The Science of Storytelling

by Will Storr

Unexpected change makes us curious, and curious is how we should feel in the opening movements of an effective story.

They create moments of unexpected change that seize the attention of their protagonists and, by extension, their readers and viewers.

The threat of change is also a highly effective technique for arousing curiosity.

There is a natural inclination to resolve information gaps,’ wrote Loewenstein, ‘even for questions of no importance.’

As the stories reveal more of themselves, we increasingly want to know, Where is Spot? Who is ‘Bunny’ and how did he die and how is the narrator implicated in his death?

The place of maximum curiosity – the zone in which storytellers play – is when people think they have some idea but aren’t quite sure.

we start modelling words as soon as we start reading them. We don’t wait until we get to the end of the sentence. This means the order in which writers place their words matters.

One study concluded that, to make vivid scenes, three specific qualities of an object should be described, with the researcher’s examples

including ‘a dark blue carpet’ and ‘an orange striped pencil.’

well-imagined characters always have theories about the minds of other characters and – because this is drama – those theories will often be wrong.This wrongness will lead to unexpected consequences and yet more drama.

What does A think B is thinking about A?

Extra details like this add even more tension by mimicking the way brains process peak moments of stress.

It works because it activates extra neural models that give the language additional meaning and sensation. We feel the heft and strain of the

shouldering, we touch the abrasiveness of the day.

Every scene in a compelling story is a cause that triggers our childlike curiosity about its potential effects. With

This is how bestselling page-turners and blockbusting scripts generate their addictive force. They have a relentless adherence to forward motion, one thing leading to another, and exploit our quenchless curiosity for fuel.

‘Start, every time, with this inviolable rule: the scene must be dramatic. It must start because the hero has a problem, and it must culminate with the hero finding him or herself either thwarted or educated that another way exists.’

But all storytellers, no matter who their intended audience, should beware of over-tightening their narratives.

Only by the reader

insinuating themselves into a work can it create a resonance that has the power to shake them as only art can.

‘destroyed by the ideas upon which he has built his life’.

When designing a character, it’s often useful to think of them in terms of their theory of control. How have they learned to control the world? When unexpected change strikes, what’s their automatic go-to

tactic for wrestling with the chaos? What’s their default, flawed response? The answer, as we’ve just seen, comes from that character’s core beliefs about reality, the precious and fiercely defended ideas around which they’ve formed their sense of self.

‘Behavioural residue’ is what psychologists call the things we accidentally leave behind: the stashed wine bottle, the torn-up manuscript, the punch dent in the wall.

As they struggle through the events of the plot, they’ll usually encounter a series of obstacles and breakthroughs. These obstacles and breakthroughs often come in the form of secondary characters, each of whom experiences the world differently to them in ways that are specific and necessary to the story. They’ll try to force the protagonist to see the world as they do. By grappling with these characters, the protagonist’s neural model will be changed, even if subtly. They’ll be led astray by antagonists, who’ll represent perhaps darker and more extreme versions of their flaw. Likewise, they’ll learn valuable lessons from allies, who are often

the embodiment of new ways of being that our hero must adopt. But before this dramatic journey of change has begun, our protagonist’s neural model will probably still be convincing to them, even if it is, perhaps, beginning to creak at its edges – there might be signs that their ability to control the world is failing, which they frantically ignore; there might be portentous problems and conflicts which rise and waft about them. Then something happens …

They’ll overreact or do something otherwise odd. This is our subconscious signal that the fantastic spark between character and plot has taken place. The story has begun.

Researchers have found that violence and cruelty has four general causes: greed and ambition; sadism; high self-esteem and moral idealism.

Those stories are gripping, not because of the bullets or high-speed ski chases in isolation, but because we want to know how this specific person, with this specific history and these strengths and

these flaws will get out of it.

Who is this person? This is the question all stories ask.

If there’s a single secret to storytelling then I believe it’s this. Who is this person? Or, from the perspective of the character, Who am I? It’s the definition of drama. It is its electricity, its heartbeat, its fire.

They’re discovering who they are, moment by moment, as the

pressure of the drama is applied. And, as the plot turns, they’re often surprised by who they turn out to be.

At different times, under different circumstances, a different version of us becomes dominant.

In well-told stories, characters reflect this. They’re ‘three-dimensional’ or more. They’re both recognisably who they are and yet constantly shifting as their circumstances change.

In well-told stories, there’s a constant interplay between the surface world of the drama and the subconscious world of the characters.

As these subtle revisions in who they are take place on the subconscious second level, the answer to the dramatic question changes. And as their character changes this, in turn, alters their behaviour on the surface level of the drama. And so on and so on.

They work by ‘riveting our attention to social information’, whether in the form of gossip or screenplay or books, which typically tell of ‘heightened versions of the behaviours we naturally monitor’. When a character behaves selflessly, and puts the needs of the group before their own, we experience a deep primal craving to see them recognised by the group as a hero and hailed. When a character behaves selfishly, putting their own needs before that of the group, we feel a monstrous urge to see their punishment.

In the face of great personal peril, they kill dragons, blow up Death Stars and rescue Jews from Nazis. They satisfy our moral outrage, and moral outrage is the ancient lifeblood of human storytelling.

When people in brain scanners read of another’s wealth, popularity, good looks and qualifications, regions involved in the perception of pain became activated. When they read about them suffering a misfortune, they enjoyed a pleasurable spike in their brain’s reward systems.

In story, an experience of humiliation is often the origin of the antagonist’s dark behaviour,

Because humiliation is such an apocalyptic punishment, watching villains being punished this way can feel rapturous. As we’re a tribal people with tribal brains, it doesn’t count as humiliation unless other members of the tribe are aware of it. As Professor William Flesch writes, ‘We may hate the villain, but our hatred is meaningless. We want him unmasked to people in his world.’

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?

being raised into a state of tantalised curiosity about the causes and effects of who people are.

If their authors explained their characters’ behaviour precisely, the fire of curiosity would risk being extinguished.

For the neuroscientist Professor Francis McGlone, gentle stroking is critical for healthy psychological development. ‘My hunch is that the natural interaction between parents and the infant – that continuous desire to touch, cuddle and handle – is providing the essential inputs that lay the foundations for a well-adjusted social brain,’ he has said. ‘It’s more than just nice, it’s absolutely critical.’

These events challenge us. They generate a desire. This desire makes us act. This is how change summons us into the adventure of the story, and how an ignition point sprouts a plot.

‘eudaemonia’.

Studies elsewhere find that living with a sufficient sense of purpose reduces the risk of depression and strokes and helps addicts recover from addiction.