Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting

“Our appetite for story is a reflection of the profound human need to grasp the patterns of living, not merely as an intellectual exercise, but within a very personal, emotional experience.”

In this chapter the author explores the universality of storytelling, which comes from an innate, primal place inside of us. We share stories as a way of making sense of the world around us, of our perception of that world, and of our place in it.

“To retreat behind the notion that the audience simply wants to dump its troubles at the door and escape reality is a cowardly abandonment of the artist's responsibility. Story isn't a flight from reality but a vehicle that carries us on our search for reality, our best effort to make sense out of the anarchy of existence.”

This is the first mention of “the artist’s responsibility,” a theme that echoes throughout the text. “Escapism” is an oversimplification of the art of storytelling, and to indulge in it for its own sake is to deny what it is to be an artist. Here the author begins to introduce the reader to their duty as a writer, which intersects with the idea that story—even when it is superficially fantastical—engages with real-world truths about human existence.

“Too many struggling writers never suspect that the creation of a fine screenplay is as difficult as the creation of a symphony, and in some ways more so. For while the composer scores with the mathematical purity of notes, we dip into the messy stuff known as human nature.”

McKee draws several parallels throughout the text between literary craft and music. Here he suggests the paradoxical view that storytelling is quantifiable but made from non-quantifiable parts. Understanding this apparent contradiction is the basis for successful storytelling.

“But fact, no matter how minutely observed, is truth with a small ‘t.’ Big ‘T’ Truth is located behind, beyond, inside, below the surface of things, holding reality together or tearing it apart, and cannot be directly observed. Because this writer sees only what is visible and factual, he is blind to the truth of life.”

The author draws an interesting distinction between truth and fact, which we usually consider to be, if not the same thing, at least intimately intertwined. In this section McKee explores how new writers often become so wrapped up in showing the world as it is that they lose sight of the human nature within it.

“When the epic Gilgamesh was carved in cuneiform on twelve clay tablets 4,000 years ago, converting story to the written word for the first time, the principles of Classical Design were already fully and beautifully in place.”

Here the author talks about the principles of story form, which have remained unchanged for millennia. What is particularly notable here is that he suggests story form predates even the written word; it emerged out of oral tradition. Long before we had any sort of literary system in place, people already had a primordial instinct for what makes a good story.

“If you want this family to get together, but your heart tells you they aren’t going to make it, it’s a sad evening. If you can convince yourself that they will live happily ever after, you walk out pleased. The minimalist storyteller deliberately gives this last critical bit of work to the audience.”

This idea suggests collaboration between the storyteller and the writer—the idea that the audience too can be a part of the story craft. McKee believes that successful writing invites the audience to participate on a minute, subconscious level, which increases their level of emotional resonance and the story’s overall effect.

“Americans are escapees from prisons of stagnant culture and rigid class who crave change.”

McKee begins to talk about the cultural and regional variations in film and what characterizes Hollywood stories. He believes that Americans are happiest in a constant state of flux, always learning and growing and exploring. The types of films we go to see reflect this, and those preferences underscore the importance of varying content and intensity between scenes.

“When you work with one eye on your script and the other on Hollywood, making eccentric choices to avoid the taint of commercialism, you produce the literary equivalent of a temper tantrum.”

McKee doesn’t veil his disdain for overly artistic films made purely for art’s sake. He believes that choices made either for or against commercialism distract from the true objective at the heart of the craft, which is to simply tell a good story.

“‘This is your quintessential American story. It’s about divorce. What could be more American? We can set it in Louisiana, New York, or Idaho. Won’t matter.’ But it matters absolutely. Breakup in the Bayou bears little resemblance to a multi-million-dollar Park Avenue litigation, and neither looks like infidelity on a potato farm. There is no such thing as a portable story.”

The author begins to talk about the importance of setting and how it informs the boundaries of your story. He suggests that a very specific setting, rather than being suffocating, offers a structural tool to find the truest version of that story and make it come alive for the audience. Paradoxically, specificity therefore gives stories universal appeal.

“Genre convention is a Creative Limitation that forces the writer’s imagination to rise to the occasion. Rather than deny convention and flatten the story, the fine writer calls on convention editors like old friends, knowing that in the struggle to fulfill them in a unique way, he may find inspiration for the scene that will lift his story above the ordinary.”

Like setting, genre imposes boundaries that have the potential to bring out the best in your story. Genre fiction perhaps demands more of the writer than contemporary “literary” fiction; the writer must use the limitations of genre to find new ways to express old ideas.

“‘Character-driven story’ is redundant. All stories are ‘character-driven.’ Event design and character design mirror each other. Character cannot be expressed in depth except through the design of story.”

People, and in particular writers, love to talk about “character-driven stories.” The author suggests that all plot happens because of character—because of the characters’ innate humanity and the choices they make—and that character is in turn shaped by plot; both are too intimately intertwined to examine as separate entities.

“If a plot works out exactly as you first planned, you’re not working loosely enough to give room to your imagination and instincts. Your story should surprise you again and again. Beautiful story design is a combination of the subject found, the imagination at work, and the mind loosely but wisely executing the craft.”

McKee speaks often of a balance between preparation and instinct. He believes that when a story begins to “write itself,” what’s really happening is that the writer is tapping into their innate understanding of the craft of story. Here we see the importance of balancing structural design with trust in your own abilities.

“Storytellers, Plato insisted, are dangerous people. He was right.”

McKee shares a historical anecdote about the philosopher Plato urging the political leaders of Athens to exile their storytellers, who (he said) hid their radical ideas behind the guise of entertainment. This section circles back once again to one of the book’s overarching themes: the social and ethical responsibility of the artist.

“The essential form of story is simple. But that’s like saying that the essential form of music is simple. It is. It’s twelve notes. But these twelve notes conspire into everything and anything we have ever called music. The essential elements of the Quest are the twelve notes of our music, the melody we’ve listened to all our lives.”

The author again draws a parallel between literary craft and musical craft. Each is deceptively simplistic but contains worlds of possibility. McKee argues that all story comes from a core story archetype—the Quest—in which a protagonist’s world is thrown out of balance and they need to pursue a goal that will restore that balance.

“Writers who cannot grasp the truth of our transitory existence, who have been misled by the counterfeit comforts of the modern world, who believe that life is easy once you know how to play the game, give conflict a false inflection. Their scripts fail for one of two reasons: either a glut of meaningless and absurdly violent conflict, or a vacancy of meaningful and honestly expressed conflict.”

McKee presents conflict as the beating heart of story, and by conflict, he means not brassy, explosive showdowns but the constantly shifting nature of need in our own lives. The truth is that conflict is not a singular, near-insurmountable obstacle we face and defeat in order to live happily ever after; it is an ever-present force that we keep at a manageable distance by the choices we make every day. Understanding how to show this on the page is the key to powerful storytelling.

“Setups must be firmly planted enough so that when the audience’s mind hurls back, they’re remembered. If setups are too subtle, the audience will miss the point. If too heavy-handed, the audience will see the Turning Point coming a mile away. Turning Points fail when we overprepare the obvious and underprepare the unusual.”

This reiterates the idea that so much of storytelling is about balance and communication with the audience’s expectations. The turning points in a story are what each level of structure hinges on, so writers must handle them with enough subtlety to surprise, but also enough exposition that the audience feels like they’re a part of the story.

“Like images in our dreams, [symbolism] invades the unconscious mind and touches us deeply — as long as we’re unaware of its presence.”

Like setups, effective use of symbolism is about balance. McKee believes that once an audience becomes consciously aware of a story’s symbolism, that symbolism no longer carries the power it once had. Our systems of imagery must work through instinct and emotion rather than intellect to have a profound effect on the audience.

“An ending must be both ‘inevitable and unexpected.’ Inevitable in the sense that as the Inciting Incident occurs, everything and anything seems possible, but at the Climax, as the audience looks back through the telling, it should seem that the path the telling took was the only path.”

McKee talks about the many threads of possibility that run from a story idea to its conclusion, figured here as the story’s path. This section displays the efficacy of the interconnected plot, each turning point building on the one that came before until the story’s possibilities narrow to only one ending. The passage speaks to the importance of balancing novelty and change against unity when writing.

“When a story is weak, the inevitable cause is that forces of antagonism are weak. Rather than spending your creativity trying to invent likable, attractive aspects of protagonist and world, build the negative side to create a chain reaction that pays off naturally and honestly on the positive dimensions.”

Because readers and audience members often resonate most with positive characters, new writers often think this is the key to emotionally poignant storytelling. This chapter suggests that focusing on the antagonistic aspects of the story is what truly reveals the protagonist’s character, thereby making the positive aspects of them and their world more real to the audience.

“We can turn scenes only one of two ways: on action or on revelation. There are no other means.”

This brings to mind the famous Margaret Atwood quote: “You become a writer by writing. There is no other way.” McKee’s small, uncomplicated truth gives the screenwriter an easy way to check the efficacy of any given scene. If an action or revelation takes place, the scene is working; if it isn’t, this is a simple way to troubleshoot.

“Comedy is at heart an angry, antisocial art. To solve the problem of weak comedy, therefore, the writer first asks: What am I angry about? He finds that aspect of society that heats his blood and goes on assault.”

This chapter dispels the myth that comic writers are always warm, lighthearted people. In fact, the opposite is true: Very often more melancholy films come from a place of hope and introspection, while comedies come from a place of craving and fighting for social change.

“Although others remain at a distance, changing and unknowable in a definitive, final sense, and despite obvious distinctions of age, sex, background, and culture, despite all the clear differences among people, the truth is we are all far more alike than we are different. We are all human.”

This section explores self-awareness as the key to strong characterization. Even when we write characters who are different from ourselves, with different cultural backgrounds and experiences, their choices very often come from the same human place inside all of us. This is arguably truer than it has ever been in an era where cultural, generational, and racial divides are crumbling more rapidly than ever.

“The best advice for writing film dialogue is don’t. Never write a line of dialogue when you can create a visual expression.”

McKee argues that unlike theater or prose, film is 80% visual and 20% auditory. The screenwriter should tell as much of the story as possible in facial expressions, body language, action, and setting. His method is to tell a story using only visuals and then add in dialogue where clarity and contrast are needed.