There Is No Conflict...

...Or at least no conflict worth writing about that ignores certain dramatic conventions. Without conflict there's no story, so here are a few core principles to keep in mind. Thanks to Donald Maass for spelling most of these out.

Emphasize concrete stakes over abstract ones. Even if you're writing a metaphysical narrative, audiences will probably find the solid visible consequences of the story's conflicts more directly accessible than their transcendent implications. By all means give your conflict an ideological dimension, but use symbol and subtext to tie it into your theme. It'll have more impact that way.

Make conflict proximate. This one seems self-evident, but it's good rule to be conscious of. Every conflict should involve the affected characters as closely as possible. This approach heightens tension and ensures high stakes. (Killing characters off-screen is much less traumatic/satisfying than doing it right in front of the audience.)

Make conflict matter. Another common sense rule that's ignored all too often. Conflict is all about the stakes. Battles in which heroes effortlessly mow down cannon fodder are nowhere near as interesting as conflicts that make the protagonist bleed (the blood can be metaphorical, as in victory won at a moral or emotional cost).

Also, conflict should not leave a character back at the status quo. Life is conflict, and life is change.

Create exceptional circumstances. Really interesting conflict removes a character from his comfort zone. Take away the Jedi's lightsaber (or better yet, his access to the Force). If your hero relies on guns, cut off his trigger finger. Make the super scientist contend with a magical threat. By hobbling their strengths, you show what your characters are really made of.

Make conflict difficult. Proceeding from the previous two points, it should be clear that challenging conflict is engaging conflict. Only munchkins enjoy riding roughshod over the opposition, and even they don't much care for reading about someone else doing it. Not every challenge your hero faces should equate to disarming a nuclear device while blindfolded, but none of them should be a cakewalk.

Some beginning writers may chafe at this assertion, but raising the difficulty can and sometimes should extend to letting your characters fail. There are few better teachers than defeat. Just make sure you've thought out the consequences of failure and then stick to them.

Give conflict immediacy. The protagonist's struggles should be immediate in terms of timing and intimacy. Don't let the hero resolve the conflict at his leisure. Start the clock ticking. Make the consequences of failure clear right away (and make them dire). Just as importantly, the source of conflict shouldn't be anonymous or random. Make it personal and direct.

Conflict is more than just fighting. I've used mainly physical examples so far because combat is the most readily understood form of conflict. But since conflict is what happens whenever two or more opposing forces vie with each other, the concept admits of many forms. You can have a ritualized or symbolic battle with primarily philosophical stakes. Conflict can even be waged on a purely intellectual, emotional, or spiritual level. Characters needn't trade blows to be in conflict. They just have to be at cross-purposes. In fact, the opposition doesn't have to be a character at all.

To recap: write conflict that is concrete, proximate, meaningful, exceptional, difficult, and immediate. And remember that a character's struggle against his inner demons can be more compelling than a battle scene.

These are just the general guidelines. What do you think makes for an engaging conflict?

I Don't Need Your Life Story

A common mistake among  beginning novelists is to front-load the narrative with the main character's back story. I've been guilty of this rookie error myself.

There's a sort of flawed logic behind a new writer's tendency to deliver the protagonist's full personality profile, family background, and job history up front. These details are foremost in an author's mind when writing about any character (or they should be). Thus, withholding this information takes considerable discipline.

Some writers are adamant about making formal introductions right away. They worry that readers will have difficulty relating to the characters if their back stories are withheld. This fear is largely unfounded because it projects the author's inverted character priorities onto the reader.

Authors grow attached to their characters' personal histories because they spend copious amounts of time intricately constructing those characters' imaginary lives. Readers, on the other hand, engage with characters based on their responses to conflict.

One might object that foreknowledge of a character's past is required for truly gripping conflict since that's what determines how a character deals with challenges. I reply that this objection is, again, backwards. Detailed background isn't needed to enhance conflict. Conflict reveals background. Dumping half a page of character exposition into the narrative dilutes conflict and diverts reader interest.

When should character background be revealed? Later. After the story's central conflict has clearly emerged, authors can address the cast's back stories at leisure--preferably spread out over the rest of the novel like seed in a tilled field.

I learned that I'd fallen into this trap when several Nethereal beta readers reported difficulty getting past chapter two. When questioned they all agreed that the book's opening was strong, but the second chapter read like a text book. I looked again and saw that they were right. The narrative was bogged down with background minutiae that fascinated me but distracted my readers. Since I was establishing the first novel in a series I couldn't cut all of the exposition, but I did minimize it to the point of readability.

Any other thoughts on handling character background?

Why Should I Care?

I'm the rare person who enjoys video games as a spectator sport. I'm not averse to playing them, but I get almost the same thrill from watching someone else do all the heavy lifting while I take in the narrative.

My friend Nick and I finished Bioshock Infinite last night. It's one of the games that made my list of places where visionary storytellers are migrating to. I can confidently say that it's one of the best games I've seen in years. The setting is vivid. The themes are strong. The characters are deep. I can't comment on the game mechanics, but Nick never complained.

MILD POTENTIAL SPOILERS (though if your enjoyment of games, books, and movies relies mostly on the plot, you're filling up on bread instead of character meat and thematic wine). Bioshock Infinite's ending feels rather inconsistent with its own thematic and character development. The dissonance results more from the ending's execution than its content. Having agonized over why this amazing game's conclusion felt flat, It's my opinion that the problem is a matter of stakes.

I've discussed how to end (and start) a story before. The reason it's not as hard as most people think (and why Bioshock Infinite's mishandled ending doesn't tarnish my perception of the game much) is that endings are among the least important story elements. Strong protagonists and antagonists, engaging conflicts, and fully fleshed-out themes are far more vital, as are beginnings. One relevant aspect of storytelling I haven't touched on yet is the conflict's stakes.

In brief, stakes answer the question, "Why should I care?" Conflicts can operate on two basic levels: personal and public. Personal stakes set the characters' degree of concern, while public stakes are more immediately urgent to the audience. A balance of both is essential to a story's emotional impact.

I turn again to the cultural touchstone of our times: the original Star Wars trilogy. All three films raise their public stakes as high as possible. If the Rebellion fails, the galaxy faces indefinite domination by a fascist empire with a planet-cracking superweapon. The first movie makes these consequences clear right away and draws the audience in. Not until The Empire Strikes Back are we given personal conflict to rival the military struggle. The ingenious part is how both conflicts conflict with each other in the character of Luke Skywalker. He's strongly invested in destroying the Empire, but it's made painfully clear that doing so means killing his father.

Star Wars is an apt example because I think Bioshock Infinite raises its personal stakes to heights that could have produced an Empire-level payoff. I could be wrong, but the game's public stakes never seem quite as compelling as its characters' inner turmoil (we're given visions of airships bombing Manhattan early on, but I'll admit that 9/11 somewhat desensitized me).

The game's immense personal conflicts do reach a natural conclusion some time before the actual ending. The main themes are resolved well before that. At that point, a storyteller can really call it a day any time he wants. What he shouldn't do is bet all the stakes on black when the wheel could land on red. Which in this case it does.

Don't get me wrong. Writers in any medium should take risks. Making truly revolutionary fiction requires it. But waiting till after the natural resolution of your main themes and conflicts is not the best time to risk losing the audience's emotional engagement. Pulling off such narrative sleight of hand takes absolute mastery of story structure and saintly patience. Personally, I know I'm not equal to the task.

Based on the spectacular experience he created with Bioshock Infinite, I think Ken Levine has reached that level. He's made his Star Wars. I'm raptly anticipating his Empire.

Have an opinion on Bioshock Infinite or any other high-stakes story? I await your comments.

Writing Antagonists

I already discussed protagonists and their vital narrative role. Now on to the flip side of that coin: antagonists.

If the protagonist--the main character in pursuit of a goal--is the most important character in a story, the antagonist comes second by a hair's breadth. Conflict drives plot. The antagonist provides that conflict by opposing the protagonist's goals.

Let's examine two common claims about antagonists.

1. Purely evil "mustache twirling" characters are poor antagonists.

The truth of this maxim rests on the kind of story you want to tell. The Wicked Witch of the West would strike a dissonant tone in Heat, but she's right at home in her own fairy tale fable.

The antagonist should fit the genre. A story with a gritty realist tone demands a fleshed-out antagonist. Conversely, fairy stories are cautionary tales at heart. The villain of a morality play can embody one vice or another because he's more of a symbol than a character.

2. Antagonists have to be people.

This misconception is easily disproved by glancing at the canon of literature. A protagonist can find a worthy foil in an inhuman monster, in nature, and even in himself.

The Dark Knight aptly illustrates this point because it includes every kind of conflict to some degree. The Joker isn't really a character. Christopher Nolan has explained his decision against filming the Joker's origin story by saying that he wanted the character to be elemental--a force of nature.

The closest that The Dark Knight comes to having a classic antagonist is Two Face, but only after Harvey Dent loses his own man vs. himself conflict.

To sum up, the antagonist is the character and/or force impeding the protagonist's attainment of the story's main goal. One-dimensional antagonists are okay for morality tales, and they can be impersonal social or natural forces.

Tales striving for greater realism (including sci-fi and fantasy) should have antagonists who are just as fleshed out as the main character is. They should also be people who want something--directly opposed to the protagonist. If you're smart, your antagonist's ends and means will be fully justified; at least to himself.

Endings and Beginnings

Since most stories are told from beginning to end, it seems logical that they should be written that way. This is wrong.

Once again, I invoke the wisdom of Kurt Vonnegut in advising writers against drafting in chronological order. I don't meant that you should write backwards from the ending. What you should do is figure out what the story's climax is: where the conflict between the protagonist's goal and the antagonist's interference comes to a boil. That's the heart of the story.

Many people think that a story's ending is the point when the plot is resolved. This isn't necessarily true. Ending a story is less of a problem than it's often made out to be, and most stories have several possible exit windows. The key is to know when your themes are resolved.

When you've got your protagonist and antagonist, you know what they want, you know the point of greatest conflict between them, and you know the ideas which will inform that conflict, it's time to start writing.

As you know, a beginning is a delicate time. The most helpful piece of advice I've found on starting a story is Chekhov's Razor: "First, throw out the first three pages." Doing so will weed out your initial fumbling attempts to find a narrative thread.

I've found Vonnegut and Chekhov's advice on endings and beginnings indispensable. If anybody else has tips for tackling the bookends of a story, feel free to share.