The Law of Successful Sequels:
There are three parts of a successful movie often-desired, and with good reason, to be integrated into the sequel—characters, setting, and plot—but integrating all three leaves you hopelessly attempting to recreate the original. You cannot include all three, so you must choose to keep two (or one) unchanged and greatly modify the others.
The Law of the Losing Character:
Movies are good when the character wins, but movies are GREAT when the character loses. They don't have to die, and it doesn't need to be the very end of the movie; it could happen near the end with an indifferent ending (such as a draw) or leave it open for interpretation, but when the main character loses, and rarely do they, it gives a sense of realism that allows for us to stomach the journey and empathize with them—a la Damien Chazelle’s La La Land—as opposed to just “sighing with acceptance” at the expected ending that so neatly ties-up the plot in a Hollywood ribbon.
The Law of Protagonist Death:
The protagonists (and any character, really) can be killed whenever you damn well want. At the most, the viewer is sad and shocked because they didn't expect it, and the death can serve as a momentous shift in another character’s motivation or vigor—like Uncle Ben in Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man—or the death can be glossed over, to show that the magnitude of the scene far outweighs the importance of a single person’s death—as in the engagements atop the cliff in Mel Gibson’s Hacksaw Ridge. At the least, the death of a character means there are less characters to worry about in terms of storytelling henceforth.
The Law of Interrupting:
If someone is speaking, saying more than a single sentence, and they are to be interrupted, don't have the interrupted sentence be a crucial line—whether a joke or narrative cog—because an unfinished line of dialogue is often not fully-digested by the audience, especially once someone else starts their own tangential sentence. And the interrupted line should be organically interrupted, as if there was more to be said, per the script, but the other actor chooses when within the preceding line that their character would be most eager or impatient to interrupt.
The Law of the Flash-Forward:
People get more enjoyment out of something when they see the end first—as it eases anxiety about what’s to come—so it isn’t unheard of to blast a blip of the climax in the beginning of the film so that the audience has something they can await with curiosity, knowing they now have high expectations to be fulfilled, and thus should be fulfilled by the climax more than usual since they waited for specifically ‘it’ to happen, where they could see how it all fit together.
The Law of the Good Villain:
A good villain should be charming (to endear the audience), should have a reason for the audience to empathize, should be the yin to the hero's yang, should have intelligence (schemes, wit, plans within plans—they should be someone worth taking down and/or undermining, in terms of a respectable and competent challenge), and they should have high aspirations and big goals. They should have most of these qualities, if not all.
The Law of Television Seasons:
Reputable TV shows are like people. A season of a network TV show is like a decade of a person's life. (So every year of a person's life is, like, 2.4 episodes?) This is my reasoning:
Season 1: birth.
Years 0-10 of a person's life.
Brand new. It unfurls itself, baring all it offers, trying more to survive than to understand its potential. It acclimates to the world as the world acclimates back.
Season 2: discovery.
Years 10-20 of a person's life.
Recent acceptance, although not of great volume, empowers it to embrace what it does best. It tries to figure out who it is and where it stands, and where it wants to go in life.
Season 3: prime.
Years 20-30 of a person's life.
It seems to have everything figured out, and it is—physically—the best it's going to be in its life. It knows it's great and everyone else knows it as well. Love flows freely in both directions.
Season 4: continuance.
Years 30-40 of a person's life.
It rides its success from the last go-around, trying to keep fresh without changing who it is: it presumes that, since it already ‘nailed it’, it doesn't need to adapt to the changing times. It endeavors to be bigger, brasher, bolder, and more bombastic than last time, mistakenly believing that the crowd has stuck around for the flash as opposed to the heart.
Season 5: decline.
Years 40-50 of a person's life.
It totally needed to adapt, and people are not paying attention to it like they used to; it’s become almost a parody of itself, recycling its most successful jokes, feats, and features. It’s still on track—still beloved by a sizeable group—but is no longer the sexiest thing on market.
Season 6: compensation.
Years 50-60 of a person's life.
It starts making-up for its short-comings by adopting small novelties, misguidedly believing it is improving while also staying the same—but it can’t do both, and the desperation is palpable.
Season 7: denial.
Years 60-70 of a person's life.
It says it doesn't have to change: it's been this way for years and it's still here. The times may keep changing and it remains nonetheless ever-present. Why bother change now?
Season 8: regret.
Years 70-80 of a person's life.
It knows, now, it wasted a lot of time trying to remain what it had been instead of evolving into a better version of itself. Its knows the end is near, and it could have been so great if it didn’t grow cockily complacent. If anything, it wants only one last opportunity to make amends…
Season 9: acceptance.
Years 80-90 of a person's life.
It atones for its previous actions and inactions, trying to sum-up its life with a series of low-key adventures, focusing on the people around it. It indulges in recollections, reconnections, and remembrances of all its old friends and family, trying to earn the sincerest send-off possible.
Some shows don't make it to season 9 because they don't change like they ought to. Stagnation is the enemy. Why do you think the USA thrived while the USSR died? Empires are, like people, like television shows—and television shows must adapt or die.
The Law of Outstaying Your Welcome:
Regarding the above, the Law of Television Seasons: Shows should have an end in mind when created, with a max of seven seasons, with overall growth/change being its own arc. The first two seasons establish the characters, setting, and goals; the third, fourth, and fifth explore the pursuit of goals amidst the great upheaval of the aforementioned through successive obstacles; and the final two seasons venture into unimagined territory, without straying too far from the 'known' while characters become who they wanted to be (or were destined to become despite their best efforts) and the events slow to a new point of stasis and conclusion. (Of course, if a show is less than seven seasons—i.e. Breaking Bad, at five—the tiers of this theory shrink in proportion, creating arc-blends and tonal shifts within seasons.)
The Law of Self-Inclusion:
You are allowed to write yourself a role in your own creation, assuming you believe you can pull it off. Don’t give yourself a role you can’t fit or own up to, but it’s your creation and you deserve to be a part of it not only behind the scenes but within them. It must be reiterated, however, that if you can’t believably satisfy the role, you should relinquish it to a true actor. (See Quentin Tarantino in Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, or Django Unchained—great films, but being a fantastic director does guarantee the same capabilities in other aspects of filmmaking.)
The Law of Duration:
All creations will be the appropriate length: no cutting-down media of length, and no drawing-out sketches into feature films. A story ought to be told in the duration that best suits it, to be as close to perfection as possible—no longer than it needs to be and no shorter than it ought to be, otherwise you might as well not make it. Temporal restrictions may encourage creativity, and the ‘final product’ should be reviewed with painful honesty to ensure there is no extraneous content, but no outside force with superficial interests should dictate that a narrative been condensed or elongated beyond its organic duration.
Stories should only be as long as they need to be, even if it's an awkward length. Movies shouldn't try not to be too short, but also don’t need to bottom-out at ninety minutes; songs shouldn't try to be too long, but shouldn’t be considered indulgent if they cross seven minutes; creations should last as long as it takes to find catharsis. A song might end up 1:50 minutes long or 8:37 minutes long, or a film might end up being 56 minutes long, or 80 minutes or 22 minutes, or even 250 minutes long; who cares what duration it is, as long as everything is necessary and nothing is excluded. Creative perfection isn't based around time stamps or quotas.
The Law of Counterpoint Sound:
Counterpoint sound—sound that is not expected given the content it appears with, i.e. juxtaposes, contrasts—should often be used in place of a fitting piece of music; a reasonable track tells the audience what to think, whereas a counterpoint track provides an “opposite” that consequently—subconsciously as much as consciously—forces the audience derive their own rationale for the juxtaposition. For example, the bridal march playing during a shootout: viewers are may take it as irony, or commentary, or cheekiness, or symbolism, or even an apolitical choice seemingly made at random. Not only is this an opportunity to make an informed stylistic decision, but it allows the viewers an opportunity to interpret your work on a deeper level as opposed to simply accepting the emotions you’ve chosen for them; they may develop emotions of their own, opinions of their own, and likely a sense of pride for ‘comprehending’ the reason for—if not simply the usage of—counterpoint sound.
The Law of Loose Lips:
Do not promote media with behind-the-scenes stills, plot teases, divulging trailers, etc. Director Stanley Kubrick believed the same and kept his films private and unpublicized during their production, as an expression of his so-called ‘will to power’. As Parisian film critic Michel Ciment wrote, “Kubrick felt, quite rightly, that the public generally knows far too much about a film before it opens and that the surrounding media frenzy made the joy of surprise and pleasure of discovery impossible.” Basically, if you reveal too much, you let the audience know too much before the film and it is then not nearly as exciting to watch the first time.
The Law of the Strong Conclusion:
The finale of a creation should not be a summary, it should be abrupt. Summaries suck; finish your story on a succinct or sustained note; finish it quick enough that you leave the audience hanging on a breath. Don’t draw-out the end with something that lets the audience get complacent. An ending dragged-out and allowed to tie-up all its bows is wasting the time that comes after the exhilaration of the climax, when the audience is at its euphoric or anxious peak; capitalizing on this—or the subsequent catharsis—requires shutting the door before all the air is sucked out of the room.
The Law of the Causal Plot:
A plot where the characters endeavor to solve a single problem is boring: try to have the pursuit of a goal lead to unforeseen consequences, rather than spend two hours going from A to B. In real life, there are distractions, tangents, accidents, mishaps, misunderstandings, and side-effects; to pretend a story momentous enough to deserve its own film is only a linear story of A to B is ludicrous and naïve. Solutions requires amendments; nothing can be both simple and perfect.
The Law of the Last Song:
The last song, as the credits roll, is the most important song of the film, because it is the last thing affecting the mood of the viewer. It should therefore succinctly represent or encompass the theme of the film, so that the viewer knows exactly on what note to leave the film, as well as what emotions to associate the film with as they depart the viewing and thereafter.
The Law of Contradictory Stereotypes:
Characters should be three-dimensional; an easy means of overhauling a stale character is to introduce a second stereotype that contradicts the prevailing. Stereotypes should be combined with unlike stereotypes, so as to diffuse one-dimensional characters, by producing the immediate appearance of depth. Then, with further exploration and development beyond the sophomoric fusion of clashing stereotypes, a two-dimensional character will become three- or four-dimensional.
The Law of Confliction:
When struggling to elevate a character beyond two dimensions, without seeming too explicit, introduce a goal confliction: stick them between two or more paths. The path that harkens them the loudest—or, at the least, their inability to choose one path over another—will express, for you the writer, a depth to you previously unknown; the character will develop a third-dimension right before you, providing insight as to how the character will behave going forward.
The Law of the Recap:
Never recap the previous episodes before the newest one begins. Although it helps keep the viewer up-to-date, it guides them into inferring what this episode will be about, simply in how the refresher clips are chosen and presented. The effect is beyond ‘creating expectations’ as it actively alludes to what-all content this episode will cover, thereby spoiling the ride before it’s even begun. Assume viewers have seen the earlier stuff—otherwise fuck ‘em and move on.
The Law of Subtitles:
I don’t get why this is so hard to understand: subtitles should be a smaller font if they're whispers. You don’t need to say “(whispering) Lick my balls.” when you could just make the font smaller. This is a visual medium, and the mere act of ‘watching’ television is meta, and is understood by the viewer who partakes in consuming said media; so engage with them, on all levels of the medium. It’s a visual medium. Play with the text. Have fun with it.
The Law of the Storyboard:
Alfred Hitchcock shot his scenes in the manner and order in which they would be edited. (He filmed the movie as he saw it in his head.) Storyboards aren’t necessary unless you’re doing some big-budget studio picture that has huge levels of oversight and multiple teams working on different aspects of the film simultaneously or proactively, to come together once needed—or if it’s an animated film, in which case the entire thing roots in storyboards, at which point they’re too integral to not have. Filmmaking is not about the work you do ahead of time, as crucial as that is for preparing your team and your story; filmmaking is about the act itself. The film derives from the team working in concert, in the here-and-now. Collectively decide, there-and-then, with clarity of continuity and conscious, what you all should do and how to do it; it takes longer, sure, but it’s more organic, more fun, and more exact. Plus, heck, if it’s your baby, you ought to be the one editing it anyway. Let improvisation lead the way; stories are a creature all their own, and they shouldn’t be chopped-up and reassembled later like they’re a tractor engine.
The Law of Believability in Character:
In television, it usually takes a good number of episodes before a character finds their voice, their doctrine, and their instincts, given that an actor new to a role has never portrayed their character before. I’d suggest a minimum requirement of one week—a nonstop 168-hour period—in which the actor should remain in-character, to acclimate to the role and really figure out who this ‘new person’ is and how they would behave in reality as opposed to on paper. The only way to naturalize a character is to live in their shoes and let them see the world, and let them get into scenarios—pleasing, upsetting, mundane, thrilling, etc. In this respect, I would allot three ‘strikes’ to the actor for ‘breaking’ character (with exception) and, after that, they're being recast. By the time the pilot episode is filmed, the characters should know their niche, feel realistic, and be believable.
The Law of the Punchline Character:
People don't like an idiot character whose only trait is ‘dumb’, although a well-rounded ‘fool’ character may be the best asset for the screenwriter, in that the character ‘least grounded’, ‘least intelligent’, or ‘most detached from reality’ has the greatest potential for delivering lines and entering scenarios that would be ‘too absurd’ for the rest of the cast to attempt; some things could never be capitalized-on with a smart, sane, and sensible character. This is why Friends had Joey and Phoebe, why Blue Mountain State had Harmon and Thad Castle, why Malcolm in the Middle had Hal and Reese, why Arrested Development had GOB and Tobias and Buster, why It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia had Frank and Charlie, why The Office had Michael and Dwight, why Seinfeld had Kramer, etcetera, etcetera.
The Law of Foreshadowing:
Use it. Choose it, use it, abuse it. Everyone loves foreshadowing—clever foreshadowing—that is casual, subtle, and takes an attentive viewer to notice it; particularly if there are thematic allusions and not merely direct glimpses at story/plot to come. (See: Reservoir Dogs, Arrested Development, The Prestige, Shaun of the Dead, Jurassic Park, etc.)
The Law of Auditions:
Send prospective-cast members an emotional scene or one that shows the core of the character they want to portray for them to study so they can give a polished performance during their audition; send this scene to them 7 days (one week) before their audition. For those who beat the first cut, but before it’s narrowed down to a final choice (assuming it wasn’t that easy), for their second audition, invite them back and give them a second, shorter emotional/core-of-character scene for them to study and give them 7 minutes to prepare; this is to test if they’ve got a grasp of the character and, if not completely, can improvise in their shoes quickly.
The Law of Distribution:
Filmmakers rely on distribution companies to get their films into theaters, but theaters are being phased out, or at least rivaled, by online viewing. And there's no limitations for online viewing or a need to pander to a mass audience; you make what you want with whatever content you desire and you post it. The new distributor is The Internet, and it's free, and nobody needs to pay to see it. Netflix, yeah, needs a subscription, but YouTube and Vimeo don't; and how many smaller independent streaming services have come-up recently? Yeah, don’t sell your soul to a distribution company just yet; don’t sacrifice the integrity of your creation for a wider audience; hold-out for an agreeable agreement, or put it out there yourself.
The Law of the Sleeper Hit:
A ‘sleeper hit’ is something that comes out after little marketing or promotion and finds a strong enough audience on its own (through the satisfying of a niche or through pure unanimous greatness) that it becomes famous. Marketing and promotion are a waste of time and money. Actually, the company behind Payday: The Heist (Overkill Software) relied strictly on word-of-mouth and thus poured all resources into development, to make the game as good as possible; and the film Tremors didn’t have to skimp on its already-small production budget in exchange for a desperate marketing campaign. Especially in the age of the internet, the audience will find it if they want it; they have the technology. Just make the project as good as possible and it’ll attract fans on its own.
The Law of Information Oversupply:
Stories that supply only the required information (that which will help the viewer to prepare for and understand the plot) tend to give only that information—and if it isn't relevant now, you know it'll be relevant later-on in the form of a main event or a twist. A good story ought to supply ‘too much’ information in the beginning (creating more than red herrings—rather, a ‘noise’ of disconnected information) and, along the way, balance subtlety with disclosure to ensure that the plot is unfurling with comprehension but cannot be predicted by the viewer.
The Law of Tact:
You don't need to show gratuitous amounts of skin or include sex scenes; it’s not the late eighties anymore. Allure, love, and femininity can be shown with subtlety and class—i.e. with clothes on and actors actually acting—in a manner relying on the implicit. Appeal to the viewer’s emotion, not their libido.
The Law of Bleak Content:
Most modern examples of German expressionism are science fiction/fantasy movies; that wasn't as common in the 1920s and '30s. Perhaps the horrors of World War II have made us less willing to explore the ideas of madness, bleakness, and terror in anything even approaching a realistic setting. However, I’d argue that despair, insanity, and dread exist in every person regardless of the depths experienced by others before; in reality, the banal elicits anxiety and fear—especially among millennials and their younger, who tend to respond with self-depreciating laughter. Cold calling prospective employers isn’t nearly as terrifying as storming the beaches of Normandy, but within its own context it is, and these tonal explorations shouldn’t be shied away from.
The Law of Open Concept:
[Video] games that give you the means to have fun far-outclass games that hand you the fun. Hence why Bananagrams and Cards Against Humanity reap greater group pleasure than Monopoly and Mouse Trap, and why Minecraft outperforms its contemporary all-but-on-rails Call of Duty offerings, and why people still play Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim with unparalleled devotion whereas the gaming community has forgotten all about Assassin’s Creed III, despite both featuring open worlds.
The Law of Playing With Friends:
Splitscreen is more important than online (for both co-op and multiplayer) because, although people may want to play with their friends across borders or even struggle with strangers, people want to invite their friends over to play games together in-person, in real life, together. You can’t split a bag of Doritos and slap asses if your friends are trapped inside your headset.
The Law of Complete Plots:
Tie-up your main loose ends; don’t leave on cliffhangers or on the prompt for an unguaranteed sequel. If a sequel will come, it will come on its own, and it will be crafted from the aftermath of the former; but the former should not detract from itself in order to tease a second movie. Each movie should be a complete work, and should exist as its own entity. If a sequel does come, that’s great, but no film should spend its crucial final moment hinting at a continuation of this same storyline; if you wanted to keep telling this single story, you should’ve written a longer script or guaranteed a two- or three-picture deal. Let each project have its own identity.
The Law of Simple Plots:
Storylines don't have to be huge and in-depth; flesh-out a single idea and use dialogue to create the depth for the few scenes presented. A succinct plot requires that the depth come from its setting, pacing, and—most importantly—the interaction of its characters through dialogue. Of course, a simple plot is more often reserved for action films, where set-pieces and long traveling scenes soak-up the runtime. I suggest that, while a complex plot can sometimes be incredibly thorough, comprehensible, and satisfying (i.e. Goodfellas, The Prestige, The Departed) a simple plot that explores its tensions within minimalist, protracted scenes more often than not surpasses a strenuous plot and a superficial and hasty story; getting the opportunity to sit with characters, learn about them, befriend them or hate them, and experience a real-time scene as they would, better puts us into the shoes of the characters, thus making us feel deeper and more complex emotions as it unfurls. (Compare the filmographies of Sidney Lumet, Paul Thomas Anderson, Alfonso Cuarón, Quentin Tarantino, David Fincher, Denis Villeneuve, and the Coen Brothers to the never-ending James Bond franchise, the vast majority of Fast & Furious films, or the works of the likes of Colin Trevorrow, Brett Ratner, Bryan Singer, and Michael Bay.)
The Law of the Scare:
Horror films are comprised of “monsters, mutants, and maniacs”. The scares should come from the story and the suspense and from an actual fear instilled by their perceived threat, which is best attained not only through mood-setting but through developing empathetic characters and putting the ‘vicarious’ character (whoever’s POV we take during a scary moment) in a believable scenario. Jump-scares are a cheap way to spend a scene and are not beneficial to the film overall. Fear should be genuine, and fear should not be swapped-out for ‘being frightened’.
The Law of Imply, Show, Tell:
A horror story is better if it shows more than it tells, and even better if it implies more than it shows: that way, the fear is expanded by your own imagination, and the fright is tailored to each person by their own mind. (In any visual-storytelling circumstance, Implying is better than Showing, and Showing is better than Telling.)
The Law of the Negative Note:
A horror film shouldn't end on a positive note. If it ends well, it undermines the repeated fear delivered earlier in the film; if it ends on an upsetting or startling note, it packs a final punch to the film rather than detracts from it. (See The Conjuring, Final Destination, The Exorcist…)
The Law of Deadlines
Set deadlines for yourself when approaching a writing task—assuming deadlines haven’t been provided. Unavoidable deadlines force the creative juices to start flowing, nullifying writer’s block through sheer, brutal necessity.
The Law of Outlining:
When outlining a story that you will later write, only allow “therefore” and “but” to connect the pieces of your story – never write “and then,” because that implies logical disconnection; your story should flow from one story piece to another with complete clarification. Otherwise, when you sit down to actually write it, your chance of encountering writer’s block is greatly increased.
The Law of Shock & Awe:
The trick to getting people shaken by things they've seen a hundred times is to 1) Establish normalcy, and 2) Ramp things up with tension. For example, in True Detective, season 2, Vince Vaughn’s character rips a guy's teeth out with pliers. We’ve seen this kind of brutality before, but with his character’s backstory explained previously, and a conversation preceding this confrontation, and his winning the fight with significant leverage, the sudden decision for his character to produce pliers and remove the other guy’s teeth is beyond what would be considered ‘normal’ behavior for his character—particularly within this world, which has taken great pains to establish a realism—so by the time we’ve come to this moment, it’s as if it’s happening in our own universe (as opposed to, say, in a Jason Statham movie, where this kind of overreaction is expected within the first thirty minutes) hence why it was as startling as it is.
The Law of the Tight Lip:
When making films, forewarn cast and crew on how to behave in interviews. If asked about their characters or the plot, they shan’t say "Well, her character is the moral backbone of the story" or "My character is the rough rebel who has a heart of gold" or "It's a real rollercoaster ride of betrayal and intrigue"; instead, when aware it's a prying question, politely say, "I've been asked not to discuss aspects of the film that may reveal too much or spoil the story, however [factoid relevant but not revealing]", tailing-off into something promotional and descriptive that doesn’t spoil the film.
The Law of Finding Story Within Narrative:
Think of how 2016’s Passengers scripted an entire backstory and an entire story but told it chronologically—which turned-out to be really boring—however, had they began with the story, then revealed the backstory at the pivotal moment, and then continued the story after we got a fresh view of the circumstances, the narrative would have been a hell of a lot more enjoyable. By not revealing the backstory first, the story is mysterious and we the audience are being given questions as the narrative unfurls. In the Passengers example, the backstory precedes the story, which gives us answers as soon as questions are posed, which is not interesting; then, when the real story begins, and those same questions are asked, not only have we heard the questions before but we know all the answers, and it is not satisfying in the least. You can enliven and lengthen the story by peppering-in or delaying backstory, as opposed to telling the whole thing chronologically. There's no pizazz or wonderment to a chronological story; that's why Inception, Memento, and the Bioshock series are so enthralling: their marrow is in the backstory/story dynamic, and they milk it by retelling the backstory piecemeal, withheld during the experience of the story. – Surely, go ahead and write-out a narrative from beginning to end, but then locate the story within the narrative, and begin there. All questions, answers, and information that come before your beginning should then be peppered-in throughout, in the order that, first and foremost, satisfies the organic flow of the narrative, but ideally is revealed in the order with the most emotional impact. Writing a narrative around story as opposed to simply “writing the story out in parallel to the plot” gives you greater control of the story and of the viewing experience.
(NOTE: The protagonist is not always the most interesting character. The protagonist is purely the character whose perspective allows for the most thorough and effective retelling of the story.)
The Law of Universal Comedy:
They say "most people like farts" but some people don't. The two most universal humors are miscommunication ("are we talking about two different things?") and misinterpretation ("it's not what it looks like!"). Think about The Office, Season 8 Episode 8, when Kevin is talking about cookies and Robert California thinks they're talking about refocusing the business on core performing products, or in the opening scene of The Social Network, when Erica can’t discern what topic Mark is talking about at any given moment, given his scattershot stream of consciousness and disregard for her answers—that's patent miscommunication. Think about Dumb & Dumberer, when Harry wipes a melted chocolate bar all over the bathroom and Bob Saget later thinks it’s Harry’s shit, or in Frasier, Season 5 Episode 3, when five characters reel through nonspecific dialogue and poorly-timed eavesdropping, causing each to sustain a different belief of who’s pregnant and by whom—that’s classic misinterpretation. These together are the backbone to a comedy of errors.
The Law of "Are You Okay?":
Conceived by reddit user scanning079. “I find a lot of TV shows in this thread follow my ‘Are you ok?’ theory of modern storytelling. The timeline goes thus: 1) The show is created with a particular story it wants to tell. 2) The show becomes popular. 3) The show finishes telling its story but is renewed anyways. 4) Having nothing else to say, the writers turn to soap-opera-esque human interest stories. 5) Once a show has its characters saying ‘Are you ok?’ and then having emotionally fraught conversations twice per show…it’s over. – You can’t treat a serialized show as episodic and keep renewing it in perpetuity once the story has been told.”
The Law of Compelling Horror Settings:
Whereas a compelling historical, comedy, or drama narrative is told like a five-part essay, a compelling horror or sci-fi narrative is like exposing only the middle three paragraphs: you're laying out all this explanatory, detail-laden story for the sake of answering a big question (the reason behind the setting you've been plopped into) but you have not posed the question to the audience, so they're learning more and more about “something” without truly knowing what “it” is—what the main question is (the answer they crave); and the continuing supply of details deepens the story world while heightening their interest [and curiosity] about the big question that nags at them: why/how did this scenario come about? The story should thus not endeavor to write its "closing paragraph" since it had no opening paragraph and a conclusion would tie-up the big question (bookending a serial that never had its first bookend propped-up) thereby taking away the fun of curiosity from the audience.
The Law of Inverse Change:
Characters initially designed to be dramatic will end up comedic, and characters initially designed to be comedic will end up dramatic. (Ex: MCU’s Phase One protagonists (the Infinity Stone Saga) as well as nearly all D&D campaigns.)
Original document created 08/29/2013.