Choice and Consequence: The Storyteller’s Secret Weapon
When you read a book or watch a movie, which is more important to you: plot or character?
After I finished The Strength of the Few, the second book in James Islington’s critically acclaimed Hierarchy series, I immediately stalked Goodreads and Reddit to get a sense of what readers were saying about the book. (Yes, that is one of my favorite activities, thank you for asking.) One of the most common complaints I saw was about the protagonist, Vis Telimus. From what I saw, many readers struggle to care about Vis. They find him flat and boring.
But on paper, there’s nothing wrong with Vis. In fact, he’s a well-crafted and fleshed-out character. He has a compelling backstory, realistic motivations, and a strong moral compass that presents an interesting contrast to the opportunistic world around him. So why do so many readers have trouble connecting with him?
The answer, I think, lies in some well-meaning writing advice that you’ve probably heard before. If you want to craft rich and three-dimensional characters, give them conflicting motivations. Give them a fatal flaw. Give them interesting relationships. The list goes on and on—and Vis Telimus checks all the boxes.
But here’s the problem: character-building advice is almost always separate from plot-building advice. All too often, writers (and readers) see plot and character as distinct concepts with little to no interaction.
For example, if you hang out on Goodreads long enough, you will start to see comments like: “For me, plot matters more than character, so I loved this book.” Or: “I didn’t mind that the plot was messy because I enjoy character-driven stories.” In fact, I saw a lot of this kind of language while scrolling through reviews of The Strength of the Few. I remember one reader who wrote that she didn’t like the book because she reads for character, not plot. Her tone was almost apologetic. She seemed to think that her negative response was nothing more than the natural result of a difference in preferences between her and the author. Some people like plot, others like character, just like some people prefer vanilla to chocolate.
But this is a false dichotomy. Plot and character are not separate. A good plot is driven by the character, and a good character drives the plot. When writers assume they must prioritize one over the other, they lose one of their best storytelling tools. So if you want to marry plot and character in your story, don’t start with detailed character sheets or sixty-page outlines. Instead, start by thinking about two things: choices and consequences.
Decisions, Decisions
In a famous scene from Spider-Man (2002), the Green Goblin suspends a tram full of children from one side of the Queensboro Bridge while dangling Spider-Man’s love interest, Mary Jane, over the other side. When Spider-Man arrives, the Green Goblin gives him a choice. He can either save the children in the tram, or he can save Mary Jane.
“We are who we choose to be,” the Green Goblin says. “Now choose!” And he drops both the tram and Mary Jane at the same time.
A character’s choices tell us something about who that character is. If Spider-Man chooses to save the children, it shows that he values the needs of the city over his own needs and desires. If he chooses to save Mary Jane, it shows that the people he loves are more important to him than his role as a hero.
Choice is—or at least, should be—the engine of storytelling. In the beginning of a story, the protagonist makes a decision because of who he is, because it’s in his nature to make that specific choice. The decision, of course, has natural consequences. Those consequences ultimately force the protagonist to make another choice, and more consequences ensue. The choices get heavier as the consequences get more serious. Repeat until the character has to make the biggest, weightiest, most difficult choice of all. That’s called a climax—and the consequences of that climactic choice make up the story’s denouement.
In storytelling, the best choices are freely made. There are two reasons for that. First, coercion doesn’t tell us much about a character. If the Green Goblin forced Spider-Man to save the schoolchildren and watch Mary Jane die while doing so, it would certainly be traumatic for Peter Parker, but it wouldn’t reveal anything about his priorities. Second, a character who makes a free decision is forced to own the consequences. In my opinion, the most interesting endings happen when the protagonist can survey all the chaos and carnage and know that, for better or worse, they are responsible for the aftermath of their decisions.
Choices are also more interesting when the character cannot take both courses of action. You might notice that in my Spider-Man example, Peter Parker ultimately manages to save both Mary Jane and the children. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Depending on the context, sometimes it makes sense for a character to “break” a choice. In this case, Spider-Man’s success tells the audience that the Green Goblin has underestimated him. Still, I venture to suggest that a very good scene might become even better if Spider-Man were actually forced to choose—and then live with the consequences.
Choices and consequences are the building blocks of good storytelling, but what does that look like in practice? Let’s look at two examples—one positive, one negative—of choices and consequences in two different popular stories. (Obviously, spoiler alert for both examples.)
Positive: Attack on Titan, by Hajime Isayama
In the anime Attack on Titan, humanity lives behind a wall designed to protect human civilization from a mysterious species of giant man-eating monsters called Titans. The Scout Regiment is a branch of the military that sends scouting expeditions outside the walls to try and learn more about who the Titans are and where they came from. At one point, the Scouts come into possession of a serum that can turn someone into a Titan-Shifter, that is, a human who can shift back and forth between their human form and the form of an intelligent Titan. When administered, the serum can bring someone back from the brink of death—but there’s only enough to save one person. Captain Levi Ackerman, the commander’s right-hand man and the Scout Regiment’s best soldier, is given complete control over the serum.
You can probably see where this is going. In the third season, Levi is forced to choose between saving two dying soldiers. (No, I won’t tell you who they are—go watch the show!) The anime devotes an entire episode to a debate over what Levi should do, with different characters making arguments and trying to persuade him to choose one way or the other. You might think a twenty-minute debate sounds boring, but you’d be wrong. It’s riveting. The arguments are so complex, and the factors so multi-faceted, that this single choice by Levi makes up one of the show’s most beloved episodes.
Even better, the perpetually stoic Levi makes his final decision largely based on emotion. The consequences of his choice reverberate through the rest of the series, but at the same time, the decision reveals something surprising about his character.
Because the plot hangs on a choice, it also hangs on a character. The plot and character aren’t separate concepts. They’re glued together.
Negative: Sunrise on the Reaping, by Suzanne Collins
In the world of The Hunger Games, an authoritarian government known as the Capitol maintains order and quells rebellion in its twelve districts by “reaping” twenty-four child tributes, one boy and girl from each district, to participate in a battle royale fight to the death that is broadcasted live to Capitol citizens (think reality TV). During the Hunger Games, the tributes make alliances, scheme, fight, and kill one another in an outdoor arena until one victor remains.
Here’s my problem with Sunrise on the Reaping. (Or one of them, at least.) Soon after arriving in the Capitol as tribute, our protagonist Haymitch agrees to help a group of rebels break the arena from the inside. A lot of the novel’s first half is devoted to this plan: various rebels getting information to Haymitch, figuring out how to sneak explosives into the arena, etc. Once Haymitch enters the arena, almost everything he does is geared toward this scheme. He strikes out on his own, treks across the arena, and works with an ally to sneak into an underground chamber, all so that he can set an explosive, flood the main computer that controls the arena, and ruin the Games. But when he finally manages to detonate the bomb and set off the flood…
Nothing happens.
Sure, the explosion does some damage to the force field surrounding the arena, but a backup generator kicks in almost immediately to fix the issues. We’re told several times that the arena is partially damaged, but if so, we never see any evidence of malfunctioning components. In the end, the explosion and flood make no real difference to the plot.
Haymitch’s choice to carry out the rebel plan and break the arena, even at great risk to his own life and the lives of his loved ones, is interesting. But it fails to deliver any consequences. Whatever damage he causes to the arena doesn’t impact the rest of the story at all. Over half the book is spent setting up a choice that has basically no ramifications.
You might object that Sunrise on the Reaping is a tragedy. Of course Haymitch fails! If he really had broken the arena, we would have heard about it in the main trilogy. But whether Haymitch succeeds or fails is beside the point. Either way, his success or failure should have real, tangible consequences in this story (not a future trilogy). When you spend over half the book setting up one crucial decision, you’re making a promise to the reader that whatever else happens, this choice will be important. One way or another, the rest of the story will be irrevocably changed by this character’s decision.
Choices tell us who a character really is. Consequences tell us that the character’s choice matters.
So What’s Wrong With Vis?
When a writer builds their story using choices and consequences, readers respond positively, even if they don’t know why. On the other hand, if a writer fails to focus on choices and consequences, readers notice that too.
Take our friend James Islington and The Strength of the Few. Like I noted earlier, there’s nothing wrong with Vis as a character, but many readers find him dull. Why? It’s because Islington views plot and character as separate categories.
In The Strength of the Few, while Vis certainly makes decisions, those decisions aren’t especially interesting, unique, or tied directly to his character. They reveal little about who he is, and all too often, they actually contradict facts that we learned about Vis in the first book. As a result, he is more or less a well-designed puppet who moves obediently through each key event in the plot. The puppet is three-dimensional and beautifully crafted, sure, but it’s still a puppet. The plot moves Vis, instead of being moved by Vis’s choices and their consequences.
When you start thinking about your story in terms of choices and consequences, your characters will never again be puppets. Like Pinocchio, they will become real men, women, and children whose choices, and the consequences of those choices, will bring your story to life.
What are the best choice-driven moments (and their consequences) in your favorite stories? What stories could be improved by revising them through the lens of choices and consequences? Can you think of any great stories that break this rule? Let me know in the comments!
