The Science of Storytelling: Why Stories Make Us Human and How to Tell Them Better

by Will Storr

But thinking with tribal stories means shutting out such morally unsatisfying complexity. Our storytelling brains transform reality’s chaos into a simple narrative of cause and effect that reassures us that our biased models, and the instincts and emotions they generate, are virtuous and right. And this means casting the opposing tribe into the role of villain.

The primatologist Professor Frans de Waal writes that ‘it cannot be coincidental that the only animals in which gangs of males expand their territory by deliberately exterminating neighbouring males happen to be humans and chimpanzees. What is the chance of such tendencies evolving independently in two closely related mammals?’

There’s little more interesting to most of us than the causes and effects of human behaviour. In making the answer to the dramatic question more mysterious, Shakespeare accessed our infinite wells of curiosity about other people and their oddness, generating a wonderful and enduring obsession with his characters and plays. He also gave us space to insert ourselves into his stories: we wonder, would I ever do such a thing? What could make me?

Much of the joy of literary works such as On Chesil Beach is in being raised into a state of tantalised curiosity about the causes and effects of who people are. They’re detective stories, with the reader as sleuth. If their authors explained their characters’ behaviour precisely, the fire of curiosity would risk being extinguished. Moreover, the reader would be left without an active role in the story, and with no place in which to insert their own interpretations.

Because humans crave control, infants whose caregivers behave unpredictably can grow up in a constant state of anxious high alert.

Finding out who we are, and who we need to become, means accepting the challenge that story offers us. Are we brave enough to change? This is the question a plot, and a life, asks of each us.

Humans have a compulsion to make things happen in their environment that’s so powerful it’s described by psychologists as ‘almost as basic a need as food and water.’ When researchers put people in flotation tanks and block their eyes and ears they find that, often within seconds, they’ll start rubbing their fingers together or making ripples in the water. After four hours some are singing ‘bawdy songs’. Another study found 67 per cent of male participants and 25 per cent of female participants so desperate to make things happen in a room that was empty of stimulus, except for an electric-shock machine, that they started giving themselves painful shocks. Humans do things. They act. We can’t help it.

Humans are built for story. When we push ourselves towards a tough yet meaningful goal, we thrive. Our reward systems spike not when we achieve what we’re after but when we’re in pursuit of it.

In order to be maximally compelling, protagonists should be active, the principal causer of effects in the plot that follows. Textual analyses reveal the words ‘do’, ‘need’ and ‘want’ appear twice as often in novels that feature in the New York Times bestseller list as those that don’t. A character in a drama who isn’t reacting, making decisions, choosing and trying somehow to impose control on the chaos isn’t truly a protagonist. Without action, the answer to the dramatic question never really changes. Who they are is who they always were, but slowly, dully sinking.

The Hollywood animation studio Pixar is home to some of the most successful mass-market storytellers of our age. ‘Story artist’ Austin Madison, who’s worked on blockbusters including Ratatouille, Wall-E and Up, has shared a structure he says all Pixar films must adhere to. The action starts with a protagonist who has a goal, living in a settled world. Then a challenge comes that forces them into a cause-and-effect sequence of events that eventually builds to a climax that demonstrates the triumph of good over evil and the revelation of the story’s moral.

Thirty years of study led Christopher Booker to assert the existence of seven recurring plots in story. He calls them: Overcoming the Monster; Rags to Riches; The Quest; Voyage and Return; Rebirth; Comedy; and Tragedy. Each plot, he argues, consists of five acts: the call to action, a dream stage in which everything goes well, a frustration stage at which fortunes turn, a descent into nightmarish conflict, and finally a resolution.

For me, the standard five-act structure isn’t the only way to tell a story. It is, in fact, the narrative equivalent of the three-and-a-half-minute pop song, perfectly tooled to hold attention. It’s ubiquitous in mass-marketing storytelling because it’s the simplest way of showing a character’s flawed theory of control being broken, changed and rebuilt. In its ‘happy ending’ form it goes like this: Act I: This is me, and it’s not working The protagonist’s theory of control is established. Unexpected change strikes. The ignition point draws them into a new psychological world. Act II: Is there another way? The old theory of control is tested by the plot and it begins breaking down. There are rising emotions of excitement, tension or thrill as a new way forward is sensed, learned and actively experimented with. Act III: There is. I have transformed Grim tension grips as the plot fights back. The protagonist counter-attacks using their new strategy. In doing so, they transform in a way that feels profound and irreversible. But then the plot strikes again with unprecedented power. Act IV: But can I handle the pain of change? Chaos spirals. The protagonist’s lowest, darkest point. As the plot’s attack becomes relentless, our hero begins to question the wisdom of their decision to change. But the plot won’t leave them alone. We realise they’ll soon have to decide, who are they going to be? Act V: Who am I going to be? Tension builds at the approach of the final battle. A peak mo...

The ‘most frequently occurring and important theme’ of bestsellers was ‘human closeness and human connection’, an apposite interest for a hyper-social species.

The curse of belonging to a hyper-social species is that we’re surrounded by people who are trying to control us. Because everyone we meet is attempting to get along and get ahead, we’re subject to near-constant attempts at manipulation. Ours is an environment of soft lies and half smiles that seek to make us feel pleasant and render us pliable.

When we’re talking about character, we’re really talking about character flaw.

Underpinning every gripping scene in their story is that fundamental dramatic question: who is this character really? If the author doesn’t know, the reader is likely to sense it and grow confused, frustrated and uninterested.

you have an idea for a character, you can dive straight in. Don’t worry about your story event yet, we’ll be working on that later. If your story has multiple protagonists you might find it useful to work through the Sacred Flaw Approach for each of your principals. I’d encourage you to consider how each protagonist connects with each other’s flaw. They might have different versions of the same problem, which rub up against each other, making it better or worse, depending on the needs of the plot. In romantic comedies or buddy movies, the two protagonists often inhabit two opposing flaws. When they finally come together, they’re healed.

The job of your plot is to test, break and retest a flawed character.

‘Follow the sacredness. Find out what people believe to be sacred, and when you look around there you will find rampant irrationality.’

So how would you succinctly describe your character’s broken theory of control? What’s the flawed belief they have about themselves and the human world that they cling onto, and that has come to largely define them? If it helps, you could think of it as a statement that begins in one of the following ways: The thing people most admire about me is . . . I’m only safe when I . . . The most important thing of all in life is . . . The secret of happiness is . . . The best thing about me is . . . The most terrible thing about other people is . . . The big thing I understand about the world that nobody else seems to get is . . . The best advice anyone ever gave me was . . .

ORIGIN DAMAGE (section 3.11) This step involves working out exactly when and how the damage occurred that created your character’s flaw. It’s common in story for there to be a moment when the protagonist reveals hints to their origin damage, or we see it in flashback, and gain a sudden insight into the root causes of their behaviour.

Make it a childhood incident. The flaws that come to characterise us most often have their origins in our first two decades. This is when the brain is in its heightened state of plasticity and its neural models of the world are still being formed.

However, it is also true that one particular pattern has proved exceptionally robust and popular, having been in use for over two thousand years. This is the standard five-act structure.

Act I: This is me, and it’s not working At the start of the story, the protagonist’s theory of control is established. We see them behaving in their characteristic way and get a sense of their goals, outer life and secret wounds.

Act II: Is there another way? Having acted on the event of the ignition point, and found their old theory of control has not halted the chaos, the protagonist begins to realise they’re going to have to come up with some new strategy.

Act III: There is. I have transformed Despite their new strategy, the plot fights back. Emotions darken. It’s now clear the protagonist must decide whether or not to continue on this perilous path of character change.

Act IV: But can I handle the pain of change? Chaos bursts forth. The protagonist feels hunted and overwhelmed by the plot. This is their lowest, darkest point. As the attack becomes relentless, they begin to question the wisdom of their decision to change.

Act V: Who am I going to be? Constrictive emotions grip as the final battle approaches and then arrives. A peak moment of ecstasy accompanies the protagonist finally achieving complete control over both levels of the plot, conscious and unconscious, in the form of a God moment (section 4.3). The chaos is vanquished.

Charles Dickens, William Blake and Joseph Conrad all spoke of: ‘Introduction of Writer’s Inner Voices’, Charles Fernyhough, 4 June 2014, http://writersinnervoices.com.

Because individual self-reliance was the key to success: These differences remain widespread today. If you show an Asian student a cartoon of a fish tank and track their saccades by the millisecond, they unconsciously scan the entire scene, while their Western counterpart focuses more on the dominant, individual, brightly coloured fish at the front. Ask what they saw and the Asian description is more likely to begin with the context – ‘I saw a tank’ – compared to the Westerner’s individual object – ‘I saw a fish’. Ask what they thought of that singular fish and the Westerner is likely to say ‘it was the leader’ whilst the Easterner assumes it’s done something wrong because it’s excluded from the group.

In South Korea, two parents: ‘S Korea child starves as parents raise virtual baby’, BBC News, 5 March 2010.