner, personal, and extra-personal conflicts represent the types of pressure put to bear on the protagonist/main character as the story progresses. The conscious and unconscious objects of desire represent the journeys’ goals.
Example 3: The Linda Seger Paradigm.
Click Illustration to Enlarge
Seger’s Story Spine (or “A Story”) is a straightforward three-act structure. It has a setup, which starts with an image, establishes the story catalyst (inciting incident), and raises the central question (goal). It has two major turning points in the plot that separate Act One from Act Two and Act Two from Act Three, and ends with a climax and resolution. Seger’s story spine allows for subplots that can accommodate a relationship “B Story” and more.
Example 4: John Truby’s Twenty-Two Building Blocks
Click illustration to enlarge
A combination of Joseph Campbell’s mythic structure and original work, Truby’s Twenty-Two Building Blocks plot structure loosely conforms to a three-act structure. Truby is a proponent of the idea that Plot is what Character does, and Character is defined by actions. As such, his plotline is a combination of a Hero’s actions motivated by his internal Need and an external Desire (goal). The actions of various Opponents and Allies counterpoint the Hero’s efforts. The plot has an inciting incident, ends with a new equilibrium, and has several revelations and reversals along the way.
Example 5: Christopher Vogler’s Hero’s Journey
Click illustration to enlarge
Christopher Vogler’s description of the Hero’s Journey plot is usually presented as a circle. I have taken the liberty of converting his timeline to a horizontal plot line—an alternate form he uses to describe the progression of the Character Arc (The Writer’s Journey, 2nd Edition, p 213). I’ve also combined his Hero’s Journey timeline with his Character Arc timeline to get the full effect of his plot paradigm.
Like Syd Field’s Paradigm, Vogler’s Hero’s Journey is a four-act structure camouflaged as a three-act structure. That’s where the similarity ends. Based on Joseph Campbell’s work on mythic story structure, Vogler has relabeled the plot points to describe the external journey of the Hero, and the internal journey of the main character (The Character Arc). Vogler’s setup and inciting event take the form of Ordinary World and Call to Adventure. Like Field and other paradigms to come, major events function as turning points for the acts, such as Crossing the Threshold into the Special World, Ordeal, and The Road Back to the Ordinary World. Crisis and climax show up as Resurrection and Final Attempt. Return with the Elixir and Mastery approximate the story’s resolution.
Example 6: Michael Hauge’s Six Stage Plot Structure
Click illustration to enlarge
Despite its name, Hauge’s Six Stage Plot Structure has its roots in a four-act structure as you can tell by the illustration. It starts with a setup followed by an inciting incident called Turning Point #1: Opportunity. It has regular turning points in the plot to indicate act breaks (Turning Points #2, #3, & #4), and ends with a climax (Turning Point #5) and resolution (Aftermath). As shown, Hauge’s paradigm describes the Outer Journey as the attempt to achieve the story goal. The Inner Journey describes how the Hero (Main Character) goes from living fully within his Identity (a mask that hides his inner trauma and desires) to a life free of the Identity and fulfilling his Destiny.
Example 7: Dramatica’s “Act Structure”
Click illustration to enlarge
Dramatica clearly uses a four-act structure. It starts with a setup of plot points and story dynamics and an inciting incident. It has regular turning points in the plot to indicate act breaks driven by the Story Driver, and ends with a crisis, climax, and resolution of plot points and story dynamics. It also explores four throughlines; two more than the other story paradigms. The Overall Story throughline is the rough equivalent of the outer journey found in other paradigms. The Main Character throughline is the counterpart to the inner journey. Dramatica counterpoints the Main Character throughline with the Impact Character throughline. Exploring the relationship between the Main and Impact Characters is done in the MC/IC Relationship throughline.
Initial Comparisons
Wow. My initial reaction after comparing these six plot paradigms was that Dramatica looked dry and complicated while the others seemed easier to digest. Vogler’s Hero’s Journey seems the “friendliest” and most approachable of the bunch. As you might imagine, this was a little off-putting for me. I didn’t expect the comparisons to show such a stark difference between Dramatica and everything else.
This got me thinking. Why do the other paradigms seem so much more “writable” than the Dramatica act structure? Why does Dramatica “feel” so different from the others? Is less plot structure better? I found some interesting answers to these questions.
Why do other paradigms seem so much more “writable” than the Dramatica act structure?
There are three obvious reasons why the other systems suggest easier writing approaches than Dramatica. The first is that they are much simpler and therefore easier to follow. Even McKee’s somewhat confusing illustration of The Quest (Story, p 197) seems less enigmatic than the Dramatica Act Structure illustration.
The second reason other systems seem more “writable” is that the labels used to describe their various plot points are more story-like than Dramatica’s labels. Syd Field uses straightforward terms like setup, confrontation, and resolution. Hauge uses simple phrases like Change of Plans, Point of No Return, and Major Setback. Vogler’s Hero’s Journey speaks in mythic language using words such as ordeal, reward, and resurrection. By comparison, Dramatica’s Signposts, Journeys, and Story Driver sound less writer friendly.
The third reason Dramatica seems more difficult to write from is its complexity. Dramatica has four throughlines to worry about instead of one or two. It has sixteen Signposts—four for each throughline. The nature of each Signpost is determined by a “storyform.” Just knowing how Dramatica’s structure is put together is not enough. In fact, it’s unlikely a writer could create a story just by looking at Dramatica’s act structure as shown in the illustration. More information seems necessary even to begin writing.
Why does Dramatica “feel” so different from the others paradigms?
Dramatica’s plot structure feels like a bunch of puzzle pieces placed in a grid. It looks more like a timetable than a description of a story’s timeline. It seems purely functional. On the other hand, Vogler’s Hero’s Journey reads like a ready-made story outline and practically oozes Meaning: The Hero is in the Ordinary World and has Limited Awareness; There is a Call to Adventure which gives the Hero Increased Awareness; The Hero’s Refusal of the call comes from his Reluctance to Change; The Hero’s Meeting with the Mentor signals the Overcoming of his reluctance; and so on. The same can be said (to lesser degrees) of Field’s Paradigm, McKee’s Central Plot, Seger’s Story Spine, Truby’s Twenty-Two Building Blocks, and Hauge’s Six Stage Plot Structure.
Is less plot structure better?
Not when you’re trying to solve plot problems. Sure, it may be easier to use less elements of plot structure than more. It might take less time to determine if a story meets ten criteria versus twenty-five or one hundred. Easier, however, is not necessarily better.
Plot structure problems generally come in two areas: the plot pieces don’t fit together properly or there are plot “holes”—pieces missing from the plot. When it comes to identifying and fixing plot problems, “less” usually is not better. In fact, persistent plot problems are often more closely tied to plot elements an author has NOT considered than plot elements the author has reworked. Having more tools with which to evaluate and construct a story is more valuable in those instances. In this regard, each plot paradigm has varying degrees of depth and breadth, but Dramatica surpasses them all.
Dramatica’s Comparative Strengths & Weaknesses
From the comparisons so far, Dramatica’s plot paradigm seems to have the following weaknesses:
It is complicated.
It uses non-intuitive terminology.
It feels dry and functional instead of warm and digestible.
“Guilty” on all three counts. HOWEVER, those are mere misdemeanors and easily overshadowed by Dramatica’s real benefits.
Dramatica’s approach to story is from the author’s perspective. That means it looks at plot in terms of how the story is really put together, not how it seems to be as seen from the audience perspective. The other paradigms developers analyzed existing stories and found common plot patterns. With Dramatica we discovered a pattern maker. That’s why it is so complex. Dramatica is flexible enough to create most any story pattern there is. It’s “dry and functional” because that’s what plot looks like from a “god’s eye” point of view. It uses non-intuitive terminology, partly because Melanie and I weren’t more creative in our labeling but more so because we went for accuracy over accessibility.
The Dramatica act structure’s single greatest strength is its comprehensiveness. It covers everything necessary to make your plot work well. It has over one hundred unique story points (not including recurring plot points or character interactions) with at least forty-four specifically plot-related. Dramatica’s plot explores four separate but interconnected throughlines instead of the one or two described in the other story paradigms.
Just as important, Dramatica ties each plot point to the storyform. Storyforms describe the story’s underlying structure and dynamics and the interconnections between Character, Theme, Genre, and Plot—in essence, the author’s intent. The storyform serves to keep the plot coherent with everything else in the story. It also indicates the general nature of each plot point. This is a tremendous advantage because it gives an author an idea of how to explore his subject matter as it progresses act to act.
The non-Dramatica plot paradigms evaluated in this article only explore one or two of the four throughlines necessary for a complete act structure. Writers recognize the patterns found in those plot structures and use them. Unfortunately, they also sense the “missing pieces.” Hours of writer’s block may be associated with writers struggling to figure out the structural gaps left by the other plot paradigms.
Dramatica’s unique author’s perspective on story gives it another advantage over the other plot paradigms. Dramatica makes a distinction between Plot, the order in which events happen, and Storyweaving, the order plot events are presented to an audience. (This partially explains the table-like format of the Dramatica Act Structure illustration.)
Storyweaving often masks problems in the plot. Separating plot from Storyweaving lets an author know what is really happening in the story as well as what seems to be happening. The other paradigms don’t make this distinction and suffer for it. In The Hero’s Journey, for example, Vogler says the plot structure should not be followed too precisely. “The order of the stages given here is only one of many possible variations. The stages can be deleted, added to, and drastically shuffled without losing any of their power” (The Hero’s Journey, 2nd Edition, p 26). With that much latitude how can a writer possibly determine what should or should not be in the plot? A writer pretty much has to figure that out on his own if he wishes to stray from the paths specified by a particular plot paradigm. On the other hand, Dramatica shows the writer how everything fits together and lets the writer determine how he wants to assemble the plot timeline.
The examined plot paradigms have varying degrees of complexity. Some seem simple and straightforward whereas Dramatica is the most complex of the bunch. Some are more readily understandable than others. Dramatica’s terminology is less descriptive than others (and has a whole lot more of it too!). Most of the plot paradigm illustrations look like story timelines. Dramatica’s plot structure looks like a complicated timeline with four different throughlines going on at the same time. If ease of understanding and learning were the criteria for determining which plot paradigm is the best, then Syd Field would be the big winner and Dramatica the big loser. However, I think it best if these paradigms are evaluated based on their capabilities to help writers build strong plot structures and fix plot problems.
NOTE: In “Advanced Screenwriting,” Linda Seger identifies what she calls storytelling structures. By storytelling structures she means the way in which a story is laid out for an audience. The idea incorporates several concepts found in Dramatica’s Storytelling, Storyweaving, and Story Reception. I mention it here because the one thing Seger’s storytelling structure does not contain is story structure. It describes how the storytelling is constructed, not how the story is constructed. This is an extremely useful distinction to make when you have problems with your plot. Is it a structural problem or a storytelling problem? The answer to that question tells you where you have to do your work. Seger (like McKee, and Truby, etc.) has a lot to say about storytelling structures. Dramatica has a lot to say about story structure.
The qualities that make non-Dramatica plot paradigms simple to understand make them difficult to use for writing. Dramatica is more comprehensive than the other paradigms. It is better suited to building stronger plots since it approaches story from the author’s perspective. By separating plot and Storyweaving, Dramatica makes identifying plot problems easier. The Dramatica storyform connects the plot to character, theme, and genre better than any other system. Plus, the storyform indicates the nature of plot events without limiting subject matter. For these reasons I think Dramatica’s Act Structure plot paradigm is the most capable system examined.
Summary And Conclusions
Exploring the story paradigms of Syd Field, Michel Hauge, Robert McKee, Linda Seger, John Truby, and Christopher Vogler has been educational and eye opening. I’ve only scratched the surface but I feel I’ve learned a lot. When looking at them in broad terms, the non-Dramatica paradigms are more similar than not even though their specifics differ. Dramatica shares some common ground with them but is different in approach and perspective.
Dramatica looks at story from an objective author’s standpoint. It gives authors an objective view into the inner workings of stories but is less effective at forecasting a story’s meaning for an audience. The other paradigms look at story from the audience’s standpoint. They give authors insight into how audiences might interpret a story but are less effective at predicting how to manipulate the story to create specific story results.
Dramatica sees stories as grand arguments made up of four essential throughlines. The Overall Story Throughline describes the “Big Picture” perspective and shows the objective, “They” world view. The Main Character Throughline describes the personal, “You are there,” perspective and reveals the first person, “I,” world view. The Impact Character Throughline describes the influential, alternative, “You,” perspective to that of the Main Character. The Main Character vs. Impact Character Throughline describes the passionate, “We,” perspective of the key relationship in the story. By contrast, the other paradigms see stories made up of one or two essential throughlines that correspond to Dramatica’s Overall Story and Main Character throughlines.
Dramatica separates the function of the protagonist as prime driver of the effort to achieve the story goal from the subjective, personal perspective of the Main Character. The separation allows for alternative combinations that allow the Main Character to be someone other than the protagonist in the story. The other paradigms combine functions of the protagonist and Main Character in to a single character called the Protagonist, the Main Character, or the Hero.
Dramatica allows for Main Characters to change or remain steadfast and describes how the characters grow into or out of their resolve. The other paradigms mostly describe how the Main Character’s growth leads to change. Vogler acknowledges the existence of steadfast Main Characters but does not adequately describe how they fit into “The Hero’s Inner Journey.” Seger alone identifies the viability of steadfast characters though is vague on specifics.
Dramatica uses a four-act plot structure with the nature of each act tied to a “storyform.” The graphic of Dramatica’s plot structure is complicated and uses academic sounding terminology. The other paradigms are split between using a four-act structure and the more traditional, post-Aristotelian three-act structure. Their plot terminology generally is more descriptive and writer-friendly.
As tools to understand and develop stories, each of these paradigms has its own relative strengths and weaknesses. Dramatica seems to cover more story territory and provide a clearer insight into a story’s inner workings; it also appears complex and filled with specialized vocabulary. The non-Dramatica paradigms range in complexity and depth. They use more conversational terminology and feel more accessible. I believe that no single story paradigm holds all the answers. Each paradigm has its story development treasures to offer. I’ve dug up a few and explored them to a limited degree. I look forward to continuing my search by delving deeper into these story paradigms and investigating others.
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Questions, comments, corrections, and anything else you can think of (except spam!) should be sent to Chris Huntley care of dramatica@screenplay.com. Please include “Dramatica Question” in the subject line. Snail mail may be sent to Chris Huntley, Write Brothers Inc., 138 N. Brand Blvd. Suite 201, Glendale, CA USA 91203.
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REFERENCES
Field, S. (Writer). (1999). Syd Field’s Screenwriting Workshop [VHS]. Calabasas, CA: Final Draft Inc.
Hauge, M., & Vogler, C. (Writers), & Mefford, J. (Director). (2003). The Hero’s 2 Journeys: Insider Secrets for Uniting the Outer Journey of Plot Structure with the Inner Journey of Character Arc [DVD]. New York: ScreenStyle.com.
Huntley, C. N., & Phillips, M. A. (2004). Dramatica: A New Theory Of Story, Special 10th Anniversary Edition. Glendale, CA: Write Brothers, Inc.
McKee, R. (1997). Story: Substance, Structure, Style and The Principles of Screenwriting. New York: HarperCollins.
Seger. L. (1984). Making a Good Script Great. New York: Dodd, Mead & Company.
Seger, L. (1990). Creating Unforgettable Characters. New York: Henry Holt and Company.
Seger, L. (2003). Advanced Screenwriting: Raising your Script to the Academy Award Level. Beverly Hills: Silman-James Press
Truby, J. (Writer). (1990). Truby’s Story Structure & Advanced Screenwriting [Lecture Workshop]. Santa Monica, CA: Truby’s Writers Studio.
Vogler, C. (1998). The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure For Writers, 2nd Edition. Studio City, CA: Michael Wiese Productions.
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Based on theories developed by
Melanie Anne Phillips & Chris Huntley
Introduction to Dramatica Theory and Applications
The Dramatica Theory of Story is a model of the mind’s problem solving processes which has been successfully employed for seventeen years in the analysis and construction of fictional stories ranging from major Hollywood productions to novels, stage plays, and television programs.
Software based on the Dramatica Theory is built around an interactive Story Engine which implements the problem-solving model as a method of determining the meaning and impact of data sets and of predicting motivations and actions based on potentials inherent in the data.
This is achieved by creating a Storyform – essentially, a schematic of the problem solving processes at work, their interactions, their outcomes, and the future course they will take.
The Dramatica system and its problem-solving algorithms can be applied with equal success to the analysis of real-world situations as well, specifically in determining the motivations behind the actions of a target group and in the prediction of their future actions and potentials for action.
Scalability and the Story Mind
To illustrate this methodology let us consider a generic target group. This might be a clique, club, movement, political faction, tribe, or nation. This highlights an important benefit of the system: Dramatica is scalable. It works equally well on individuals or groups of any size.
This kind of scalability is described by a Dramatica concept referred to as the Story Mind. In fiction, characters are not only individuals but also interact in stories as if they are aspects of a larger, overall mind set belonging to the structure of the story itself.
If, for example, one character may emerge in group actions and discussions as the voice of reason while another character, driven primarily by passion, becomes defined as the heart of the group.
Stories reflect the way people react and behave in the real world, and when individuals band together as a larger unit, they fall into roles where the unit itself takes on an identity with its own personality and its own psychology, almost as if it were an individual itself, in essence, a Story Mind.
Fractal Storyforms in the Real World
Similarly, if several groups become bound, as when factions join as members of a larger movement, the movement begins to take on an identity and the factions fall into roles representing aspects of individual problem solving processes.
Dramatica can move up and down the scale of magnitude from the individual to the national and even international level, while retaining an equally effective ability to analyze and predict based on its underlying model. This phenomenon is referred to the Fractal Storyform.
In actual practice, many groups of interest are ill defined, have blurry edges and indistinct leadership. Still, the core motivations of the target group can be determined, and from this the edges of the group can be refined sufficiently to create a storyform of the appropriate magnitude to suit the task at hand.
Memes and StoryPoints
Dramatica makes a key distinction between the underlying structure of a story and the subject matter that is explored by that structure. For example, every story has a goal but the specific nature of the goal is different from story to story. Elements such as a goal which are common to every story and, hence, every problem solving process, are referred to as Story Points.
Similarly a culture, ethnic group, religion, political movement, or faction will employ the same underlying story points but will clothe them in unique subject matter in order to define the organization as being distinct and to provide a sense of identity to its members.
Once a story point has been generally accepted in a specific subject matter form it becomes a cultural meme. Efforts to analyze and predict a culture based on memes alone have largely been unsuccessful.
Dramatica’s system of analysis is able to strip away the subject matter from cultural memes to reveal the underlying story points and thereby determine the specific storyform that describes that group’s story mind.
Essentially, Dramatica is able to distill critical story points from raw data and assemble them into a map of the target group’s motivations and intentions.
Passive Participation and Active Participation
One of Dramatica’s greatest strengths is that it works equally well in constructing stories as in analyzing them. We refer to analysis as PassiveParticipation and construction as Active Participation.
When dealing with a target group of interest, these two approaches translate into the ability to passively understand the target group and anticipate its behavior, and also to actively create courses of action by which to intervene in and/or influence the group’s future activities and attitudes.
To understand, we determine motivations and purposes.
To anticipate, we project actions and intent.
To intervene, we define leverage points for targeted action.
To influence, we determine nexus points for focused pressure.
Analysis
The passive approach is comprised of Analysis and Prediction. Analysis is achieved by first identifying independent story points and then determining which ones belong together in a single storyform.
Identifying StoryPoints
In addition to cultural memes, story points can also be derived from the target group’s public and private communications, in news publications and vehicles of propaganda, in works of art (both authorized and spontaneous), in popular music and entertainment, in the allocation of resources, and in the movements and gatherings of individuals. In short, any data can directly or indirectly provide valid story points.
Identifying a Storyform
Once a collection of story points has been assembled, it must be determined which ones belong together in the same storyform. Each storyform represents a different state of mind, but there may be many states of mind in a single target group. These are not different mind sets of individuals, but different mind sets of the group itself:. And just as stories often have subplots or multiple stories in the same novel, target groups may have a number of different agendas, each with its own personality traits and outlook.
This can be illustrated with an example from everyday life: a single individual may respond as a banker at his job, a father and husband at home, a teammate in a league and a son when he visits his own parents. Similarly, a target group may have one storyform that best describes its relationship to its allies and another that describes its relationship to its enemies.
It is crucial to determine which storyform is to be analyzed so that an appropriate subset can be selected from all derived story points.
Results from Limited Data
The Story Engine at the heart of the Dramatica software cross-references the impact and influence of different kinds of story points as they interact with one another, both for individual story pointsand for groups of story points.
Once the scope of the storyform is outlined, the software can actually determine additional story points within that closed system that had not been directly observed as part of the original data set. This creates a more detailed and complete picture of the situation under study than is evident from the limited data.
Spatial Data vs. Temporal Data
Unique to Dramatica’s software, the Story Engine is able to determine the kinds of events that must transpire and the order in which they will likely occur, based on the static picture of the situation provided by the complete storyform.
In stories, the order in which events occur determines their meaning. For example, a slap followed by a scream would have a different meaning that a scream followed by a slap. Similarly, if one understands the potentials at work in a storyform derived from story points pertaining to the target group, the Story Engine is capable of predicting what kinds of events will likely follow and in what order they will likely occur.
Conversely, if the originally observed data set includes sequential information, such as a timeline of a person’s travels or of the evolution of a sponsored program, the Story Engine can convert that temporal data into a fixed storyform that will indicate the motivations and purposes of the group that led them to engage in that sequence of events.
Prediction
The Dramatica theory and Story Engine (when properly used by experts) is able to translate the spatial layout of a situation into a temporal prediction of how things will unfold from that point forward.
Signposts and Journeys
The Dramatica storyform breaks events into Signposts and Journeys. These concepts are similar to the way one might look at a road and consider both the milestones and the progress being made along the path.
In stories, this data is described by Acts, Sequences, and Scenes, concepts which represent different magnitudes of time. Acts are the largest segments of a story, sequences one magnitude smaller, and scenes are even smaller dramatic movements.
Wheels within Wheels
It is commonplace to think of story events as simply being driven by cause and effect. A more accurate model may be roughly visualized as wheels within wheels, where a character sometimes may act in ways against its own best interest. For example, larger forces may have been brought to bear and might carry greater weight.
The outside pressures that are brought to bear on the target group build up these potentials as if one were winding a clock. In stories, this creates potentials that make each wheel (such as an act of a scene) operate as if it were a dramatic circuit.
Each story point within a given dramatic circuit is assigned a function as a Potential, Resistance, Current, or Power. Determining which of these functions is associated with each story point is essential to accurately predicting the nature and order of a target group’s future activities based on an understanding of the different magnitudes of motivation at work.
Closed Systems and Chaos
Storyforms are closed systems. They are snapshots of a moment in time in the mindset of a target group. But just as an individual or a character in a story is constantly influenced by outside events, new information, and the impact of others, so too is the target group. To the ordered world of a storyform, such outside influence is seen as chaotic interference.
The accuracy of a storyform analysis and its predictions has a short shelf life. The more volatile the environment in which the target group operates, the more quickly the accuracy of the storyform degrades.
Fortunately, storyforms can quickly incorporate new data to be updated in real time to give a constantly refreshed accuracy to the analysis.
In addition, just because a target group’s motivations and agenda is continually being altered by outside events does not mean the effects upon it are completely chaotic.
Some influences, such as an earthquake, an unexpected death, or a surprise attack are truly chaotic, while other influences only appear to be chaotic because they are not part of the closed storyform. Rather, they are part of a larger story.
Applying the concept of the fractal storyform, it is possible to create additional storyforms of both larger and smaller magnitudes to surround the target group so that it is seen not only by itself, but also as a player in a larger story or in terms of individual players within it. In this manner many events which previously appeared chaotic can be predicted and the accuracy of the target group storyform is enhanced.
Movie Frames
Another method for minimizing inaccuracy in prediction is to create a series of storyforms for the target group over a given period. These are then assembled in sequence, like frames in a movie, to determine the arc of change over time.
Truly chaotic events will largely cancel out, but ongoing influence from larger and smaller storyforms with their own individual agendas will create a predictable curve to the manner in which the target group’s storyform is changing, thereby allowing us to anticipate not only what the target group might do on its own, but what it is likely to do as the situation in which it operates continues to evolve.
Direct Intervention
In contrast to Passive methods, with Active methods we consider altering the actions and attitudes of a target group by either direct intervention or indirect influence.
Identifying a Problem
Once a storyform has been created and analysis and prediction have been employed, an assessment must be made to determine if the target group is currently of a mindset contrary to our interests and/or if it will be in the future.
Before a response can be developed, the specific nature of the problem must be fully defined. Again, the storyform and its component story points offer an accurate mechanism for determining the specific nature of the problem: the story point or story point arrangements that are in conflict with our interests.
Identifying a Solution
Some solutions simply require the alteration of a single story point to a different orientation within the storyform (corresponding to a slight shift in attitude, motivation, or actions by the target group). Often, once the specific nature of the problem is understood, a direct surgical impact on that story point may alter the direction of the story. Modifications to the storyform must be approached with caution, because a single small ill-advised move can sometimes do far more damage than the original problem. More complex problems may require replacing the current storyform with a completely different one.
“What If” Scenarios
Fortunately, Dramatica’s Story Engine allows for altering one or more story points to see the nature of the new storyform that will be created as a result. A large number of alternatives exist by simply altering a few story points, resulting in the ability to game out “what if” scenarios in real time to determine a wide variety of alternatives that would accomplish the same end.
Risk Analysis
By comparing the effectiveness, ramifications, and projected timelines of each alternative storyform solution, it is possible to create an effective risk analysis of each available option to ensure maximum impact with minimum risk.
These alternative storyforms can indicate the kinds of risks involved in each potential response to the problem, as well as the magnitude and likelihood of each risk.
Indirect Influence
Direct intervention may be inadvisable for any number of reasons. Also, if the problem with the target group is its overall attitude, the strength of its motivation, or its unity of purpose, any overt action might prove ineffective or even counter-productive, resulting in a response opposite to that intended.
In such cases, it may be more prudent to exert a gradual influence or series of influences over an extended time. Here again, Dramatica is able to provide tools to know when and for how long to apply specific kinds of visible and/or invisible influence to ultimately obtain the desired changes in the target group’s mindset.
Identifying Problem Qualities and Directions
At times, there may currently be no problem, but the storyform may reveal that, if left unaltered, the course of events will lead the target group into an undesired orientation. This allows for the allocation of our own resources in advance so that we might prevent the Target group from taking that particular course and opting instead for one more consistent with our interests.
Again, the first step is to create a storyform from available data and then determine the qualities of the target group’s story mind that are contrary to desired attributes.
Determining Desired Qualities and Directions
Once the problem qualities and/or directions have been defined, alternative storyforms can be created using “what if” scenarios and risk analysis to determine the best choice for a new storyform we would like to see in place.
This storyform may represent a new state of mind for the target group as a unit, or a different path that will take it through an alternative series of actions than it would otherwise instigate.
Context and the Larger Story
One method of manipulating a target group into a new outlook or attitude is through the subtle placement of the psychological equivalent of shaped charges. Rather that the direct impact of intervention, a number of small, seemingly unconnected exposures to information or manipulated environments can combine to create a single and powerful influence that will provide an immediate course correction to the undesired qualities and directions of the target group.
To effect such a subtle and undetectable influence is possible due to the depth and detail of the Story Engine’s ability to calculate the collective influence of many small magnitude story points on the overall storyform.
Movie Frames
Returning to the “movie frame” concept in a proactive, rather than analytical manner, it is possible to create a series of storyforms, each of which is slightly different that the previous one. As with individuals, the mind of a target group is more open to accepting small changes and establishing a new normal than to larger immediate changes which raise resistance.
Over time, subtle influences can follow a planned arc of change that leads the target to a new mindset, perhaps even diametrically opposed to its original viewpoint.
It is important to recognize that any long-term arc must be constantly updated and adjusted so that new influences are brought to bear to limit or leverage the impact of chaotic influence on the chosen alternative course.
Potential Future Implementations
Currently, the story engine requires manual operators versed in the Dramatica theory for processing and creating storyforms for purposes of Analysis, Prediction, Intervention, and Influence.
In the future, natural language processing can be coupled with the story engine’s operations to bring a degree of automation to the identification of story points using hub theory to locate them in large quantities of raw data.
Influence networks can be employed to determine which story points are likely to belong to the same storyform and to assemble them into alternative storyforms which may co-exist in the same raw data.
Employing a real-time version of Dramatica’s Story Engine could allow for real time analysis of ongoing data flow and indicate new storyforms as soon as they manifest in the mindsets of target groups, alerting operators when existing storyforms have dissolved or altered due to ongoing influences.
Natural language output can provide continuously updated options in time-crucial situations with a series of live “what if” scenario suggestions.
In Summary
The Dramatica Theory of Story and the software that implements the theory in an interactive story engine has, for the last seventeen years, successfully enabled accurate analysis and creation of story structures in motion pictures, novels, stage plays, and all forms of narrative communication.
By identifying the crucial story points in the mindsets of target groups of any size, the Story Engine is equally effective in analyzing and altering a target group’s current and future attitudes and behavior in the real world.
Written June 5, 2011 – Revised June 6, 2011 – Copyright Melanie Anne Phillips
Stories, especially those told in the media of film or television, can have a tremendous impact on an audience. Experiencing a story is similar in many ways to experiencing events in “real life”. Stories can make us laugh or cry, leave us feeling euphoric or depressed, lead us through a logistic consideration, or leave us in an emotional state.
In this age of social networks, streaming media, and high-tech motion picture production, the average citizen in our society may be exposed to almost as many narrative experiences as life experiences. As a result, understanding the nature and mechanism by which stories affect audiences can lead to insights in media impact on an individual’s outlooks and attitudes.
From one perspective, we might identify four areas in which this impact manifests itself:
One, the emotional mood an audience is left with at the conclusion of a story.
Two, the emotional journey experienced by an audience during the unfolding of a story.
Three, understandings arrived at by the audience by the conclusion of a story.
Four, logistic considerations made by the audience during the unfolding of the story.
Because these are so basic and important, let me take a moment to expand slightly on each of these concepts.
One: The Mood at the End
Emotionally, a story can change the mood of an audience from what it was at the beginning of a story to a completely different emotional state by the time it is over. This might pertain to the way the audience feels about a particular topic, or simply might change the underlying mood of the audience overall.
For example, in a story such as “Remains of the Day”, an audience might be brought to a saddened and frustrated emotional state that might linger well after the story is over. This mood could even recur when some symbol or set of circumstances in everyday life triggers a conscious re-consideration of the story or a subconscious response based on patterns experienced in the story.
In addition, an audience’s emotional response toward a particular topic, symbol, circumstance, or pattern may be altered through the story experience, leading to anything from changes in likes and dislikes to changes in attitudes, loyalties, or motivations in regard to a specific topic.
Two: The Emotional Journey
In the process of experiencing a story, audience members may be carried from one emotion to another in an order that might conform to or differ from their experiences in “real life”. This can either reinforce or alter habitual patterns of emotional response, albeit in a small and perhaps temporary way. For example, if an audience member were to identify with a character, such as Agent Mulder in “The X-Files”, he or she might (over time) become more likely to play hunches or, conversely, less likely to accept things at their face value.
Three: The Understanding at the End
By the end of a story, the audience may be brought to an understanding it did not possess prior to participating in the story process. For example, in “The Usual Suspects”, the big picture is not grasped by the audience until the final pieces are dropped into place near the end. This creates an insight, as opposed to a logistic argument, and can be used to change audience opinion in regard to a particular issue, either through manipulation or propaganda.
Four: The Logical Journey
As a story unfolds, a logistic argument may be constructed that leads linearly from one point of consideration to a conclusion. In “JFK”, for example, a continuous chain of logic is built link by link over the course of the film in an attempt to prove the filmmaker’s contentions about the Kennedy assassination. This method can exercise audience members in logistic methods that may be repeated unconsciously in their everyday lives.
From this brief look at the power of the visual media, we can get a sense that many people might be better understood by becoming aware of the kinds of stories to which they are exposed, and many people might also benefit in a number of ways from carefully tailored story experiences.
The process of communication requires at least two parties: the originator and the recipient. In addition, for communication to take place, the originator must be aware of the information or feelings he wishes to transmit, and the recipient must be able to determine that meaning.
Similarly, storytelling requires an author and an audience. And, to tell a story, one must have a story to tell. Only when an author is aware of the message he wishes to impart can he determine how to couch that message so it will be accurately received.
It should be noted that an audience is more than a passive participant in the storytelling process. When we write the phrase, “It was a dark and stormy night,” we have communicated a message, albeit a nebulous one.
In addition to the words, another force is at work creating meaning in the reader’s mind. The readers themselves may have conjured up memories of the fragrance of fresh rain on dry straw, the trembling fear of blinding explosions of lightning, or a feeling of contentment that recalls a soft fur rug in front of a raging fire. But all we wrote was, “It was a dark and stormy night.”
We mentioned nothing in that phrase of straw or lightning or fireside memories. In fact, once the mood is set, the less said, the more the audience can imagine. Did the audience imagine what we, the authors, had in mind? Not likely. Did we communicate? Some. We communicated the idea of a dark and stormy night. The audience, however, did a lot of creating on its own.
While some authors write specifically to communicate to an audience, many others write because they wish to follow their personal Muses. Sometimes writing is a catharsis, or an exploration of self. Sometimes authoring is a sharing of experiences, fragmented images, or just of a point of view. Sometimes authoring is marking a path for an audience to follow, or perhaps just presenting emotional resources the audience can construct into its own vision.
Interactive communications question the validity of a linear story itself, and justifiably so. There are many ways to communicate, and each has just as much value as the next depending upon how one wishes to affect one’s audience.
It has been argued that perhaps the symbols we use are what create concepts, and therefore no common understanding between cultures, races, or times is possible.
On the contrary, there are common concepts: morality, for example. Morality, a common concept? Yes. While not everyone shares the same definition of morality, every culture and individual understands some concept that means “morality” to them.
In other words, the concept of “morality” may have many different meanings — depending on culture or experience — but they all qualify as different meanings of “morality.”
Thus there can be universally shared essential concepts even though they drift apart through various interpretations. It is through this framework of essential concepts that communication is possible.
To communicate a concept, an author must symbolize it, either in words, actions, juxtapositions, interactions — in some form or another. As soon as the concept is symbolized, however, it becomes culturally specific and therefore inaccessible to much of the rest of the world.
Even within a specific culture, the different experiences of each member of an audience will lead to a slightly different interpretation of the complex patterns represented by intricate symbols.
On the other hand, it is the acceptance of common symbols of communication that defines a culture. For example, when we see a child fall and cry, we do not need to know what language he speaks or what culture he comes from in order to understand logistically what has happened.
If we observe the same event in a narrative, however, it may be that in the author’s culture a child who succumbs to tears is held in low esteem. In that case, then the emotions of sadness we may feel in our culture are not at all those intended by the author.
The accuracy with which an author is able to successfully convey both concept and context defines the success of any communication. And so, communication requires both a sound narrative and an effective translation of that narrative into symbolic language.
These requirements create an immensely rich and complex form which (though often practiced intuitively) can be deconstructed, understood, and manipulated with purpose and skill.
To begin such a deconstruction, let us next examine the origins of communication and the narrative form.
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