Story Stakes

Your #1 Writing Skills Strategy to

Produce a Page-Turner that
Transforms Readers into Raving Fans
of Your Screenplay or Novel
Kindle Edition, v 2.1.2

H. R. D’Costa

Copyright 2014, 2015 H. R. D’Costa. All rights reserved.

Cover image is adapted from Music fans by Dan Markeye, which is

licensed under CC BY 2.0.

This book is also available in paperback. To find the paperback

edition, copy and paste this ISBN into Amazon’s search box: 978-1-
5153-1504-9.

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Storytelling, Simplified
 INTRODUCTION
You’re a writer. You know the dream. It goes something like this:

Sell your screenplay for six figures or write a best-selling novel…

…tell your boss, “From now on, you can get your own coffee...”

…take a much-deserved vacation, to Paris, or perhaps to Hawaii…

…and when you finally return home, make a living through your
writing.

Lost in these fantasies, it’s easy to lose sight of a basic truth: it all
starts with one reader.

How does that big spec sale happen? How does a novel enjoy
massive sales?

First, someone becomes so captivated by your story, he can’t put it

down. He keeps turning the pages, faster and faster, till he’s reached
the very end.

Second, once this reader has finished reading your screenplay or

novel, he doesn’t promptly reach for the next story in his stack of
unread scripts or novels.

Nope.

Before beginning his next reading adventure, he passionately

recommends your story to everyone he knows.

His boss, his colleagues, his friends, his niece, his grandma—to all
of them—his message is the same:
“Read this screenplay. Watch this movie. Buy this book.”

So, how do you begin this process?

How do you capture the attention of one reader, the reader

whose positive recommendation could change your life?

You might think that readers will keep on turning the pages of your
story because they like your protagonist, or think that he’s cool.

But that’s a mistake.

Readers aren’t going to spend hours with James Bond while he sips
one of his signature martinis just because he’s a badass.

They’re not going to hang out with Jerry Maguire while he feeds his
goldfish just because he’s found his conscience.

They’re not going to stick around with Erin Brockovich while she gets
a manicure just because she’s funny and feisty.

I know, I know. These scenarios are boring. I made them that way to
drive home my point.

Even if you jazz up these scenes with more exciting genre elements
—thrills, action, romance, humor, or drama—that’s still not enough to
keep audiences interested for the long haul.

Audiences need something more than just fun. They need something
more than just entertainment.

They need a reason to care about what happens in your story.

This is where story stakes come in.

Because of stakes, your hero can’t walk away from his problem. As a
result, readers won’t be able to walk away from your story.
See, stakes make readers wonder if your protagonist will succeed or
fail at his goal.

It’s a whole new ball game.

Now, your readers will worry about him. Now, they’re under tension.

Finishing your script or novel is no longer optional.

It’s mandatory.

That’s because the ONLY way for readers to relieve this tension is to
keep turning the pages of your story till they reach its end.

They can’t check their voicemail or wash their dishes or fold their
laundry or even go to sleep.

They must keep reading (or watching).

They need to discover how Bond saves the world, how Jerry wins
the girl, and if Erin can bring justice to a small town.

To put it another way, likeability (or coolness, etc.)—even a high-

concept premise—may get your readers in the door, but stakes are
why they stay for supper.

Even if you’ve included nail-biting stakes in your story, you’re not

home free yet. That’s only the first step. You’ve still got to get
readers raving about your screenplay or novel.

To do this, you need to understand one simple little thing: readers

become passionate about the stories that give them the most
intense emotional experience.

Look at Taken, for instance. Kidnapping plots are hardly unique. Yet,
this film blew away the competition and became a blockbuster
success.

How?
The filmmakers took the basic premise, which was emotionally
charged to begin with, and amplified its intensity. They made
audiences root even harder for the hero’s success.

At first, this may seem impossible. Bryan is trying to rescue his

daughter from a prostitution ring—a serious situation. How can
audiences become even more invested in its outcome?

Through skillful manipulation of the story stakes, that’s how.

If you know how to use stakes wisely, you can easily craft stories
that bring readers to the emotional edge—and thus stand out in a
crowded marketplace.

Master story stakes, and you can eclipse the competition. This
writing guide will show you how.

Specifically, we’ll cover:

11 Types of Story Stakes Which Increase Tension and Reader

Engagement

Some of them you already know. A few will be new. At the very least,
you’ll have a convenient list to check the next time you need a new
reason for your hero to save the day, trick your leading lady, or chase
down a suspect.

Plus, we’ll cover best practices. That way, you’ll get the most
mileage out of the stakes you choose to include in your story.

8 Modulating Factors Which Affect the Emotional Impact of the

Stakes

Think of modulating factors like the audio control knobs on a stereo

system. They can either turn up the emotional “volume,” or…they
can mute it.

In other words, through modulating factors, audiences will feel more

(or less) intensely about the same set of story stakes.
Oftentimes, modulating factors are the secret to wringing out the
extra drop of emotion that will give your story an advantage over
others in its genre.

The Story Stake Matrix

This is where we put everything together. It’s a tool that will show
you:

how to use stakes to craft a premise with more commercial

appeal
how to raise the stakes (even when they’re already high)
how to avoid an anticlimactic ending

Let’s focus on that second benefit for a minute.

Several writing guides will tell you that to keep readers glued to the
pages of your story, you’ve got to raise the stakes. But, these books
are frustratingly vague on how to accomplish this career-making
task.

This book is not vague. This book will give you specific strategies
you can use right away to make high stakes feel even higher.

Sounds good, right?

But before we continue, you should be aware of the following:

(1) Unless otherwise indicated, the tips in this book apply equally to
screenplays and novels.

Despite this, I primarily use film examples to illustrate my points.

That’s because movies are more universal.

Chances are greater that you’ve watched, rather than read, The
Silence of the Lambs.
Even if you’re a romance buff, it’s more likely you’ve rented The
Proposal than skimmed a novel entitled Andrew and Margaret’s
Fake Engagement.

On paper, the titles of films adapted from novels (or a TV series)

appear the same as novel (or TV) titles. Customarily, all are
indicated via italics. But since I mainly rely on film examples, unless
otherwise noted, it’s safe to assume I’m referencing the film version
only.

If you’re interested in writing TV procedurals, the tips in this book can

help you write a stronger spec script. But with rare exception, none
of the illustrative examples come from television shows. You’ll have
to use your own judgment to determine how to adapt these tips and
make them work for your situation.

(2) I’ve done my best to pull examples from a variety of genres. But,
I’ll admit, there is a slant toward stories that include action, mystery,
and thrills (including hybrids like action comedies, sci-fi thrillers, and
romantic suspense).

That being said, I’ve included several examples from comedies and
romantic comedies. Additionally, there is a special section with tips
just for romance novelists.

Oh, of course, using lots of examples means there are some spoilers
too.

(3) This guide focuses on (a) the stakes associated with your
protagonist’s overall goal, and (b) how to use them to increase
tension and emotion in your story.

However, stakes can be used for other purposes. I’ll discuss five of
them in a special chapter at the end of this book.

(4) I analyze movies using three-act structure. You might not like
using three-act structure. That’s cool. You can still benefit from this
writing guide.
Where appropriate, just replace Act One with “the beginning,” Act
Two with “the middle,” and Act Three with “the end” of your story.
That way, you’ll be able to make use of all the tips in this book
without any quibbling over structure.

(5) I’m an outliner, or “a plotter.” Personally, I think it’s going to be a

lot easier to incorporate a particular modulating factor, for instance,
when your story’s in outline form.

Even so, if you’re someone who writes on the fly, without an outline,
a.k.a. “a pantser,” you can still get mileage out of this book. Instead
of incorporating the tips discussed herein into your outline, you’ll use
them to evaluate your rough draft and to determine what kind of
changes you might want to make.

(6) Finally, for the sake of simplicity, I tend to stick to masculine

nouns and pronouns.

Okay, that’s all.

To take another step toward enthralled readers, raving fans…and

blockbuster success, continue reading!
 11 TYPES OF STORY STAKES
WHICH INCREASE TENSION AND
READER ENGAGEMENT
- chapter one -

Simply put, stakes are the negative consequences of failure.

If your protagonist fails to achieve his goal, bad things will happen.

Very bad things.

(Of course, the definition of bad varies across genres.)

Specifically, stakes are the reason why your hero cannot walk away
from dangerous or unpleasant tasks.

In action movies, the price of failure is often death; in romances, it’s

a broken heart.

While loss of life and loss of happiness are commonly used as story
stakes, there are, as you’ll discover, plenty of others. For your
convenience, here is a list of the 11 major types of story stakes we’ll
discuss in this chapter:

general protection
demise
livelihood
freedom
reputation
sanity
access
 regret
suffering and sacrifice
justice
hero happiness

For a deeper exploration of each, keep reading!

 Stake Type #1: General Protection
Typically found in action movies, thrillers, and fantasy & science-
fiction, general stakes involve the fate of a collective group residing
in a particular location:

a bus (Speed)
a post-apocalyptic city (Divergent)
a fairy tale kingdom (Snow White & the Huntsman)
a nation (Braveheart)
a continent (Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows)
an empire (Gladiator)
a planet (Star Trek (2009))
an entire galaxy (Star Wars)

If the hero fails in his quest, this location and all of its inhabitants
may be completely destroyed. Alternately, this location may still
exist, but its citizens will be governed by gross tyranny (which, I’d
argue, is an even worse fate).

Whatever the consequence, stakes of general protection focus on

how the hero’s failure will affect others, not on how it will affect him
personally.

Sometimes, stakes of protection revolve around a specific individual

rather than the population of a certain place.

This usually happens when the protagonist’s profession requires him

to keep others safe. If he fails in his duties, then innocent or powerful
people will die or suffer great harm.

For instance, the protagonist could be:

an FBI agent trying to save a bunch of beauty pageant

contestants (Miss Congeniality)
 a Secret Service agent trying to save the president (In the Line
of Fire)
a DEA agent trying to protect an important witness (Traffic)
a US Navy lawyer trying to acquit two marines accused of
murder (A Few Good Men)
a forensic psychologist trying to rescue a kidnapped girl (Along
Came a Spider)

While stakes of general protection form the cornerstone of many

action movies and thrillers, so does our next type of story stake…
 Stake Type #2: Demise
When these stakes are in play, the penalty is death. However, unlike
stakes of general protection, these stakes emphasize what the hero
will personally lose.

If he fails at the climax, someone precious to him will die.

In a medical thriller, this loved one may contract the deadly virus that
threatens the whole nation. In a horror film or paranormal romance,
this person might experience a metaphorical death and lose his or
her soul.

But, on the whole, if stakes of demise are in play, the means are
usually not that creative. The villain simply plans to kill this person
outright.

For instance, in Die Hard, the general stakes consist of the Nakatomi
Plaza employees Hans Gruber has taken hostage. Unfortunately for
hero John McClane, one of these hostages is his estranged wife.

The threat to her life comprises the stakes of demise. If McClane

doesn’t thwart Gruber, it will be game over for the hostages and Mrs.
McClane (or Ms. Gennaro if you prefer).

Writers sometimes complain that the hero’s loved one always gets
taken hostage by the end of a movie. They resolutely vow not to fall
prey to this cliché.

But it’s commonplace for a reason.

Returning to the Die Hard franchise helps explain why. In the DVD
commentary for Live Free or Die Hard, director Len Wiseman
discusses why he wanted to change the script so that McClane
would have to save his daughter Lucy:
“At the end of the day, somebody who’s out to save the United
States…you know, a pretty bold mission, I think people can’t connect
so much with a larger idea like that, and if there’s something
emotional, some kind of personal hook, I thought the people would
connect to it better.”

Later on, actor Bruce Willis will equate Lucy’s kidnapping scene to
the classic movie staple of tying the female heroine to the railroad
tracks. In response, Wiseman adds:

“The whole motivation for McClane, even if he had this mission of

saving the United States and the whole infrastructure is going to be
taken down, and he’s got to save that…people can’t connect so
much with that…people don’t personally respond to that, but you can
understand losing or trying to get to someone you care about.”

And if those observations don’t convince you, listen to the director’s

DVD commentary for Die Hard 2. Renny Harlin expresses the exact
same sentiment!

So you see, John McClane doesn’t consistently suffer stakes of

demise because the filmmakers run out of creativity during each
movie’s production. He’s the unluckiest cop in America because his
personal tragedies make his experiences more accessible, and
consequently, elicit the strongest emotional response from
audiences.

This raises an interesting point: are general stakes necessary at all?

Can audiences enjoy a film (or novel) where there are no general
stakes, no larger mission?

The heroes of Taken, the first Red film, and the Bourne franchise are
all CIA-trained operatives, but none of them are, as is typically the
case, trying to save the world…just their own skin.

Since these films were massive hits, the answer seems to be a

resounding yes. Emulating this strategy could be just the ticket to
putting a fresh spin on your next thriller!
So far, in this discussion of stakes of demise, we’ve mainly focused
on the death of someone precious to the hero.

What about the hero himself?

If he’s about to die by the villain’s hand, isn’t his life at stake too?

The answer to that question, unfortunately, isn’t entirely

straightforward. We’ll return to it later on, when we discuss the story
stake matrix.
 Stake Type #3: Livelihood
With stakes of livelihood, if the protagonist doesn’t achieve his goal,
then he (or someone precious to him) will lose gainful employment.

If this setback only signifies that the protagonist will have to stop
indulging in his gourmet cheese addiction, these stakes will have no
bite.

Losing his job should jeopardize his own survival or his ability to
support people he loves—a spouse, siblings, children, etc.

These stakes are especially effective when combined with any of the
following:

The protagonist has invested significant resources to achieve

his current position.
The protagonist had to fight against parental disapproval or
societal constraints to get where he is.
The position itself is rare and difficult to obtain.
The position is inextricably connected to the protagonist’s self-
esteem.
The protagonist is unlikely to find future employment elsewhere.

To illustrate, let’s examine Night at the Museum. Larry’s been hired

as the evening watchman at the Museum of Natural History.
Unbeknownst to him, after the sun sets, the museum exhibits come
to life. He must handle the ensuing chaos without losing his mind—
or his life.

Now, I don’t know about your taste in movies. You may think Night is
an idiotic film. (I, for one, was annoyed by the extended antics with
the monkey, although, as a whole, I think the movie provides decent
family entertainment.)
But, I think we can both agree that it’s a high-concept premise, the
kind that makes a studio executive’s eyes light up with dollar signs.

So, let’s say you had developed a saleable concept like that. And
you were having a blast coming up with lots of hilarious ways for the
museum exhibits to wreak havoc for Larry.

Like the stunt in the movie with Rexy, the dinosaur skeleton who
likes to play fetch with a giant bone, as if he were a cuddly puppy
and not a carnivorous reptile. In a nice touch, the bone, by the way,
is taken from Rexy’s own body!

As fans of Blake Snyder’s screenwriting guide Save the Cat might

say, you nailed the “fun and games.” You’ve come up with good stuff.
But, it’s not enough.

Here’s why: Larry doesn’t have to grapple with the unruly museum
exhibits. He could just quit and avoid this headache altogether.

Problem solved…

…plot over…

…no more fun and games.

Enter stakes of livelihood.

To keep the plot going, while maintaining both credibility and comic
mayhem, the story gives audiences several reasons why Larry can’t
leave his traumatic job. For one thing, he’s in poor financial straits.
He needs the money to pay his rent (and remove the boot from his
car).

With his spotty job history, he’s unlikely to find another position
elsewhere. (Actually, it was a trial for him to even land the watchman
job in the first place.)

We’re not done yet. There’s still one more issue to address. Larry’s
the kind of guy who avoids adversity rather than trying to overcome
it.

This personality defect gives Larry the opportunity for character

growth. But, it also means that even with his financial problems, he
will be tempted to give up and quit.

In fact, at one point in the movie, he does!

The filmmakers could’ve changed Larry’s personality, which would

have ironed out this wrinkle, but that would’ve effectively wrecked
Larry’s character arc, and possibly, still strained credibility. Instead,
to keep Larry motivated, the filmmakers deepened the stakes,
connecting Larry’s job to his relationship with his son, Nicky.

At the film’s beginning, Larry feels emasculated because his ex-

wife’s new boyfriend is able to provide Nicky and her with the
luxurious lifestyle Larry cannot. Even worse, Larry’s ex-wife is
worried about Larry’s lack of stability.

If Larry doesn’t get his life together, she will minimize his contact with
Nicky. (Technically, this threat brings another kind of stake into the
picture. We’ll go into more particulars when we reach stake type #7.)

Later, the story will zoom in on the way Nicky perceives his dad.
Larry’s ex-wife fears that Nicky won’t be able to handle being
disappointed by his dad again. Her fears are not unjustified. Nicky,
too, is starting to entertain doubts about his dad’s ability to hold
down a job and fulfill his promises.

To Larry, this is worst of all. To avoid having his son think he is a

loser, Larry must keep his hellacious job as the night watchman.

These are great stakes.

They make it easy to buy into the idea that Larry will do whatever it
takes to keep his job, tame the unruly museum exhibits, and impress
his son. It’s something that audiences can understand, relate to, and
most important, root for.
To put it another way, the stakes give audiences a reason to care
about what happens, to fully and wholeheartedly invest in Larry’s
comedic adventures.

Can you see how stakes, when well applied, can enhance the overall
quality of your own story?

In this example, the stakes keep the plot going, enable Larry to have
a meaningful character arc, and fuel the emotional core at the heart
of the comedy. If you, like the filmmaking team behind Night at the
Museum, harness the power of stakes, your story could enjoy similar
blockbuster success.

Note: Although they both involve employment, stakes of livelihood do

not encompass failure to get a promotion. That’s because the losses
they incur are not equivalent.

In the former, failure means the protagonist will be divested of all

means of survival.

In the case of the latter, if he fails, the protagonist might be unhappy

and dissatisfied. Nevertheless, he will still have his original position
and the income it provides.

Hence, pursuit of a promotion is categorized by another stake type:

hero happiness. We’ll explore these stakes in more depth at the end
of this chapter.
 Stake Type #4: Freedom
When these stakes are in play, if the hero fails to achieve his goal,
he (or someone precious to him) will lose his freedom, often through
some system of confinement.

At first, you might think that the threat of incarceration is limited to

thrillers and dramas. However, these stakes can be found in a
variety of genres.

By the end of both workplace comedies 9 to 5 and Horrible Bosses,

the protagonists must outwit their employers not just to keep their
jobs but also to avoid lengthy jail sentences.

And in the fantasy Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Harry
must confront the villain (and the villain’s basilisk) in order to
preserve the freedom of his friend, Hagrid, who is about to be sent to
Azkaban, a prison for Great Britain’s magical community. (That’s one
reason, at any rate.)

While these examples focus on jail, confinement certainly isn’t

limited to a prison cell. Characters who are trapped in a particular
time (Back to the Future), place (The Truman Show), or time and
place (Groundhog Day) also lack freedom. The outcome of the
climax will determine whether these protagonists will regain their
personal liberty.

In addition to geography and time, forms of entrapment can also

encompass states of being and circumstance. For instance, in
Avatar, Jake Sully’s spinal injuries keep him confined to a
wheelchair. The title of Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the
Black Pearl says it all: the pirates are trapped by a curse.

In mysteries, suspects may be driven to murder because they’ve

become entrapped by blackmail. In domestic dramas, the heroine (or
hero) could be trapped in an emotionally controlling relationship.
In thrillers, an antagonist, driven by the desire to kill or capture the
hero, may relentlessly pursue him. No matter the slant put upon the
antagonist’s intentions, the outcome is the same: the hero will not
enjoy true freedom until the final confrontation with his pursuer—
assuming a happy ending—liberates the hero for good.
 Stake Type #5: Reputation
Here’s an admonition, commonly attributed to Socrates, which you
may’ve come across before:

“Regard your good name as the richest jewel you can possibly be
possessed of—for credit is like fire; when once you have kindled it,
you may easily preserve it, but if you once extinguish it, you will find
it an arduous task to rekindle it again.”

In light of this comparison, it’s easy to see why stakes of reputation

—whether they involve someone’s good name, legacy, or honor—
incite protagonists to take action.

Practically speaking, the protagonist’s reputation will typically be

under siege at the outset of the story. Alternatively, the protagonist
may begin in possession of a glowing reputation, but the choices he
(or the antagonist) makes during the protagonist’s journey bring it
into disrepute.

Either way, the outcome of the climax will either restore the
protagonist’s reputation or mar it forever.

Stakes of reputation are especially effective when tied to other

stakes, like livelihood or freedom. For example, if a hero is framed
for a crime he didn’t commit, he must clear his name to preserve
both his reputation and his freedom.

The Fugitive and Mission: Impossible IV are examples of this model.

The latter, however, differs significantly from the former in one key
respect. In The Fugitive, only Richard Kimble’s fate hangs in the
balance. In Mission IV, Ethan Hunt must reclaim his reputation while,
simultaneously, saving general stakes from disaster.

That’s just one variation. There are plenty more. Your protagonist
doesn’t have to be framed in order for stakes of reputation to have
emotional weight.
Look at historical novels. A heroine will often have to zealously guard
her reputation—or face grave consequences. Since most methods of
employment would be prohibited to her, unless she were
independently wealthy, marriage would likely be her only hope of
survival. A good reputation could help her secure an advantageous
marriage, and thus ensure her future. A scandalous reputation could
ruin those prospects entirely.

No murder, no world-saving mission. Yet, in this context, these

stakes are very much a matter of life and death.

So far, we’ve focused on how stakes of reputation affect a

protagonist’s immediate situation. But, perhaps, your hero is not just
worried about his current state of affairs. Perhaps, he’s also
concerned about the legacy he leaves behind.

Take Iron Man. Regretting that he’s built his fortune by profiting from
war, Tony vows that Stark Industries will reverse course and cease
manufacturing weapons. With this decision, Tony can rest easy that
his legacy won’t be one of death and destruction.

Obadiah Stane has other ideas in mind. He intends to kill Tony and
take over Stark Industries. That would be bad enough on its own, but
that’s not all Obadiah wants.

In addition, Obadiah plans to apply life-saving technology, which

Tony has developed and hopes to use for good, to manufacture
more powerful weapons. This would ruin Tony’s legacy—making
Tony’s dire predicament even worse.

Stakes pertaining to reputation are often overlooked by beginners

who gravitate toward stakes that are literally a matter of life and
death. Although, on the surface, stakes of reputation may not seem
that exciting, don’t underestimate their power.

They can add extra richness and nuance to the standard action plot,
elevating your story above the competition. Not only that, they have
tremendous ability to elicit an even deeper degree of emotional
investment from audiences.

In fact, they are a great way to raise the stakes, when the stakes are
already high to begin with. We’ll discuss this idea in greater detail
when we explore the story stake matrix.
 Stake Type #6: Sanity
These stakes are in play when failure will trigger an alteration to the
consciousness of the protagonist (or someone he loves).

These individuals may lose their minds. Their memories may be

tampered with. In their most egregious manifestation, these stakes
are merged with stakes of freedom to produce mind control. If the
hero fails, then he (and likely other characters), will have their minds
controlled and manipulated by the antagonist.

Although stakes of sanity are not often used, when they are put into
play, they can be quite chilling and effective. In Minority Report, for
example, the threat of confinement (stakes of freedom) feels even
more horrifying because it is accompanied by a tampering of the
prisoner’s consciousness.

We didn’t really cover this earlier on, but the loss of sanity can be
paired with stakes of general protection to provide a unique, albeit
perverse, twist on the standard “save the world” plot.

In Batman Begins, the villain doesn’t intend to kill the citizens of

Gotham outright. Instead, by distilling the hallucinogenic properties
of a rare blue flower and polluting their drinking water with it, he
plans to drive them all insane with fear.

He can then take a step back and sadistically watch from the
sidelines as Gotham’s finest turn against each other and destroy
their city themselves.
 Stake Type #7: Access
When these stakes are invoked, the protagonist will lose access to
someone meaningful to him, or in some cases, an entire community
(as in the Amish practice of shunning, for example).

In perhaps their most poignant manifestation, these story stakes

involve the relationship between parent and child. If the protagonist
fails to achieve his goal, then he will lose contact with his children.
Indeed, custody battles are fertile grounds for both conflict and story
stakes.

These stakes can elicit a strong emotional response whether the

parent has always realized the worth of his children (as in Mrs.
Doubtfire), or has, through the course of his journey, come to that
realization (as in Liar Liar).

The emotional core of Inception also revolves around stakes of

access. Unlike the above examples, there’s a slightly different
emphasis. If Dom Cobb fails, he will not lose access to his children,
but rather, his chance to regain it.

In all three of these films, regardless of the hero’s success, the

children’s health and safety are assured. If that is not the case (as in
the drug-addict-daughter plot thread in Traffic), then stakes of
demise are in play, not stakes of access.

Sometimes, the focus of these stakes isn’t on access to a person,

but on access to a specific place—oftentimes a home. Whether
these lodgings consist of a medieval European castle, a log cabin on
the Western frontier, or a standard subdivision clone, the threat of
losing home ownership contains great emotional power.

As a variation of this idea, examine the second Harry Potter film. In

it, Harry must discover (and subdue) whatever’s lurking around in
The Chamber of Secrets.
If he doesn’t, not only will Hagrid go to prison, but Hogwarts will also
close. Since the school of witchcraft and wizardry provides Harry
with nurturing and affection which is absent from his home life, this
loss is significant. As such, it adds even more emotional resonance
to the other stakes already in play.
 Stake Type #8: Regret
Stakes of regret typically manifest in one of two ways. The first is
what I like to call the “missed opportunity” variation.

In it, the protagonist entertains some kind of dream. Furthermore, it’s

usually something that he could’ve easily accomplished if he had put
his mind to it.

Unfortunately, due to fear, misplaced priorities, or some other

reason, he didn’t act soon enough. Now, the inciting incident has
turned his world topsy-turvy, precluding him from acting on this
desire at all.

Consequently, failure at the climax doesn’t just mean that the

protagonist will fail to accomplish the overall goal driving the main
plot. Failure will also trigger the sting of regret.

Success, too, contains double meaning. If the hero wins, it doesn’t

just mean that he will save the day.

It gives him a second chance.

It reopens a window of opportunity that would’ve been permanently

closed to him had he failed in his mission.

For instance, because of setup established at the beginnings of

Collateral, The Fellowship of the Ring, and Taken, audiences know
that Max wants to start his own limo service, Sam wants to ask
Rosie Cotton to dance, and Bryan wants to make up for past
parental neglect, respectively.

Actually, to Bryan’s credit, he was in the midst of trying to make

amends to his daughter, but was interrupted midway. Nevertheless,
he shares the same fate as the other protagonists listed above.
Should they fail in their overall missions, they will never regain the
opportunity to realize their secondary desires.
As a practical note, it’s not mandatory for audiences to witness your
hero achieving this secondary desire by the end of your story. In
Collateral, audiences don’t see Max launch his own business; it’s
enough for them to know that he can, having bested the villain, avail
himself of this opportunity.

All the same, the achievement of your hero’s secondary desire will
likely yield potent fodder for the resolution of your screenplay or
novel—as is the case in both Taken and Fellowship. (Although, in
the latter, it should be noted, this resolution won’t be depicted until
The Return of the King.)

In the second common manifestation of stakes of regret, emphasis is

placed on redemption rather than missed opportunity.

The hero had an opportunity in the past—took it—and failed. Ever

since, he’s been plagued by regret or guilt.

Flash-forward to the present.

The hero is given a goal which, in some way, echoes the goal he
failed to achieve before. This is his chance to redeem himself—and
he knows it.

If he succeeds now, he will not only save the day in the present, he
will also be relieved of the regret haunting him from the past.

The Silence of the Lambs utilizes this technique with great

sophistication. Orphaned, Clarice Starling was sent to live with
distant relatives on a Montana ranch. One morning, she woke up to
a strange sound, the sound of lambs screaming. She tried to free the
animals, but they wouldn’t leave their pens.

Because they wouldn’t leave, she did. Carrying one lamb with her,
Clarice ran away as fast as she could. She didn’t get far. When she
was brought back to the ranch, the rancher was so mad by what she
had done, he sent her to a Lutheran orphanage.
He also killed the lamb she had tried to rescue. To this day, she still
wakes up, terrorized by the sound of lambs screaming.

Now a promising FBI agent, Clarice has come a long way since then.
Even so, her guilt over her inability to have rescued even one little
lamb continues to plague her.

If, in the present, she can save a young woman from a serial killer, it
will redeem Clarice for her past failure. Alleviated of guilt, perhaps
Clarice will no longer be haunted by the cries of the lambs.

In all of the examples above, you’ll notice that there are greater
stakes in play than stakes of regret. (As a matter of fact, stakes of
regret can never stand alone. They must be connected to another
type of story stake.)

In Collateral, if Max doesn’t follow Vincent’s instructions, Max might

be the hit man’s next target. In the Lord of the Rings trilogy, if Sam
doesn’t help Frodo destroy the ring of power, all of Middle-earth
could perish.

In Taken, if Bryan doesn’t find his daughter, she could be raped or

even killed. In Silence, if Clarice doesn’t find the serial killer in time,
he will claim yet another victim.

In the context of these stakes, do audiences even care about the

protagonists’ personal demons?

Yes, actually, they do.

Few (if any) readers have experience with hit men or prostitution
rings or serial killers. None, I’d wager, have ever gone toe-to-toe
against a malicious eye of flame.

Regret, on the other hand, is something audiences can instantly

relate to. They’ve made regret’s acquaintance; they have felt his
bitter sting. They know him far more intimately than they could ever
come to know Middle-earth.
This familiarity deepens their identification even further, giving them
a more poignant experience—and gaining you a more powerful
story.

There’s another benefit at work, too. Overcoming regret isn’t as

exciting as, let’s say, flying. Yet, for many, it is equally as impossible.
When heroes get to say good-bye to their regret, audiences can
vicariously partake in this experience.

Their own emotional burdens lighten, if only just a little. As a

storyteller, this is, perhaps, one of the greatest gifts you can bestow
on the world.
Stake Type #9: Suffering and Sacrifice
Like stakes of regret, there’s an element of contingency embodied
within stakes of suffering and sacrifice. If the hero wins, he will save
the girl, save the world, save the day.

Meaningful in its own right, sure, but in this case, it has additional
significance: it means that his suffering was worthwhile, that his
sacrifices were not made in vain.

Consider the alternative, and you’ll see how powerful these stakes
can be. If the hero fails, it means that all the pain he has endured, all
the sacrifices he has made…were pointless. A terrifying thought, and
one whose universality gives these stakes an added edge.

Now that we’ve examined stakes of suffering and sacrifice in

tandem, let’s look at them individually.

Stakes of Suffering

Without hardship, there’s little conflict in your story, and you’re

stripping it of any entertainment value. That’s one reason to give
your hero several obstacles to overcome throughout the middle of
your story. Stakes of suffering provide another.

Each time your hero overcomes an ordeal, you add more suffering to
his balance sheet. The price of defeat becomes higher.

Failure doesn’t just mean that Frank will lose a prestigious horse
race (Seabiscuit), that Greg won’t get engaged (Meet the Parents),
or that Riggs and Murtaugh won’t nab the bad guys (Lethal Weapon
2).

Failure also means that Frank (and Seabiscuit) underwent painful

rehabilitation, that Greg took a humiliating lie detector test, and that
Murtaugh spent all night sitting on a toilet with a bomb rigged to it…
…in vain.

In other words, through stakes of suffering, audiences become even

more emotionally invested in the outcome of the climax because its
consequences have grown in meaning.

Conversely, audiences can become rather apathetic toward the

climax because the hero hasn’t suffered at all.

Thus, to a certain degree, every story makes use of these stakes.

Well, I should amend that. Every well-crafted story incorporates
stakes of suffering by putting the hero through a variety of ordeals
during Act Two.

Even if you’re sure that you’ve put your protagonist through his
paces throughout your story, be on the lookout for ways to add to
your protagonist’s balance sheet of suffering.

Interestingly, in an early draft of As Good As It Gets (written by Mark

Andrus and dated May 1992), Melvin Udall easily procures a
physician to check up on Carol’s sick son at her apartment. House
calls are pricey, but money’s not a problem for Melvin.

In the final film version however, Melvin endures greater suffering

than a blow to his bank account. The physician is no mere random
medical professional; he’s the husband of Melvin’s publisher. And
Melvin has to grovel to get her to even ask her husband to perform
this favor.

Melvin’s prostration is especially noteworthy because Melvin hates to

yield the upper hand. Despite his aversion, he humbles himself
anyway. Hence, audiences become more invested in his quest to win
over Carol (even when, shortly thereafter, his bout of groveling is
followed by his typical rudeness).

Technically, you could say that in this example, Melvin’s suffering

embodies a specific kind of ordeal: the sacrifice of his pride. Which
brings us to…
Stakes of Sacrifice

Stakes of sacrifice are exactly what they sound like. A key character
has to give up something of value, usually for the greater good. This
character, in essence, may choose to place precedence on one
stake over another (often his own chances of happiness; see stake
type #11).

Since they involve a specific kind of ordeal, stakes of sacrifice are

not used as extensively as stakes of suffering.

Typically:

The hero must give up something in order to embark on his

journey and pursue his Act Two goal.
The hero is offered a way out, but refuses, in order to save
others.
The hero must sacrifice something precious to him in order to
forge ahead.
Someone precious to the hero makes a sacrifice (often of his or
her own life or happiness) so the hero can advance toward the
climax.

The Return of the King provides us with an interesting variation to

study. To save Middle-earth, Aragorn does everything he can to help
Frodo destroy the ring of power. But the stakes for Aragorn run more
personal than that.

If he fails, his love interest, Arwen, will die. That would be bad
enough. The story manages the near-impossible and makes this dire
situation feel even worse.

How?

Through the power of sacrifice.

As an elf, Arwen had the chance to leave Middle-earth and enjoy a
peaceful, immortal life elsewhere. Having faith in Aragorn, she
forsakes this opportunity. If Aragorn (and Frodo) fail, her sacrifice will
have been made in vain.

Because she had a way out—and didn’t take it—her potential death
is even more poignant than if she were an average Middle-earth
maiden, who, although equally doomed, would not be in a position to
make such a sacrifice in the first place.

When martyrdom entails death, sacrifice is fairly easy to

conceptualize. If you’re writing the type of story where your hero
can’t give up his own life, it becomes trickier to devise sacrifices that
carry emotional weight. But it’s not impossible.

Look at Erin Brockovich. Erin and Ed must take PG&E to court to

make the utility company pay for its crimes. In a bold move which
paid off, screenwriter Susannah Grant and director Steven
Soderbergh chose to downplay the courtroom drama and focus on
other elements of the story—especially the personal sacrifices Erin
makes along the way.

For instance, in one scene, Erin’s boyfriend tells her, on the phone,
that her youngest daughter said her first word that day:

“We had a pretty big event around here…Beth…started talking.

We’re all sitting around at lunch, and she pointed at a ball and said,
‘ball.’ Out of the blue like that. It was pretty intense, seeing
somebody’s first word.”

Recognizing what she’s lost, in response, Erin cries.

She knows that if she hadn’t been working on the PG&E case, then
she probably would have been at home to hear that precious word.
Her dedication to the case—to justice—cost her one of the greatest
joys of parenthood.
Notice that this scene, while heartbreaking, does nothing to advance
the plot. It’s not needed to show how Erin eventually achieves
victory. Although it slows down the momentum of the story, its
inclusion is extremely beneficial. By learning about one of the prices
Erin pays to continue her journey, audiences are likely to be even
more invested in its outcome than they were originally.

In romances, the sacrifices made by the hero or heroine tend to

follow certain patterns. In order to secure love (and, hence,
happiness), the hero or heroine must sacrifice the protective
mechanisms they’ve used to keep others at bay, and
correspondingly, stave off the pain of rejection.

This is true of every reluctant protagonist in a romance. Depending

on your plot, this protective mechanism may take on a specialized
external form. It could be:

false pretenses or a disguise

a relationship that enables the protagonist to remain emotionally
shallow (think of Jerry Maguire’s relationship with Avery)
preoccupation with his or her career or professional
advancement

Whatever the external form may be, the hero or heroine will have to
shed—or sacrifice—it in order to achieve their goal of true love.

As a romantic comedy, The Proposal follows tradition to a T, but

goes even one better, using stakes of sacrifice to overcome a major
credibility hurdle. To keep her job, Margaret desperately needs
Andrew to pretend to be her fiancé, a pretense that could send them
both to jail. Plus, Andrew doesn’t like Margaret all that much (not yet,
anyway).

Andrew, quite logically, balks at the plan to shackle himself to his

demanding boss. But Margaret browbeats him into compliance—
quite believably—by reminding him of all the sacrifices he has
already made to get where he is:
“Bob is gonna fire you the second I’m gone. Guaranteed. That
means you’re out on the street alone looking for a job. That means
all the time that we spent together, all the lattes, all the canceled
dates, all the midnight Tampax runs, were all for nothing, and all your
dreams of being an editor are gone.”

In other words, if Andrew refuses to go along with Margaret’s

scheme, all of his sacrifices (including those embarrassing tampon
purchases!) will’ve been made in vain, and all his chances of
advancement will evaporate. Understandably, the threat of these
possibilities is terrifying enough to secure Andrew’s cooperation,
reluctance notwithstanding.

Having silenced credibility monitors, which could have raised a

ruckus over Andrew’s acquiescence, the story can merrily proceed
toward its inevitable happy ending.
 Stake Type #10: Justice
Once they understand the basic premise of your story, most (if not
all) audience members will have a general wish to see the bad guy
defeated. Stakes of justice invoke a more intense feeling than this
basic yearning.

To put them into play, the antagonist must commit a truly heinous
crime, either against the hero or another character. Audiences’
desire to see the antagonist punished—and justice served—fuels
their emotional involvement in the climax.

The way they see it, if the bad guys go down, then a fundamental
wrong will, to a certain degree, be redressed. But if the hero fails,
then the scales of justice will remain imbalanced.

If your hero turns vigilante, exacting justice outside the realms of the
law, justice morphs into revenge. For the sake of simplicity, I’ll only
use the term justice, although the principles discussed below apply
to both.

The effectiveness of these stakes (as pertaining to the climax) is a

function of two factors: (1) the egregiousness of the antagonist’s
crime, and (2) how much time elapses before the climax
commences.

As for the first factor, like with so much of storytelling, it’s entirely
dependent on context. In action movies, the heinous act often
involves the murder of the hero’s loved one (Salt’s husband), severe
bodily harm to the protagonist (Watson in Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock
Holmes), or both (Irene and Holmes in Sherlock Holmes: A Game of
Shadows).

In the female-driven blockbuster comedies 9 to 5 and Legally

Blonde, sexual harassment comprises the heinous act. In the sci-fi
thriller Minority Report, the villain tries to manipulate the hero into
committing murder by preying on the hero’s grief for his dead son.
Nasty, nasty stuff.

With regard to the second factor, the effect of these stakes tends to
wane over time. Even when the crime is horrific, if it happens early
on in your story, it might not be powerful enough to fire up stakes of
justice at the climax.

For this reason, it’s usually best for the antagonist to execute his
heinous crime right at the end of Act Two, immediately prior to the
climax.

As an added benefit, when such a violation occurs at this point, it

doesn’t just add fuel to your story stakes. It can help you avoid the
dreaded “saggy” middle by doubling up as your trough of hell. (This
is my term for the setbacks the hero experiences prior to the climax.
You might call this the “all is lost” moment. They’re the same.)

It may seem rather manipulative to kill off a character just to liven up

the middle of your story.

And it is.

But if you want to elicit the maximum degree of emotion from

audiences—not just some emotion, but the maximum amount—you
have to use a somewhat calculated approach.

Now, I should warn you: using stakes of justice can easily backfire.

Proceed with caution.

If you use too light a touch, if the crime isn’t egregious enough, and
your hero is especially gung-ho about taking down everyone in his
path, the carnage won’t emotionally impact audiences the way you
may intend.

This is not that common a problem though. More frequently,

audiences complain that the writer or filmmaker has gone too far,
that the level of violence is gratuitous. They’re so appalled, they
disengage from the story altogether.

The adaptation of The General’s Daughter is a good example. The

end of the second act concludes with a flashback, specifically to a
graphic depiction of rape. Critics of the film felt this violence was
excessive and unnecessary.

But to director Simon West, these graphic scenes are vital, and not
exploitative. As he explains in the DVD commentary:

“It’s always very tricky with a subject like this. I wanted to be sure
that we weren’t being exploitative or glorifying the violence. But I also
wanted to make sure the scene was horrific enough that you became
emotionally engaged in this girl’s story, and that the word rape wasn’t
just bandied around as a meaningless crime. You actually had to see
how terrible the event was, so that you could sympathize 100% with
her, so you understood how big of a betrayal it was when her father
let her down and didn’t deal with the situation.”

Now that we know both points of view, let’s review the events of the
film. Its ending consists of three climactic encounters, two of which
pit the hero, Paul, against the victim’s father, a powerful general.

When the first encounter begins, it seems like the general could
have murdered his daughter. On its own, this crime is certainly
egregious enough to get audiences emotionally invested in this
confrontation.

The horror they witnessed just a few minutes prior heightens this
investment, but it’s not necessary to generate it. At this point, you
could argue that depicting the rape scene is largely unnecessary.

During this confrontation, it transpires that the general did not murder
his daughter. However, he had covered up the rape in order to
protect the reputation of the army. Because audiences witness the
horror of the rape themselves, they experience the true extent of the
general’s betrayal.
Consequently, they want to see the general go down. They want to
see him pay. They want to see justice being served.

And it’s the intensity of that emotion which sustains their involvement
in the tail end of this confrontation as well as the entirety of the
second one, when, it should be noted, the actual killer has been
caught and there’s no other standalone stake in play.

If stakes of justice achieved their objective, then the ending would be

deeply involving.

If they were absent altogether, then the ending would lack emotional
resonance.

If they failed, then audiences would completely disengage.

Simon West decided to take on the risk.

The question is, would you?

 Stake Type #11: Hero Happiness
With these stakes, the protagonist has pinned his happiness to a
certain “prize.”

If he succeeds at the climax, and wins this prize, then his future
happiness is ensured. If he fails, he will be devastated.

The prize can be anything; the sky’s the limit.

But it pays to be specific.

What does your hero believe will truly make him happy?

If it’s an abstract concept like power, success, glory, wealth, or love,

then you must define it specifically, linking its acquisition to a
concrete object or item audiences can more easily conceptualize,
and then, explain to audiences why your protagonist harbors this
attitude.

In The Devil Wears Prada, Andy defines success as obtaining a

prestigious journalism position. This will gain her better “street cred”
than her stint at Runway magazine. Plus, it will validate her
expensive college education as well as her decision to eschew law
school—a career path forcefully propounded by her father, who
presumably had to foot all those college tuition bills.

Hero happiness, of course, is a part of all the other stakes we’ve

discussed so far. Obviously, a hero’s going to be overjoyed about
avoiding prison or defying death.

However, two qualities distinguish stakes of hero happiness from the

others. Nothing else is at stake besides the hero’s future
contentment, and furthermore, this contentment is presented as an
acquisition of gain rather than the avoidance of loss.

I know, I know. Anything can be couched in different terms.

Gaining love or winning a trophy can be rephrased as avoiding
unhappiness. It’s a matter of emphasis, and when people think of
prizes, sentiment leans toward positive framing.

Generally speaking, heroes pursue a certain prize because it will

make them feel better about themselves. When this motivation is
underscored, stakes of happiness become especially evocative.

For instance, throughout Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the

Black Pearl, Captain Jack Sparrow constantly tries to reclaim the
Pearl.

Why does he pursue her with such passion?

Not because of market value, but manhood.

He must have her back because his self-worth is tied to his

possession of the ship. It’s an unconventional choice, one of the
many that propelled the Pirates of the Caribbean films to the top of
the box office.

Incidentally, emphasizing esteem enhances the resonance of all

stakes. Unlike Jack, the heroines of Legally Blonde and Miss
Congeniality are not pursuing their climactic goals for their own
gratification. Indeed, other stakes dwarf their personal happiness.
Even so, their eventual victories are more satisfying to experience
because they validate each woman’s feelings of self-worth.

Invoking the specter of past trauma is another way to enhance the

emotional resonance of stakes of happiness. Audiences will become
more emotionally involved in a character’s quest, if, in the past, this
character has lost the particular prize he seeks in the present.

Juno is a good example. Vanessa Loring tried to adopt a baby

before, but in a devastating turnaround, the birth mother reneged on
their agreement at the last minute.
This tidbit from Vanessa’s backstory isn’t dwelled on. It’s mentioned
once, with only a few lines of dialogue. But this small detail makes
the ending, when Vanessa finally gets to hold her baby in her arms,
so much more poignant.

In a romance, it’s imperative that you show audiences why the hero
and heroine can obtain the prize of love only through each other.

You can’t just say they are well matched; you have to prove it.

Here’s why: if the hero can replace the heroine with another girl, then
the loss of the heroine’s love shouldn’t devastate him (and vice
versa). Consequently, stakes of happiness lose their power, and your
story will ring hollow.

Let’s again return to Andrew and Margaret in The Proposal.

Andrew’s nice, good-looking, and smart. It should be easy for him to
find a compatible mate. In fact, his ex-girlfriend, Gert, is a great
candidate.

Why should he be with Margaret instead of with his ex?

Gert wants to remain in Alaska. That’s why they broke up in the first
place. Gert can’t support Andrew’s personal ambition. Margaret, on
the other hand, can. Recognizing that he’s in possession of a keen
editorial eye, she can support Andrew’s aspirations to take over the
world of New York publishing.

As for Margaret, Andrew’s a perfect match for her as well. He comes

with a ready-made family, eager to welcome her into the Paxton
clan. Because Margaret is an orphan, this is especially meaningful to
her. Plus, with his firsthand knowledge of her own work ethic,
Andrew, too, can support her personal ambition.

Show Me the Money (and Something Else)!

While stakes of happiness are always fueled by pursuit of a prize,
not all prizes are equal in their ability to elicit audience emotion.
On its own, gaining love is a powerful story stake. As long as the
protagonist team plays by the rules, winning a competition can also
inspire interest.

Acquiring wealth, however, never works as a standalone story stake.

Many beginners fail to understand this.

They forget that in real life, people value money because of what it
can provide: safety, freedom, comfort, access, or respect. What’s
more, they carry over this same attitude to fiction.

If your hero is only in it for the money, audiences are going to be

lukewarm about his quest. Although their response will be less tepid
if your hero is extremely likeable, that’s not enough to sustain
emotional involvement in your story.

Either your climax will fall flat, or even worse, audiences will
disengage from your story before the climax even begins.

The solution to avoiding these pitfalls is simple: make sure your hero
is never in it solely for the money. Make sure his financial gain brings
something more to the table than the engorgement of his bank
account.

Organized according to common ways the pursuit of wealth

manifests itself in stories, the examples below should help illustrate
how to accomplish this.

Employment and Promotions

Combining multiple stake types, Erin Brockovich sets the gold

standard for how to make audiences invest in a protagonist’s
income. Erin doesn’t want to keep her job with Ed Masry’s firm to
pay for a Netflix subscription. She’s a single mother with three kids.
She needs the income to provide for them (stakes of livelihood).

As the story progresses, her paycheck takes on additional meaning.

It makes her feel like someone important, someone worthwhile
(stakes of happiness, with a strong emphasis on self-esteem).

Erin’s dedication to her job is not without its costs. She loses her
boyfriend over it. Her children grow increasingly resentful of it. And,
as we discussed before, she misses out on watching her youngest
child say her first word because of it.

For these reasons, the settlement with PG&E means so much more
than money. It means that the costs Erin incurred to obtain it were
not made in vain (stakes of sacrifice), and furthermore, that the utility
has to admit to wrongdoing and pay for it (stakes of justice).

In contrast to Erin Brockovich, in some stories, the hero’s

employment is not tied to any other kind of stake at the film’s outset.
Liar Liar and Bruce Almighty are two such examples. In both
comedies, Jim Carrey plays a protagonist, who, in the midst of
seeking career advancement, is struck by “special powers.”

As funny as Fletcher and Bruce’s escapades are, if these stories

were only about their promotions, audiences would not stick around.
They remain emotionally involved because they want to see these
heroes choose love over work, to forsake professional heights rather
than ascend them.

Recognizing this, by the time their third act climaxes begin, these
stories shift gears. In Liar Liar, Fletcher’s job doesn’t play a role at
all, while in Bruce Almighty, Bruce’s workplace rivalry takes a
backseat to romance.

This change in focus was critical to the success of both films. If

you’re working on a project with a high-concept hook similar to
theirs, you’ll produce a much stronger story if you find a way for your
hero’s special powers to affect more than his professional
aspirations.

Treasure Hunts
On the surface, it would seem that hunts for lost gold or priceless
relics would automatically be gripping. They are, after all, exciting,
romantic, and lucrative.

Still, they’re difficult for audiences to buy into. At the end of the day,
they’re not going to walk away with the loot.

If you’re writing a treasure hunt story, make it easy for readers to

invest in your hero’s pursuit. Tie his success to a more meaningful
set of stakes.

In National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets, stakes of reputation initially

motivate Ben Gates to search for a lost city of gold. Its discovery
would prevent his ancestor’s name from being turned “to mud.”

In Romancing the Stone, Joan Wilder doesn’t try to find the El

Corazon emerald to rent a bigger apartment or fund a shoe
addiction. For her, the emerald has nothing to do with creature
comforts (stakes of happiness) and everything to do with saving her
kidnapped sister (stakes of demise).

Capers and Heists

Like treasure hunts, capers and heists are exciting, romantic, and
lucrative. Unlike treasure hunts, they come with an added wrinkle.
It’s a semantic one, so bear with me.

In a caper or heist, a hero wants to steal a valuable object. The

stakes revolve around the acquisition of gain. This is where it gets
tricky.

The punishment for failure is usually jail. But in this case, the
possibility of a prison sentence is a risk.

It does not generate stakes of freedom, which are triggered by

avoiding imprisonment. In a caper, the hero is not avoiding a prison
sentence—he’s openly courting it in order to acquire money.
In other words, you have to provide audiences with another reason
for your hero to risk jail besides the fact that the score will make him
really, really rich.

You have to put another stake in play.

The Ocean’s trilogy is a good case in point. It’s never just about the
millions.

In Ocean’s Eleven (2001), the score is a way for Danny Ocean to

steal his ex-wife (and buckets of cash) from the casino mogul dating
her.

In Ocean’s Twelve, when the casino mogul demands remuneration

for his losses (plus interest), the score is a way for the protagonists
to avoid possible death or “25 to life.” (In this situation, since the
successful execution of the caper would also enable the crew of con
men to avoid going to jail, the threat of imprisonment is both a risk
and a stake.)

In Ocean’s Thirteen, the score is about justice. Reuben, one of their

own, lost ownership of his casino, suffered a heart attack, and
became bedridden—all because of an unscrupulous casino mogul (a
different one this time). Stealing from this mogul isn’t about money,
it’s about payback.

Yes, Danny Ocean and his men exude likeability and charisma in
spades, hearts, clubs, and diamonds. But if you’re writing a caper,
don’t fall into that trap.

It’s not enough that your guys are cool. It’s not enough that their
score is worth big bucks. To write a great caper, you need the
trifecta. You need convincing story stakes.

Special Circumstances

Money can be the only stake in play if emotional involvement is

supplied by another source. Not likeability (although that certainly is
a factor).

In these circumstances, audience investment is usually derived from

curiosity about a critical choice to which the entire story has been
building.

Out of Sight illustrates this concept very well. Jack Foley wants to
steal a stash of uncut diamonds from a smarmy embezzler whom he
got to know when they did time together at the state penitentiary.

Because of his criminal record, Foley can’t secure honest

employment that matches his level of intelligence. The money the
diamonds would bring in would enable him to survive while
maintaining his self-respect.

But these stakes, as presented in the story, are too weak to keep
audiences fully invested in the climax. Their engagement comes
from another source: the federal marshal who’s hot for Foley—and
hot on his tail.

During the heist, audiences know she will have to make a crucial
choice. She can either let him go, sacrificing her ethics—or take him
into custody, sacrificing their shared attraction.

Picking the latter will raise a new dilemma. Foley has vowed never to
go back to prison. If the marshal tries to arrest him, he can comply—
and stay alive—or resist, and die free.

Will she—or won’t she?

Will he—or won’t he?

Wondering the answers to these questions is what makes the climax

so gripping.

To put it another way, in a different kind of heist movie, the emphasis

would be on whether or not Foley would pull off the heist (because
its success is tied to another stake). In this one, the emphasis is on
whether or not the federal marshal will let him get away with it.

Villains on the Other Hand…

Villains can be greedy bastards.

They can be in it only for the money, whether it comes in the form of
bearer bonds (Die Hard), unobtanium (Avatar), or soaring
pharmaceutical stock (The Fugitive).

Just remember this: if the hero fails to achieve his goal, the worst
outcome can’t be that the villain gets away with his schemes.
Audiences don’t care if the bad guy then uses his ill-gotten funds to
ride off into the sunset and go party in Ibiza.

Well, they may care a little bit, but it’s a weak stake. It’s not strong
enough to sustain emotional involvement in your ending.

Notice that in all of the examples above, there is another, much

stronger, stake in play during the climax.

If John McClane fails to stop Hans Gruber in Die Hard, McClane’s

wife will die (stakes of demise). If Sully fails to stop Quaritch in
Avatar, the entire Na’vi tribe will be in jeopardy (stakes of general
protection).

If Kimble doesn’t expose Nichols in The Fugitive, Nichols will get

away not only with murdering Kimble’s wife, but also with pinning the
murder on Kimble (stakes of justice, among others).
 Manufacturing a Mesmerizing
MacGuffin
To see how different stake types can interact with each other to
create a complex and compelling story, let’s take a look at a device
closely associated with Alfred Hitchcock: the MacGuffin.

Loosely defined, a MacGuffin is an object in a story which basically

every character is searching for. Often used in thrillers, it justifies the
actions of the plot.

Several people are pursuing the same thing.

Accordingly, that should generate a lot of conflict.

These same people are willing to engage in chases and fisticuffs in

order to secure the MacGuffin.

That should generate a lot of excitement.

Hence, MacGuffins seem like the perfect way to weave together plot,
conflict, and thrills. On the surface, at least, that’s true.

But take a closer look.

If characters are fighting with one another for no other reason than
the plot requires it, no matter how exciting it is, your story will
ultimately ring hollow. Audiences will eventually tire of the pointless
hijinks and disengage.

This, of course, changes once you bring stakes into the picture. They
will add a strong emotional undercurrent to your story. You’ve still got
the same plot, the same conflict, and the same level of excitement,
but now you’ve given audiences a reason to care about all three.
To manufacture a mesmerizing MacGuffin, consider using this four-
step blueprint:

(1) Select an object with multiple sources of value for your

MacGuffin.

That is, the MacGuffin should have the capability to mean one thing
to someone, but another thing to someone else.

For example, despite its objective and subjective value, an Olympic

gold medal is not likely to make for a good MacGuffin. But if it’s been
magically imbued with supernatural powers, that might work.

Don’t worry if your story doesn’t contain paranormal elements. You

don’t have to resort to magic to create the perfect MacGuffin.

Think of the Neski files in The Bourne Supremacy. They mean

different things to Jason Bourne, Pam Landy, Ward Abbott, and the
Russian oil magnate. (To be clear, this MacGuffin is only in the story
briefly, long enough to set up the rest of the plot.)

(2) Determine your roster of “MacGuffin-hunters.”

At a minimum, you need two (one protagonist, one antagonist). But

the more parties involved, the more conflict your story will contain.
So, three is probably the best to start with.

Try incorporating four or more if (a) you’re feeling particularly

ambitious, or (b) your readers are expecting a story of epic length.

(3) Assign stakes to each of the interested parties.

Ideally, each MacGuffin-hunter is pursuing the MacGuffin for different

reasons. (Now you see the importance of step #1.)

Furthermore, at least one of the characters whom you want

audiences to root for should be hunting for the MacGuffin for reasons
other than financial enrichment.
For instance, one protagonist could be hunting the MacGuffin to
save his sister (stakes of demise); another could be hunting it to
avoid incarceration (stakes of freedom).

On the other hand, the villain can (but doesn’t have to), go after the
MacGuffin solely for monetary gain.

Bear in mind that you don’t need to introduce every MacGuffin-

hunter right off the bat. Just give audiences at least one to root for
(someone not driven by purely financial motives, mind you) by the
end of Act One.

You can introduce new hunters (and more complications) later on,
perhaps at the midpoint.

(4) Finally, design the support system for each of the main
MacGuffin-hunters.

MacGuffins typically aren’t easy to track down. If they were, the plot
would quickly be over. Hence, MacGuffin-hunters enlist helpers to
aid them in the search.

These helpers may be in it for the same reasons as the character

they’re working for, or they could be driven by other motives. Again,
variety is ideal.

As an example of what to aspire to, examine the complex and

dizzying array of MacGuffin-hunters and helpers in Pirates of the
Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest.

Further layers of complexity were added to the plot by dividing the

MacGuffin—the heart of Davy Jones—into multiple components.

At any given time, a central (or even secondary) character is

pursuing Captain Jack Sparrow’s compass (which could lead him to
the heart); the chest that contains the heart of Davy Jones; the key
to the chest that contains Davy Jones’s heart; or the heart itself.
The real beauty of it, however, is that a variety of reasons motivate
each character.

Take a look (at this somewhat simplified summary):

Jack wants the heart to call off the deadly Kraken instructed to
kill him (stakes of demise).
Will begins pursuit, at first, to save Elizabeth (stakes of demise),
and then later, to liberate his father from the vow his father
made to serve Davy Jones (stakes of freedom).
Elizabeth joins the search, at first, to save Will from the
hangman’s noose (stakes of demise), and then, later on, to
liberate him from Davy Jones’s ship (stakes of freedom).
Norrington eyes the heart to regain his past position (stakes of
livelihood) and honor (stakes of reputation).
Beckett wants the heart to control the seas (stakes of
happiness).
Pintel and Ragetti go after the chest because they’ve concluded
it contains valuable contents (stakes of happiness).
Davy Jones himself instructs his cursed crew to bring him the
chest so he can be assured of the safety of his heart (stakes of
demise).

Imagine, for a second, what the film would be like without these
stakes.

The breathtaking action would still be there, but the emotional core
driving it would be gone. Remember, to be entertained and
emotionally involved, audiences require healthy helpings of both.

Generating an enthusiastic response was especially critical for Dead

Man’s Chest, which needed movie-goers to become invested
enough to line up in droves to watch the follow-up, At World’s End.

Speaking of audience involvement, there are ways to modify certain

elements of your stakes so that they elicit the greatest degree of
emotion.
As a matter of fact, that’s the topic of our next chapter…
8 MODULATING FACTORS WHICH
AFFECT THE EMOTIONAL IMPACT
OF THE STAKES
- chapter two -

If your story includes one of the standalone stake types we

discussed in the previous chapter, and if you’ve got a decent handle
on writing craft, chances are good that readers will keep turning the
pages of your screenplay or novel till they finish it.

But that’s not your only goal.

You don’t want them to put down your story and promptly reach for
another spec script or paperback novel in their TBR pile.

You want them to become so enthralled by their experience that they

call everyone they know to tell them to read what you’ve written.

In short, you want them to transform from casual readers into raving
fans.

To do this, you’ve got to understand that you’re judged by one prime

standard: the ability to elicit emotion.

Readers rave the most about the tales that make them feel the most.

If you keep them under tension, they’ll finish your story. But if you
keep readers tense and deliver a keen, taut emotional experience,
once they’ve finished, they won’t be able to keep mum about it.

They will passionately recommend your screenplay or novel to

others.
If we place their feelings on a scale of 1–10, you want to be rated an
8 or a 9—and if you’ve really mastered your craft—even a 10.

For a screenplay, these ratings could mean the difference between a

pass and a sale; for a novel, they could mean the difference between
a three- or four-star review and a five.

So how do you achieve this level of emotional intensity?

The answer is simple: through modulating factors.

Think of them like the audio control knobs on a stereo system. When
used well, modulating factors can turn up “the volume,” i.e. the
emotional intensity inherently contained within your story stakes.

When used poorly, modulating factors can dial down the emotional
intensity, muting audience response to such a degree, it may seem
like there are no stakes in play at all!

To put it another way, through modulating factors, audiences will feel

more (or less) intensely about the same set of story stakes.

Other factors being equal, modulators are the secret to wringing out
the extra drop of emotion that will give your story an edge over
others in its genre.

They are how you distinguish your save-the-world story from

everyone else’s.

They are how you set apart your tale of falling in love from all the
others like it.

They are how you rise above the competition.

Use their power to your advantage, turn up the emotional volume,

and your story should generate the intensity that’s required to spark
word-of-mouth recommendations—the foundation of a long and
profitable career.
For quick reference, here is a list of the eight modulating factors we’ll
discuss in this chapter:

the audience-hero bond

the audience-stake bond
boundaries and restrictions
vulnerable populations
backstory
setting
contingency stakes
the secret modulator

In the introduction to this book, I told you that you couldn’t sustain
audience interest based on likeability alone. While that’s true,
likeability is certainly not irrelevant.

In fact, it plays a role in the first modulating factor on our list. Take a
closer look…
 Modulator #1: The Emotional Bond
Between Audiences and the Hero
When a baby duckling hatches from its egg, it imprints on to the first
moving object it sees, usually its mother. For a good portion of its
life, the duckling will follow whomever it has imprinted on.

And so it goes with audiences. Once they’ve bonded with a

protagonist, they are, metaphorically speaking, willing to follow him
wherever he goes.

Unfortunately, unlike ducklings, audiences won’t bond with your

protagonist just because they’ve seen him move!

You have to put in a little more effort.

Specifically, you must use cues to signal to them that your hero is
either likeable, sympathetic, fascinating…or a combination thereof.

For instance, John and Jeremy in Wedding Crashers are both

fascinating because of their ability to prey on single women attending
weddings. The fact that John is an orphan also makes him
sympathetic.

Generally speaking, it’s easy to create the audience-hero bond

through emotional cues. Unfortunately, it’s equally easy to weaken it.
When this happens, audience identification with the hero decreases,
which in turn, lessens the power of the story stakes.

The two go hand in hand. Stakes are the reason why audiences root
for your hero; their emotional bond with him affects how much.

If the audience-hero bond is strong, audiences are going to care

about what the hero does, and whether he succeeds at it or not. If
they feel lukewarm toward him, they’re going to feel lukewarm
toward the stakes.
This is a major problem in stories that only involve stakes of
happiness because audiences are only going to care about the
hero’s potential unhappiness to the extent they care about the hero.

In other stories, while a tepid relationship with the hero isn’t a deal-
breaker, it’s by no means ideal. Since you’ve reduced the quality of
audiences’ emotional experience, your story is likely to be eclipsed
by the competition that doesn’t make this mistake.

To put it bluntly, messing with this bond is bad juju. To avoid

wrecking it, watch out for the following:

Emotional Bond Wrecker #1: Too Much Delay

Let’s return to our imprinting analogy for a second. The imprinting
window is not infinite.

In the case of greylag geese, research conducted by Konrad Lorenz

indicates that it’s open for about 13–16 hours. [1] During this critical
period, if a baby gosling doesn’t spot anything moving, it won’t
imprint on anything at all.

Likewise, you have a limited amount of time to forge a bond between

audiences and your protagonist.

In a screenplay, you have about 10 pages. Even though novels are

longer, it’s still a sound strategy to forge this bond within your first 10
pages. Actually, in both media, it’s not a bad idea to forge the bond
even sooner—if you can.

If you begin with an exciting genre-fulfilling sequence, there’s more

flexibility.

Thrillers, for example, commonly open with the villain perpetrating a

crime. Although this opening will delay the scene where you show
how your hero is likeable, sympathetic, or fascinating, the dynamics
continue to work.
Unless you’re intentionally (or inadvertently) using bonding cues to
muck around with audience loyalty, they’ll know they need to hold
off. They’ll know that you’re not asking them to invest in the bad guy.

Even so, they’re constantly looking for someone to bond to.

So after you show the villain engaging in his dastardly deed, it’s a
good rule of thumb to shine your story spotlight on your protagonist,
rather than on another character.

The longer you delay introducing your hero, the more likely the
audience-hero bond—once it eventually forms—will be weak.
Audiences will still root for your hero, but not as hard as they would
have, had you forged the bond sooner.

There’s one other element to consider. When you forge a bond

between audiences and your protagonist, you create goodwill toward
him. This, in turn, generates patience. However, this goodwill (and,
correspondingly, patience) dissipates over time.

Even when they’ve bonded to your protagonist, if audiences don’t

start to see him pursue a goal—with meaningful stakes attached to it
—they will start to fidget. This is one reason why your protagonist
should start to go after what he wants by the end of the first quarter
of your story.

Think of it like this: sports fans have congregated to watch their

favorite team (or player) win the World Series, the World Cup, or the
Wimbledon finals. These fans love the players they’re rooting for. In
fact, they’ve paid good money just for the privilege to watch these
sports matches in person.

But no matter how great their adoration, these fans can’t start
cheering until the athletes take the field and pursue, in earnest, the
flag-crested Commissioner’s Trophy, the 18-carat gold FIFA trophy,
or the silver gilt cup (gentlemen’s singles) or the Venus Rosewater
Dish (ladies’ singles).
The same principle applies to audiences and your hero. Even if they
know what and whom they’re supposed to root for, audiences can’t
start to cheer until your hero ventures onto “the playing field.”

To root for the hero to stop the bad guy, they have to see the hero
take steps to thwart the villain. To root for the heroine to win the
hero’s heart, they have to see her take steps to woo him. (Or, if the
hero and heroine initially resist love, audiences have to see the
protagonists go after something else before audiences can root for
the hero and heroine to change tack.)

Let’s take our analogy one step further. At first, when the sports fans
take their seats, they are filled with eager anticipation. But the game
doesn’t start on time. The longer the delay, the grumpier the fans
get.

Their skin gets burned by the sun.

Their muscles become cramped.

They finish their stash of over-priced snacks.

By the time the athletes actually take the field, the enthusiasm of
many fans will have waned under the strain of their discomfort and
impatience.

Likewise, when you delay past the 25% mark too much, by the time
your hero takes steps to achieve his goal, audiences, like
overwrought sport fans, will have become grumpy and impatient.
This, naturally, withers the bond between them and the hero. Hence,
it will be difficult for them to muster enthusiasm for his exploits now.

If you start too early, you’ll also run into problems. Premature pursuit
definitely comes with drawbacks.

If your hero starts to take steps to achieve his overall goal well
before the first quarter-mark, you probably haven’t spent enough
time establishing the bond between the hero and audiences,
between the stakes and audiences (more details on this later), or
both. Additionally, you probably have neglected to lay down enough
groundwork so that audiences can fully understand and appreciate
later events.

Stick to the 25% mark (or thereabouts), and you should achieve just
the right balance!

Emotional Bond Wrecker #2: Potential Alienation

Sometimes, it’s necessary for protagonists to engage in alienating
behavior. This often occurs with unlikeable protagonists, rejected
protagonists, or protagonists who have become seduced by power.

You might have to show such protagonists behaving cruelly in order

to demonstrate that they’re resisting their evolution into better human
beings; they’re lashing out because of the pain of rejection; or
they’ve become almost unrecognizable due to the effects of power.

Just be careful not to go overboard to illustrate your point.

If your protagonist’s behavior is too off-putting, it can destroy the

bond between him and audiences to such a degree, that they will not
care about his eventual redemption or happiness, i.e. the stakes.

Admittedly, it’s tricky to balance the need to show your protagonist’s

inner turmoil with the need to maintain audiences’ connection with
him. Here’s one quick tip: use mitigating circumstances. They can
help smooth the edges, making your protagonist sympathetic even
as he indulges in alienating behavior.

For instance, the fact that a female cohost comes onto Bruce
Almighty (rather than the other way around) removes the sting of his
indiscretion. Cady’s self-awareness of her own devolution into one of
her high school’s Mean Girls makes her manipulative schemes
easier to stomach.
In stories that involve lots of peril, collateral damage can become a
major likeability issue. In their quest to save the day, traditional
heroes typically inflict pain on others only when absolutely
necessary, and, in addition, embrace a “leave no man behind”
attitude.

If a hero’s actions contradict these values, audiences are likely to

divest from him. If the stakes are high, audiences will probably still
be emotionally involved in his goal, but this interest will be
substantially less than it could have been.

The 2006 remake of Poseidon demonstrates this concept perfectly.

In one scene, two characters are about to fall into an elevator shaft.
One of them, a member of the waitstaff, clings to the other, a
successful architect. The architect can be pulled to safety, but only if
he shakes off the waiter.

Dylan, another character (and the putative central hero), tells the
architect to do it, “to shake him [the waiter] off.”

Dylan justifies himself, saying if the architect doesn’t shake off the
waiter now, both of them will die. Dylan’s conclusion appears to be
accurate.

Rational, even.

But it’s not very heroic.

It makes it enormously difficult to care whether Dylan reaches open

water, which, by the way, is the entire plot of the movie! Later, he
risks his own life to save another’s. But his act of heroism would be
infinitely more satisfying if he hadn’t acted so callously earlier on.

Granted, it’s a disaster flick. More than a few characters are going to
perish along the way. Those are the rules of the game. But with all
the options available to the filmmakers, surely the waiter could’ve
died in a way that preserves the bond between Dylan and
audiences.
In one screenplay draft of Taken, in order to gain entrance to an
apartment building, Bryan Mills has to bypass a recalcitrant
concierge. To accomplish his goal, Bryan knocks the poor Parisian
unconscious.

While expedient, the level of violence seems unjustified. The

concierge is not about to attack Bryan, he’s not working on behalf of
the bad guys, and, let’s face it, is just trying to do his job.

Naturally, audiences want Bryan to go to the ends of the earth to find

his kidnapped daughter. Even so, they’re not going to be particularly
keen to witness him turn innocent bystanders into collateral damage.

This, after all, is one trait that distinguishes heroes from the bad
guys, who are prepared to achieve their objectives by any means
necessary.

The movie, fortunately, deviates from the script in this regard. There
is no concierge, only a gullible resident who lets Bryan into the
building. This change reduces the amount of action in the scene as
well as its cinematic appeal.

All the same, the tradeoff is worth it. It preserves the bond between
Bryan and audiences, keeping their emotional involvement in his
quest at peak levels.

PS: If you’re well versed with the film, you might recall that some
time prior to the climax, Bryan shoots the wife of a former colleague.
Doesn’t that count as collateral damage?

Yes—but it’s of an acceptable sort.

Here’s why: for starters, as Bryan says, it’s a flesh wound. (That line
of dialogue is pretty crucial.) Plus, his ex-colleague, Jean-Claude,
has been taking bribes from the prostitution ring, indirectly enabling
the kidnapping. Jean-Claude is, by extension, one of the bad guys,
and Bryan’s entitled to a little quid pro quo.
Most important, however, is that Jean-Claude can use his resources
to tell Bryan to whom the ring sold Bryan’s daughter. Bryan
desperately needs this information to find her, and Jean-Claude’s
only going to give it up under duress.

Here, the level of violence is justified.

Emotional Bond Wrecker #3: Dilution of Loyalty

Say that you’ve introduced your hero to audiences during the critical
imprinting window, but that soon afterward, you present other
characters to them.

Additionally, these characters are also likeable, sympathetic, or

fascinating, and furthermore, share equal screentime with the hero.

What do you think happens then?

Audience investment gets siphoned off into these other characters.

Correspondingly, their loyalty to the hero, such that it is, becomes
dilute.

In a worst-case scenario, audiences may become confused about

whom they should bond with, and, as a result, end up bonding with
no one at all.

Hence, audiences will have little interest in the story outcome or the
stakes. By the time you reach THE END, their response is neither a
cheer, nor a tear, but a “meh.” (This is especially true if your story is
driven by stakes of happiness.)

To avoid this unwanted outcome, make sure that audiences strongly

identify with your protagonist from the very beginning.

Use everything at your disposal to tell them that out of everyone they
meet, they need to pay attention to this guy. Metaphorically, a neon
sign should flash above his head that says, “Look at me, bond to me,
root for me.”
If you’re writing a screenplay, in addition to bonding cues, evaluate
the amount of screentime and dialogue your central protagonist has
during the first act. If you’re writing a novel, think in terms of point of
view (POV), and to a lesser extent, dialogue. As a general rule, your
hero should have the lion’s share of each.

Here are some more specific tips:

Use the fewest number of characters (or POVs) to tell your story.
This will always minimize the potential of diluting audience loyalty to
the hero.

Second, try your best to delay introducing new characters (like a

sidekick or a love interest) or using a new POV until the end of Act
One. Even better, delay it until the beginning of Act Two.

Basically, you want to forge an audience-hero bond that’s so strong

that even when you ask audiences to invest in other characters, this
bond will remain firmly intact.

Keep in mind that you can freely use the villain’s perspective without
diluting audience loyalty. Again, they know better than to root for the
bad guy!

Also, if you’re writing a buddy cop comedy or a romance, or a story

along those veins, you might elect to create neon signs above two
protagonists.

But in most cases, for best results, you want audiences to bond
strongly with one person during Act One, so that they will care
intensely—not tepidly—but intensely about the stakes he will fight for
during Act Three.

If, for whatever reason, you absolutely can’t delay the introduction of
new characters, try to minimize the possibility of confusion.

Ask audiences to invest in a subset of the cast.

Although their bond with the characters excluded from this subset
will be weak, this is infinitely preferable over audiences feeling
apathetic toward all.

If you’re writing a screenplay, look at the proportion of your hero’s

screentime during Act One. Does he have the most in comparison to
“the new guys” you introduce along with him? Is it clear that
audiences should, out of everyone in the group, focus on him?

If you’re writing a novel, have you stayed long enough in your hero’s
POV to establish that this character is, in fact, the hero…before
launching into a new POV?

Don’t rely on your book description or series title to provide this

information. You can’t tell audiences to bond with the hero; they’ve
got to feel the bond.

If your writing is as gripping as David Baldacci’s, you might be able

to get away with lots of head-hopping during your opening chapters.
But until then, stick to your hero’s POV for a significant duration of
your novel’s beginning.

In this regard, Ocean’s Eleven (2001) and The Perfect Storm are two
great movie examples to study. Through the choices the filmmakers
made, in Ocean’s, out of a crew of 11 con men, audiences know to
emotionally invest more in Danny (played by George Clooney) and
Rusty than in, let’s say, the Malloy twins.

In Storm, out of a group of six fishermen, audiences know to invest

more in Billy (also played by George Clooney) and Bobby than in the
guy who has all the luck with the girls (and the one who,
unfortunately, does not).

Notice, too, that distinctions are also drawn between Clooney and
his primary costar. Audiences are not asked to invest in each man
equally. In Ocean’s, audience loyalty leans more toward Danny than
Rusty. Conversely, in Storm, between Billy and Bobby, audiences are
asked to invest more heavily in the latter.
To sum it up, in the strongest stories, it’s always crystal clear to
whom audiences should give their allegiance.

One last note, just for screenwriters: according to former MGM

executive Stephanie Palmer, focusing on writing “ONE terrific role for
a movie star” is a key factor to get agents interested in your script.
That’s because, in order for agents to sell it easily, it has to have the
ability to attract great actors.

“Again, not TWO great roles, but ONE great role,” she emphasizes,
adding, “A movie star should be thinking, ‘This is MY project.’
Otherwise they may be thinking, ‘Sure, my role would be great, but
who would they cast opposite me and could that person be so
amazing that I might be overshadowed?’” [2]
 Modulator #2: The Emotional Bond
Between Audiences and the Stakes
As we’ve established, strong emotional identification with your hero
is important because it carries over into the stakes.

If the hero cares a lot about the place (stakes of general protection)
or person (stakes of demise) he’s trying to save, and audiences care
about the hero, then by extension, they will care about the stakes.

But to elicit the most intense emotional reaction from audiences, you
should forge a bond between them and the stakes that is
independent of their bond with the hero.

To do this, employ a two-part strategy. In the first part, focus on

creating the bond with the stakes during Act One. In the second part,
focus on maintaining this bond throughout Act Two.

If the bond remains strong, when it comes time to save the stakes
during Act Three, audiences will be so emotionally invested in them,
and so curious about the outcome of the final confrontation, they
won’t be able to put down your story.

If the bond becomes weak, even though the stakes are in danger,
audiences won’t be as engaged in their plight as you might
anticipate.

Below, we’ll cover this topic in greater depth.

Forging the Audience-Stake Bond

If the stakes revolve around the fate of a person, show audiences
why the hero would fight tooth and nail to save this individual. If the
stakes revolve around the fate of a place, make audiences fall in
love with this locale; make them understand why the hero is so
passionate about protecting it from harm.
Accomplishing this, fortunately, is simple. You use the same tactics
you would use to forge a bond with the hero, primarily bonding cues
and screentime.

If you want audiences to care about the love interest who’s

eventually going to be captured, use bonding cues to make her
likeable or sympathetic.

If you want audiences to care about the place that the villain is
threatening to destroy, present its residents as likeable or
sympathetic.

The prime time to accomplish this objective is during the beginning

of your story. Spend as much time as you can with the stakes
without bloating your first act to an excessive degree.

Remember, audiences can’t start rooting for your protagonist until he

actually takes steps to pursue his goal. If you delay for too long (see
audience-hero bond wrecker #1), you’re only undermining your
efforts.

6 Ways to Maintain the Audience-Stake Bond

Stakes usually do not fall into the category of “set it and forget it.”

Once you’ve established a bond between audiences and the stakes,

you’ve got to maintain it. The best way to accomplish this is to
periodically remind audiences of what will happen should your hero
fail to achieve his goal.

You’ve got several approaches to choose from. Take a look:

Reminder Strategy #1: No Reminders at All

You may not want to remind audiences about the stakes during Act
Two, perhaps because it could affect your story momentum (more on
this topic in a bit). If that’s the case, it’s imperative that the stakes
make a memorable impression on audiences during Act One.
To create a strong impression, spend as much time as you can with
the stakes in Act One, and make sure that the bonding cues you use
really carry their weight!

If the stakes fail to create an impression, when the hero fights to

save the stakes during the climax, audiences won’t disengage
altogether.

But their response will be shallow in comparison to what it could’ve

been, had you created a strong impression during Act One—or even
better, made use of the other reminder techniques discussed below.

Reminder Strategy #2: Symbolic Reminders

Using dialogue by itself to remind audiences about the stakes

usually comes across as being too heavy-handed or “on the nose.”
It’s more effective to use dialogue in combination with an image, or
perhaps an image alone.

Thus, when you want to remind audiences about the stakes, all you
have to do is draw audience attention to an object closely associated
with the stakes.

Wedding rings, for example, are used in both Training Day and
Face/Off as reminders that the safety of the hero’s family is at stake.
Simple and quite effective.

In Taken, once Kimmy is abducted, the story doesn’t return to her

until the very end of Act Two. However, the bond with her,
established in Act One, remains strong, mostly due to the use of
symbolic reminders.

When she leaves for Paris, Kimmy is wearing a denim jacket with a
distinctive bejeweled pattern on its back. When Bryan finds another
abducted girl in possession of this jacket, it reminds audiences that
Kimmy’s fate still hangs in the balance.
Additionally, even though Kimmy herself is in danger, she is kind
enough to give her jacket to this other girl. This act of compassion
functions as a “likeability booster,” reinforcing the bond between her
and audiences even further, and making them even more invested in
Bryan’s mission to rescue her.

That’s not all. The film uses another, more tragic symbol as a
reminder. Kimmy is abducted at the same time as her best friend.
Bryan manages to locate this girl. She’s dead, having choked on her
own vomit.

It’s a sinister reminder of what could happen to Kimmy if Bryan

doesn’t find her before time runs out. Because audiences witness
the negative consequences of failure occur to another character but
not to Kimmy herself, I think of this as a “surrogacy” reminder.

For a more comedic variation of a surrogacy reminder, we can revisit

Pirates of the Caribbean 2. Bootstrap Bill warns Jack that the
monstrous Kraken is coming for Jack and the Black Pearl. Soon
thereafter, a fisherman finds Jack’s cap floating in the water.

The cap acts like a homing beacon, luring the Kraken to the
unfortunate fisherman’s boat. The monstrous beast destroys the
vessel—and all onboard—instantly. Because audiences see what
Jack fears will happen to him, happening to other characters, the
stakes feel more real and intense than if audiences didn’t have this
experience at all.

Reminder Strategy #3: Chaotic Reminders

To make use of this reminder strategy, you simply show audiences

the potential damage the antagonist could inflict upon the stakes.

If he’s threatening to destroy a city, for instance, you could show the
villain causing traffic jams on all the major roads and highways.
Although this would be detrimental to several citizens (and
emergency vehicles in particular), it’s only a hint of the malicious
destruction the villain intends to inflict upon the population at the
climax.

When stakes of demise are involved, villains often bully or belittle the
person they’ve taken captive. Similar to our traffic jam example,
while unpleasant, it’s only a hint of what’s to come. Since this
behavior is so despicable, when the story switches focus from the
stakes and returns back to the hero, audiences root even harder for
the hero to succeed.

If the captive responds to the villain’s taunts with courage, this

bravery also functions as a likeability booster, which again, makes
audiences even more invested in the hero’s rescue mission.

In a variation of the chaotic reminder, the villain can remind the hero
what the hero stands to lose, should he fail to follow the villain’s
instructions. In Training Day, for example, Alonzo spins a
hypothetical scenario, which will unfold should Jake fail to cooperate
with Alonzo’s plan:

“A Los Angeles police department narcotics officer was killed today,

serving a high-risk warrant in Echo Park,” Alonzo says and points a
gun at Jake. “LAPD spokesperson said the officer is survived by his
wife and infant child. You get the picture?”

Reminder Strategy #4: Subplot Reminders

Here’s another way to remind audiences about the stakes: integrate

them into the fabric of your story through a subplot.

In other words, the character who comprises the stakes will pursue
his own goal, which is distinct from the protagonist’s overall goal, but
nevertheless, intersects with it somehow.

To see how this works, let’s return to our hypothetical traffic jam from
reminder strategy #3. The villain has created a huge pileup on one of
the city’s major roads. A local patrolwoman is doing her best to
disentangle the mess.
The story flits between showing the hero’s actions to stop the villain
(the plot) and the patrolwoman’s actions to restore order to the
streets (the subplot).

While her actions are compelling in their own right—at one point the
patrolwoman rescues a child trapped inside of a minivan—they are
occurring in parallel to the hero’s actions (which should take
precedence).

Their storylines haven’t crossed yet—and they won’t—not until later

on…when it’s revealed she’s actually the hero’s wife, the villain has
made this discovery, and accordingly, takes her hostage.

Audiences will be especially riveted by the climax, not just because

the situation has gotten extremely personal for the hero, with whom
they strongly identify, but also because they’ve bonded to the stakes.
They’ve spent enough time with the patrolwoman that, irrespective of
their bond with the hero, they care about what happens to her.

In this example, the intersection of the subplot and the main plot was
supposed to be a surprise for readers. They have spent time
bonding with the stakes, without truly realizing it. When done well,
this can be a great plot twist.

All the same, you don’t have to be so subtle with this reminder
strategy. You can integrate a stake subplot whose intersection with
the main plot is quite clear. When audiences spend time with the
stakes, they know full well that these are the stakes of the story.

The Perfect Storm begins and ends with Bobby, who wants to build a
new life with his girlfriend and her children. Before he leaves the
harbor, she slips a note into his bag. In it, she tells him that she has
a surprise for him. She’s gotten them a house. It’s not much, but it’s
a start.

On the surface, showing her fixing up this old house may seem like a
waste of time. But these scenes were included for a reason. Bobby’s
girlfriend, and their future together, are the regret-tinged stakes of
the story. (Part of them, at any rate.)

They add extra emotional weight to Bobby’s survival. It isn’t just a

matter of him staying alive. It goes beyond that: if he lives, he can
enjoy the happy home life he always dreamed of.

Audiences, too, look forward to the intersection of the subplot and

the main plot, of him returning back to shore and joyfully discovering
the home his girlfriend has created with so much love.

Unfortunately, Bobby doesn’t make it. No one on his boat does.

However, his death is the most poignant of them all. This is partly
due to screentime—Bobby has a huge proportion of it. But it’s also
due to the stakes attached to his survival.

When he dies, audiences feel sorrow not just because of his death
but also because they have experienced firsthand the future he has
been deprived of. It is not vague or amorphous; it is concrete and
real.

Remove the mini-subplot from the story, and Bobby’s death, while
still tragic, wouldn’t be as emotionally resonant.

Reminder strategy #4 is also effective when coupled with strategy

#3. That is, you not only show the villain menacing the person he
has taken hostage, but in addition, you give the captive person his
own subplot, his own agenda.

This usually entails showing the captive repeatedly attempting to

escape his captor. Again, this bravery also boosts the captive’s
quotient of likeability, making audiences root very strongly for his
survival.

Reminder Strategy #5: Ride-Along Reminders

In this reminder strategy, the stakes accompany the hero on his Act
Two journey. This is often the case when the person whose life is at
stake during the climax is a teammate or sidekick of the hero, or
alternately, is someone whom the hero is assigned to protect.

As the story progresses, through screentime and bonding cues,

audiences get to know the stakes quite well. Thus, it’s possible to
squeeze creation and maintenance of the audience-stake bond
entirely within the second act of your story.

This is a great option to explore if, for whatever reason (time

restraints, story structure, etc.), you can’t introduce the stakes during
Act One.

In Speed, the hostages on the bus are ride-along stakes who literally
go on a high-octane ride along with the hero! Of all of the hostages,
audiences get to know Annie the best. In fact, to highlight her
importance, the film takes the time to show her boarding the doomed
bus (in a dramatic way too!).

Although the other hostages are accorded lesser importance, not all
recede into the background. The film periodically shines a spotlight
on a subset of them: the bus driver, the annoying tourist, and the guy
who compliments Jack’s cajones. That way, audiences can form a
bond with this cohort, and correspondingly, remain emotionally
invested in the plight of the group as a whole.

For a less literal example of ride-along stakes, examine Ghost.

During the beginning of the story, audiences connect with the hero
and heroine, Sam and Molly. Later on, during Act Two, Sam, now a
ghost, recruits a psychic, Oda Mae Brown, to help him communicate
with Molly from beyond the grave.

Due to the screentime Oda Mae shares with Sam and Molly (in
addition to Oda Mae’s vivacious personality), audiences develop a
bond with her, which is distinct from their bond with the protagonists.
At the climax, the villain and his associate make their final play and
try to kill Molly and Oda Mae. These sequences are gripping in and
of themselves, but they’re even more riveting because audiences
have gotten to know, and like, both women.

Reminder Strategy #6: Intra-Climax Reminders

During the climax, don’t just show the hero battling the villain.
Remind audiences why this battle matters in the first place.

Cut away to the stakes, whose fate is about to be decided once and
for all. (Note: This is slightly easier to implement in a screenplay than
in a novel.)

It seems like an obvious strategy, but surprisingly, it’s often

overlooked. Many writers go through the trouble of establishing the
stakes, and then neglect to bring them to the forefront at the climax,
when their presence is going to have the most impact.

If audiences haven’t gotten to know the stakes, cutting away to them

during the climax can still be effective (particularly when you make
use of modulating factors #3 and #4; more details forthcoming). But
audiences’ emotional response is going to be much more intense
when they’ve bonded with the stakes throughout the course of your
story.

Reminders and Momentum

When you’re evaluating the reminder strategies discussed above,

make sure you take momentum into account.

The actions a hero takes in order to stop his antagonist have a

strong forward trajectory. Stakes, on the other hand, usually don’t
have this kind of energy.

They tend to be suspended in stasis, waiting for the villain to make

his next move. So when you switch from the hero’s actions to focus
on the stakes, your story momentum can seriously stall.
Reminder strategies #1, #2, and #5 (no, symbolic, and ride-along
reminders) tend to affect momentum the least. They are especially
good to employ when your story takes place within a tight time
frame. Reminder strategies #3, #4, and even #6 (chaotic, subplot,
and intra-climax reminders) have the most potential to derail the
momentum of your story.

Generally speaking, the more momentum you can infuse within the
scenes involving the stakes, the less you’ll hurt the momentum of
your story as a whole as you flit between the two.

In our hypothetical example, the patrolwoman isn’t just waiting

around, stuck in traffic. She has her own agenda and is busy saving
others. Her activity carries with it, its own forward trajectory. It might
not have the same force as the main plot, but it is something.

Tension is another factor to consider. If audiences are extremely

worried about the safety of the stakes, they will be so distracted, they
won’t realize that the momentum has almost come to a standstill.

In The Silence of the Lambs, the film occasionally switches from

focusing on Clarice’s search for a kidnapped woman to focusing on
the young woman herself. Far from dissipating the momentum, these
tense scenes recharge audiences’ emotions. When the story returns
back to Clarice, they are even more invested in her quest to save the
young woman in time.
 Modulator #3: Boundaries and
Restrictions
If your protagonist has infinite tries to accomplish his goal, things are
going to get boring pretty fast. That’s because, in this situation, there
really aren’t any consequences of failure.

If your hero doesn’t succeed, he can pick himself up, dust himself
off, and try—and try and try and try—again.

While the stakes of your story will still be present, without limits, they
lack tension. They’ve got no edge, no bite.

If you want to ratchet up the tension and increase the power of your
story stakes, tighten the restrictions surrounding your hero. Three
possible arenas to explore include:

time
resources
magic

Time
In real life, deadlines create stress, which in turn, evokes the “fight or
flight” response. When activated, this physiological mechanism
produces a cascade of hormones that increase blood pressure,
pulse rate, and rapidity of breath.

Sounds like tension city to me.

To your great advantage, fictitious deadlines, like their real-life

counterpart, have the power to elicit a strong emotional response
from audiences. If your hero is under stress, they’re under stress.
They’re stewing in a big fat vat of story tension.
Bingo! Exactly what you want.

This is why ticking clocks are so popular. Taking deadlines to the

extreme, they often leave the hero with mere minutes—or seconds—
to achieve his goal. They’re one of the simplest ways to increase the
potency of whatever story stakes are already in play.

Although you can use a literal clock to cinematically depict your

hero’s deadline (the tolls of Big Ben are a nice touch in Sherlock
Holmes (2009)), there are certainly other options.

Declining levels of fuel, for instance, are used to increase tension in

Speed, Air Force One, and Die Hard 2. Also, the rose petals in
Disney’s Beauty and the Beast create an elegant alternative to a
physical clock.

Here’s another option: create a ticking clock through the completion

of a process that yields a visible result. Once the result is produced,
your protagonist will be out of time.

In “Digging Deeper,” episode eight from season five of White Collar,

Neal must catch a collector who illegally obtains artifacts. To do so,
Neal sells the collector a fake dinosaur egg. Before handing over
payment, the collector X-rays the egg with a CAT scanner.

The closer the machine gets to producing a full rendition of the egg’s
interior—revealing that it doesn’t, as it should, contain a dinosaur
embryo—the less time Neal has to extricate himself from his
precarious situation.

Thinking in terms of proximity instead of time can help too. In

Batman Begins, the closer and closer the monorail comes to Wayne
Tower, the less time Batman has to stop mass deployment of a
hallucinogen that will drive Gotham’s citizens insane.

In Taken, Bryan must track, and then sneak onto, a fancy boat
carrying his kidnapped daughter, before it reaches open water. A
small-scale (and decidedly more comedic) version of this concept
can also be found in 27 Dresses.

If you’re writing a romantic comedy, be careful. Avoid the dreaded

cliché of having your hero or heroine race to the airport during the
climax. By the same token, don’t throw out the baby with the
bathwater.

Keep the urgency (the race); jettison the cliché (the airport).

Notting Hill is a good model to study. Initially, screenwriter Richard

Curtis had planned for Will to race to the airport to plead his case
with Anna before she leaves England for good. Happily, producer
Duncan Kenworthy persuaded Curtis to drop the cliché.

Instead, Will races to a hotel where Anna is holding a press

conference prior to her stateside departure. While the dynamics of
the sequence are fundamentally the same, the change in venue
makes all the difference. With this simple tweak, Curtis kept the
urgency, but lost the triteness. (As a side note, if you regularly
struggle with the race-to-the-airport cliché, you can find a step-by-
step approach to tackle it in my writing guide, Story Climax.)

Bear in mind, to intensify the stakes, you don’t have to use time only
as a ticking clock. If you modify your protagonist’s “starting position,”
so that he begins your story during a milestone in his life, you may
also be able to elicit a deeper degree of emotion from audiences.

Career setbacks and romantic mishaps, for instance, may not bother
a heroine at all when she’s in her early twenties. She’s got plenty of
time to get her life on track. But circumstances that are tolerable at
age 25—even 29—may feel unbearable, downright insurmountable,
once she’s hit 30 (a milestone birthday). Perhaps, this situation
causes her to go to extreme lengths for the sake of stakes of
happiness or livelihood.

Similarly, if a detective, having been accused of corruption, is

cleared of all charges and returns to work, he’s got more to prove on
his first case back (a milestone assignment). Whether stakes of
general protection, demise, or justice are involved, failure now is
going to carry a higher toll than if his professional integrity had never
been questioned.

Resources
Machine guns may keep the level of action high, but they have a
major drawback. Barring other factors, they keep the tension low.

If the hero misses his mark, it’s not a big deal. He’s got plenty more
ammo to go.

But if your hero has only one bullet left to kill or injure the villain,
you’ve got the makings of an ultratense showdown.

In a nutshell, limiting the resources at your hero’s disposal increases

the intensity of audience response.

This is especially true at the climax. In Twister, two tornado chasers

start off with four data-gathering machines (which they’ve nicknamed
Dorothy). By the time the climax begins, they’re down to one. This is
their last chance to insert the Dorothy machine into a tornado, a feat
which will enable them to glean the data necessary to create an
improved forecasting system.

See how this situation impacts the climax? If the tornado chasers still
had all four Dorothy machines at the climax, it would hardly be
thrilling. The depletion of this resource heightens the tension. Same
stakes, different restriction, different results.

In stories that involve a courtroom climax, the judge’s store of

patience is often presented as a limited resource. Typically,
audiences are made to believe that the protagonist better make his
point quickly before the judge runs out of patience and sends the
poor protagonist packing.
Naturally, combining a ticking clock with depleting resources will
double up the tension, making your story all the more gripping.

In Star Wars: A New Hope, for instance, the rebels must destroy the
Death Star before it comes within firing range of their planet (the
ticking clock). Their odds of success, however, decrease as their
squad of fighter planes diminishes (depleted resources).

Returning to Notting Hill, Will must guess Anna’s cartoon alias from a
concierge before the concierge runs out of patience (depleted
resources). If Will doesn’t accomplish this goal in time, as
aforementioned, he won’t be able to find her and woo her back
before she leaves the country (ticking clock).

Magical Powers
Let me share with you a brief fairy tale:

Once upon a time, a princess lived in a beautiful kingdom with her

little sister, whom she adored. Things were great, until the princess
had to visit some out-of-town relatives.

A jealous dragon took this opportunity to kidnap the princess’s little

sister. When the princess returned to her kingdom and discovered
the news, she immediately left her home to save her sibling.

Unbeknownst to the dragon, at her relatives’ house, the princess had

imbibed tons of whey protein shakes, which magically boosted her
immunity to dragon’s breath and dragon fire.

The princess raced to the dragon’s lair and…and…and…

…do you really care?

There’s no danger here, no tension at all. This is a complete and

utter snooze fest.

But what if things were different?

What if whey protein shakes give the princess some prized magical
power, but, as a peculiar side effect, they make her even more
vulnerable to dragon’s breath and dragon fire?

Even with her newfound paranormal capability, because of her

concurrent newfound weakness, when the princess races to the
dragon’s lair, she’s in more danger than before. The stakes remain
the same—the little sister must be saved—but the tension is
considerably amplified.

That’s all due to the power of limits. Learn to love them!

When you first create your sorcerer or superhero, have a blast

developing his magical abilities or special powers. But when you’re
done, make sure you spend an equal amount of time reflecting on
the limits of his preternatural talents.

And when you’ve finished with that, figure out how you’re going to
clearly communicate those limitations to your reader—without
slowing down your story with the expository details.

Notice that the effect is different with antagonists. If a villain is all-

powerful, when the hero comes to fight him, the tension doesn’t
diminish.

It will escalate to an almost unbearable peak. Audiences will most

definitely be riveted.

Nevertheless, you still have to devise some sort of limit to the

villain’s power, create some chink in his armor.

If you don’t, your hero’s eventual victory is going to come across as

contrived and unbelievable. You’ll end up with a dissatisfied
audience—the very thing you’re trying to avoid!
Modulator #4: Vulnerable Populations
There’s a reason videos of babies and animals go viral so quickly. A
scientific reason, no less.

According to evolutionary biology, humans are hardwired to respond

to cuteness. Juvenile characteristics instinctually arouse feelings of
protectiveness and affection.

These features include: a large head, wide eyes, round cheeks,

flabby limbs, and awkward movements—basically, as a New York
Times article by Natalie Angier summarizes, anything that indicates
“extreme youth, vulnerability, harmlessness, and need.” [3]

As the theory goes, these juvenile characteristics produce instinctual

reactions that compel adults to take care of their babies, thereby
ensuring the survival of the species.

Curiously enough, although these instincts evolved to protect human

offspring, they can be evoked by virtually anything with cute features.
As Angier puts it, “The human cuteness detector is set at…a low
bar.”

What does this mean for you, as a screenwriter or novelist?

Well, this means that when you use a member of a vulnerable

population (e.g. a child or a pet), as story stakes, you’ll be tapping
into a hardwired, instinctive source of empathy.

You don’t have to use bonding cues to manufacture it; it’s

automatically produced, and presumably, the stronger of the two.
When used in conjunction with each other, you should be able to
elicit an extraordinary degree of emotion from audiences.

The question is…should you?

You have your own personal threshold of how much child (or animal)
endangerment you can handle. Audiences, likewise, have their own.

If you go beyond what they can tolerate, you’ll end up with the exact
opposite of what you were aiming for. Audiences will become so
horrified, they will completely disengage from your story. You’ll have
to rely on your own storytelling instincts, good judgment, and
knowledge of your genre to achieve a happy medium.

You might not be comfortable with the idea of putting children or

animals in harm’s way at all. That’s fine. You can completely ignore
this modulating factor altogether…or you can modify it so it conforms
to your level of comfort.

For instance, instead of directly putting children in danger, you can

hint at the dark fate they will face should the heroes fail. This is done
to excellent effect in the Battle of Helm’s Deep at the climax of The
Two Towers.

In between depicting the action taking place outside the fortress,

director Peter Jackson employed reminder strategy #6 and cut away
to caverns sequestering women and children. Unlike the soldiers,
these innocents are not directly in harm’s way, but instead, are one-
step removed from it. Still, their presence reminds audiences why
the battle matters.

There’s another option as well. Put only adults in danger, but—and

here’s the key—make them as innocent and childlike as possible.

Look at Miss Congeniality. If Gracie is not successful in

apprehending a malicious saboteur, all the contestants in the beauty
pageant could die. The film humanizes these general stakes by
highlighting Gracie’s interactions with a specific subset of girls.

Out of this cohort, one girl is further emphasized: Cheryl, the most
artless and unworldly of the bunch. In other words, the most
childlike.
You can see this same pattern in Knight and Day. During one part of
the climax, the hero has to rescue a young genius, who exhibits
endearingly boyish enthusiasm for trains, code messages, and the
musical duo Hall & Oates.

As a side note, this genius invented an infinitely renewable battery,

the MacGuffin of the story. Intriguingly, an early draft of the script
(back when it was entitled Wichita), features the battery, but doesn’t
include its geeky inventor.

The film version took the stakes up several notches by tying the
MacGuffin to an actual person whom—unlike an inanimate object—
audiences can bond with, and scored even more bonus points by
making this person boyish and childlike!
 Modulator #5: Hero Backstory
Create connective threads between your hero’s past experiences
and present situation, and you’ll add an extra layer of intensity to
whatever stakes are already in play.

To take advantage of the power of backstory, there are two major

methods you can adopt. In the first method, the current plot should
be constructed in such a way that it echoes an incident from the
hero’s past.

We’ve already seen this with stakes of regret (which emphasize

redemption). The possibility of success (or failure) in the present is
more emotionally resonant in these stories because the hero failed
to accomplish something similar in the past.

But backstory can be used for purposes other than to create a

redemptive plot. In romance novels, such as The Duchess War by
Courtney Milan, it can be used to intensify the scope of a
protagonist’s betrayal.

Through the heroine’s backstory, readers learn that her father

betrayed her during a courtroom trial. At the climax, the hero must
betray the heroine—during a courtroom trial—in order to save his
brother. Thus, the hero’s betrayal in the present is greatly magnified
because of its similarity to the betrayal the heroine experienced at
the hands of her father in the past.

If you want to implement the same technique, you could start with
backstory, and then purposefully construct the climax so that it
mirrors the past in key respects.

Alternately, you could examine the plot you’ve already constructed,

and then modify your protagonist’s backstory to strengthen the
similarities between the two.
In the second method, to take advantage of backstory, you focus
less on the design of the plot and more on the shared history of key
characters.

Take the average murder case, for instance. Failure to solve it is

going to seem worse if the investigator knew the victim’s father (like
Murtaugh in Lethal Weapon) than if the victim were someone the
investigator had no prior connection to at all.

Likewise, in a spy thriller, the stakes will feel higher if the hero has to
rescue a colleague who’s known to him (perhaps his protégé, as in
Mission: Impossible III), rather than someone he’s never interacted
with before.

In save-the-world stories, it’s a nice touch for the hero to share a

connection with the villain, rather than have the villain emerge, fully
formed, from out of nowhere, almost like Athena borne from the
forehead of Zeus.

The threads that link Kirk and Spock to Nero in Star Trek (2009)
make the plot much more interesting than if the heroes hadn’t had
any prior dealings with Nero.

In both Star Wars and Kung Fu Panda, the connective thread is

wrought through the hero’s mentor, who also trained the villain. The
irony of it all gives these stories an extra edge.

And, of course, in a romance, the breakup of the hero and heroine

(before the happy ending) will be more poignant if they had been
romantically (and tragically) entangled in the past.

Naturally, every character can’t share history with your protagonist.

Nor should he.

But it’s always good practice to ask yourself if adding a pre-existing

relationship between key characters would enhance the emotional
resonance of the stakes.
On top of this benefit, hinting at backstory, without revealing it fully, is
another great way to keep readers turning the pages!
 Modulator #6: Setting
In certain settings, the consequences of failure can appear to carry,
or actually do carry, more weight than they would in a different
milieu.

To put it another way, by virtue of the world he inhabits, a character

may have further to fall. Hence, setting is our sixth modulating factor.

Test this theory out. Take whatever plot you’ve got, transfer it to a
glamorous setting, and watch as the stakes miraculously become
higher.

As an example, consider this premise: a local politician is up for

reelection. A widower, he’s starting to date an environmental
lobbyist.

This has the makings of a classic romance novel. Not bad. But what
happens if we transplant this politician into the world of Washington,
D.C.?

The president of the United States is up for reelection. A widower,

he’s starting to date an environmental lobbyist.

We’ve changed one detail—the setting—and raised the stakes so

high that we now have a plot for a high-concept romantic comedy. (In
fact, it’s the basis of The American President.)

As a starting point, these worlds are all popular, high-stake settings:

national (or international) governments

royal kingdoms
the Hollywood film and TV industry
lifestyles of rock stars and other high-profile musicians
competitive sports (at the professional level)
Although these settings are tried and true, any place where money,
prestige, and power comingle can be a prime candidate.

That being said, not every story has to have a glamorous backdrop
to be compelling. The world of suburbia (as in Liane Moriarty’s The
Husband’s Secret) is also rich and complex. However, in low-key
settings, you usually have to work harder to make your story stakes
feel high.
 Modulator #7: Contingency Stakes
Of all the stakes listed in the first chapter of this book, some cannot
stand alone and operate by themselves.

While these stakes imbue the hero’s climactic victory with extra
significance, they are not the reason why the hero goes on his
journey.

They are stakes of:

regret
suffering
sacrifice

Because they are dependent upon the other stake types, collectively,
they can be grouped together in one category. I refer to them as
contingency stakes.

At first, you may think that contingency stakes are rather useless
since they can’t operate by themselves. But it’s unwise to discount
them right off the bat because they do have the power to affect
audience response to the stakes that can stand alone.

In short, contingency stakes can make audiences feel more (or less)
emotionally involved with standalone stakes—the very definition of a
modulating factor.

Stakes of regret and sacrifice tend to transform a concept that’s

already strong into something exceptional. Their absence won’t
necessarily ruin a story, but their inclusion will greatly enhance it.

Stakes of suffering, on the other hand, need to be included in all

stories.
When the hero doesn’t suffer enough during Act Two, audiences
tend to feel ambivalent toward the story’s ending. No matter how
hard the hero fights at the climax, it will seem like he doesn’t quite
deserve to win, that he doesn’t truly deserve his reward.

This holds true, regardless of what other stakes are in play. Whether
someone’s happiness or someone’s life is at stake, audiences are
going to be more invested in the outcome of the climax if the hero
had to overcome impossible odds to even reach this stage.

Oh, and if you want to know how to make your hero really suffer at
the end of Act Two, check out my writing guide, Trough of Hell. It will
give you solid pointers on how to put your hero through the wringer,
thereby avoiding the dreaded “saggy” middle!
 Modulator #8: The Secret Modulator
There’s one last modulating factor to add to our list, but it’s best
understood within the scope of the following chapters, which explore
the story stake matrix.

What is this mysterious matrix all about?

Unlike Neo, you don’t need to pop a red pill to find out. Just turn the
page to learn more…

NOTES

1. Wikipedia, s.v. “Imprinting (psychology),” last modified July 14,

2015, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imprinting_(psychology).

2. Stephanie Palmer, “How to Write a Screenplay Agents Will Love,”

Good in a Room (blog), June 4, 2014,
http://goodinaroom.com/blog/how-to-write-a-screenplay-agents/.

3. Natalie Angier, “The Cute Factor,” New York Times, January 3,

2006, http://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/03/science/03cute.html.
 THE STORY STAKE MATRIX:
GROUNDWORK
- chapter three -

It’s time to address a salient point we haven’t really touched on

before: the stakes can’t remain the same throughout your story.

To sustain audience involvement, the negative consequences of

failure have to grow. They have to escalate.

This, as you can guess, poses a conundrum. If you start with stakes
that are “low” enough to give you room to grow, then your initial
premise might not be compelling enough to garner audience interest
in the first place.

But, if you start out with stakes that are high, it will be difficult to
make them worse (and, by extension, keep audiences interested) as
your story progresses.

This is where the story stake matrix comes in. It pulls everything—
stake types and modulating factors—together. With this tool, you’ll
be able to:

use stakes and modulating factors to craft a premise with more

commercial appeal
raise the stakes (even when they’re already high)
avoid an anticlimactic ending

However, to fully understand it, we have to cover a little more

groundwork, starting with the hierarchy of needs.
 The Hierarchy of Needs
As described in psychologist Abraham Maslow’s 1943 article “A
Theory of Human Motivation” published in Psychological Review,
human behavior is driven by five basic needs:

physiological (the need for food, water, sleep, oxygen, etc.)

safety (security of the body or family unit, health, employment)
belongingness & love (romantic, platonic, familial)
esteem (self-confidence, self-respect, respect from others)
self-actualization (realization of a person’s full potential)

This overview is just a springboard for everything to follow. To be

clear, from here on out, I’m modifying Maslow’s hierarchy to suit our
purposes.

First, we’re going to disregard physiological needs as well as self-

actualization, leaving us with safety, belongingness & love, and
esteem.

Second, we’re going to group the need for belongingness & love with
the need for esteem. I refer to this group as spiritual needs because
they satisfy one’s soul.

Real life would be wretched without the fulfillment of spiritual needs.

All the same, this fulfillment becomes a moot issue when basic
requirements for survival are not met. Indeed, in times of crisis,
spiritual needs often become a luxury.

Therefore, in our framework, spiritual needs do not share the same

degree of importance as safety needs.

Third, we’re going to introduce a new category to Maslow’s original

hierarchy: contingency needs.
Their distinguishing trait is that they make people feel better about
the choices they’ve made in the past. To repeat a point from a
previous chapter, although contingency needs imbue the outcome of
your story’s climax with extra meaning, they are not the reason why
your hero embarks on his journey.

Like spiritual needs, if met, contingency needs improve the overall

quality of one’s life. But they’re still moot when someone’s having
difficulties surviving.

Based on the needs they satisfy, story stakes can be classified into
one of these three categories:

Safety Need Stakes

general protection
demise
livelihood
freedom
reputation (when tied to another safety need stake)
sanity
access (depends on context; perhaps it involves integrity of the
family unit or ownership of a home)

Spiritual Need Stakes

reputation (when not tied to a safety need stake)

access (again, it depends on context; perhaps it involves loss of
contact with a romantic prospect)
justice
hero happiness

Contingency Need Stakes

regret
suffering
 sacrifice

Before we can use these definitions to construct our matrix, we have

to address one more parameter: the cost of hero participation.
 The Cost of Participation
The cost of participation comprises all the dangers associated with
the tasks a protagonist must complete in order to achieve his goal.
The cost can be high, or it can be low.

High vs. Low Costs

Activities that threaten your protagonist’s life (body or soul), freedom,
or means of survival are high cost.

Activities that threaten his esteem, putting him at risk of humiliation

or embarrassment, are low cost. Activities that merely consume time
or resources, but that are not inherently dangerous, are also low
cost.

Tone plays a factor too. If the dangerous activities are played for
laughs, they are still low cost.

For instance, in both Speed and Miss Congeniality, Sandra Bullock’s

character tries to save others from being killed by an explosive
device. In the former, the danger to her own life is grave (high cost);
in the latter, her personal jeopardy is humorous (low cost).

The same principle applies to authority figures. In comedies,

although a protagonist might have to “battle” with them, to maintain
the humor, authority figures (like the police officers in Horrible
Bosses or the immigration official in The Proposal) do not exude true
menace.

One final point about costs: loss of employment can go either way. It
depends on how you present it.

If your hero has to sacrifice his promotion to get the girl, that’s a low-
cost activity. If he has to put his employment at risk, but he doesn’t
have anyone else depending on his income, and there’s a sense that
he’ll land safely on his feet, then again, his sacrifice will be low cost.

On the other hand, if he’s a neurosurgeon, the star actor in a

Broadway musical, the leader of the free world—basically anyone
who has invested a lot of time and energy to score a rare career
opportunity—then his sacrifice will be high cost.

If it seems unlikely that he’ll be able to find employment elsewhere,

giving up his current job will also be high cost.

Cost vs. Stakes

On the surface, it may appear that stakes and the cost of
participation are one and the same.

But they’re not.

We actually touched on this issue earlier, when we talked about

capers in the “Show Me the Money” section in the first chapter. Here,
we’ll go into more detail. Like with the caper example, this will get a
little semantic, so bear with me.

To start our explanation, we’re going to develop an imaginary

scenario. It features a hero named Bobby. In order to cross the
street, Bobby has to navigate through oncoming traffic. The drivers
are either in a rush or are too busy texting to pay attention to the
road.

They’re not going to stop for Bobby, so crossing the street puts his
life in danger. However, his life is not at stake…because Bobby can
walk away from the situation. He doesn’t have a compelling reason
to face these hazards.

This changes when we tinker with the details and give Bobby a
reason why he cannot walk away.
If he’s being pursued by a Tyrannosaurus rex, and there’s a
tranquilizer gun on the other side of the street, Bobby has to face the
danger of oncoming traffic and risk his life, in order to (hopefully)
save it.

If he’s feeling particularly bold, Bobby may also stand his ground and
challenge the T. rex to an epic wrestling match, which will end the
reptile’s pursuit once and for all. Although the danger’s different—
Bobby’s risking the dinosaur’s powerful jaws and claws rather than
careless drivers—his motivation is still to save his life.

One more variation: if Bobby’s wife is being held hostage on the

other side of the street, and if Bobby crosses it, he just might be able
to save her, then he’s putting his life in danger because hers is at
stake.

We can modify our scenario to include low-cost participation as well.

The drivers won’t stop for Bobby, but he can laugh off any bruises,
bumps, or wounds he incurs en route to the other side of the street.

Alternately, there’s no oncoming traffic at all. Drivers will readily stop

for Bobby. But he has to trip on a banana peel while voicing his
deepest fears and greatest dreams.

Did I mention he’s naked?

In either situation, all the drivers observing Bobby’s predicament will

laugh loudly at him, but if Bobby faces their ridicule, he’ll get a prize
—like the love of a good woman—that’ll more than make up for it.

Why Does This Distinction Even Matter?

This isn’t just a bunch of semantics, which only word nerds will enjoy.
There is a point to it.

And here it is: when the cost of participation rises for your hero—
when he’s got to put more skin in the game—the negative
consequences of failure get worse.
This has the net effect of raising the stakes, even though, technically,
the stakes actually remain the same. In fact, the cost of participation
is—ta-dah!—our eighth, and last, modulating factor. It’s one you will
routinely employ to deepen audience involvement with your story.

BUT (and yes, it really needs to be in all uppercase letters)

increasing the cost of participation, i.e. increasing the dangers to
your hero, only works if these dangers match the stakes already in
play. If they aren’t in alignment, the effect isn’t the same.

Just because your hero’s life is in danger, or his safety is threatened,

or he’s going to lose his hard-earned reputation, it doesn’t mean that
audiences will automatically be deeply invested in what’s transpiring
on the page or on-screen.

If there’s something else at risk besides your hero’s own life, he can’t
walk away from a dangerous, or high-cost, situation. He must
participate. Otherwise, his wife will die, or the world will end, or he’ll
be sent to prison for life.

But what happens if you take these stakes out of play? Then the
hero is fighting the villain (or jeopardizing his job or his freedom or
his reputation, etc.)…for no good reason.

If the stakes aren’t strong enough, he’s recklessly endangering his

life or his future. He should walk away.

The instinct for self-preservation is strong.

At a certain point, at a subconscious (or even conscious) level,

audience members are going to stop worrying about your hero’s
safety and start wondering why he doesn’t just get the hell out of
Dodge.

Once this line of thought begins, audiences will start to disengage

from what they’re watching or reading. Due to this emotional
divestment, even the most exciting of scenes can feel dissatisfying
and strangely anticlimactic.
As dynamic and thrilling as they may be externally, these scenes will
feel pointless. They are melodrama and spectacle—not story.

That isn’t to say that audiences will disengage completely. They

don’t want to see your hero die. For that matter, they don’t want to
see him walk away either. That isn’t very heroic (although it sure is
sensible).

They just might not be rooting for your hero as intensely as you
intended.

In A Few Good Men, Daniel Kaffee must extract a confession from a

powerful colonel in order to save his clients, two Guantanamo Bay
marines accused of murder. Pursuing such a line of inquiry has
major consequences. Kaffee could be court-martialed for
professional misconduct, “Something,” as the prosecuting attorney
cautions, “that’s gonna be stapled to every job application you
[Kaffee] ever fill out.”

At the climax, Kaffee goes for it. He puts Colonel Jessep on the
stand. Kaffee’s actively jeopardizing his career and his father’s
vaunted legacy (the cost of participation) in order to save his clients
from a lifetime in prison (the stakes).

We call him a hero for it.

But if things were different, if the case were all about, let’s say,
fishing rights in the Bay, we’d call Kaffee a masochistic fool.

Same costs, different stakes, different effect.

I know this example is a little ridiculous. Fishing rights in

Guantanamo?

Really?!

But I wanted to take it to absurd levels to drive home my point

because this is one of the biggest mistakes beginners (and pros)
make.

They get so caught up in their hero’s dangerous exploits, they forget

that his daredevilry isn’t justified by the stakes. Instead of raising the
tension—as these scribes intended—they’ve inadvertently
dampened it.

In sum, if you want to keep audience involvement high, make sure

that your hero is courting danger because he’s already knee-deep in
trouble.

To increase the tension, by all means, let him endanger his life or his
future, but give him good cause to do so.

Give him a reason not to walk away.

There are two main exceptions to this. If your hero has suicidal
tendencies, reckless endangerment takes on a new context, and
becomes fascinating rather than alienating. If your protagonist is a
child, that too, changes things. It’s difficult to disengage from a
child’s plight, even if he was the one who put himself in harm’s way.

When left Home Alone, Kevin does not have to protect his house
from burglars. He can call the police. Even though he doesn’t, even
though he needlessly jeopardizes his life, audiences are still invested
in his survival.

One last point of clarification: stakes of suffering are closely

connected to the cost of participation, but they’re not the same.

The former is a safety check of sorts. If your hero has suffered, he’s
encountered obstacles in pursuit of his goal, and hence, your story
will contain much-needed conflict.

The cost of participation comprises the dangers associated with

those obstacles. Whether these dangers are low or high cost, stakes
of suffering ensure that victory isn’t handed to your hero on a silver
platter.
Going back to an example from As Good As It Gets, Melvin has to
grovel in order to secure the services of a physician—a low-cost
activity. In another genre, to achieve the same objective, he may
have to partake in a high-speed chase, wherein death awaits at
every hairpin turn—a high-cost activity.

But whether Melvin’s pride or physical safety is the cost, in both

cases—much to audience delight—he’s definitely suffering.
 The 4 Cells of the Story Stake Matrix
At this point, you may be feeling a little overwhelmed. I can
understand that. You have a lot of new concepts to digest—and
more are on the way.

Take heart. Your investment of time and attention will eventually pay
off.

If you master the story stake matrix, you’ll avoid making missteps
that have vast potential to negatively affect reader experience.
These mistakes are subtle and difficult to detect (especially if you’re
a beginner).

Correspondingly, it takes a little more effort and energy—and

patience—to learn how to identify them. But once you identify these
missteps, they’re usually pretty easy to fix. In fact, we’ll discuss
specific tactics and techniques shortly.

For now, it’s time to focus on the construction of the matrix itself.

The Parameters of the Story Stake Matrix

The story stake matrix has two parameters: the hierarchy of needs
and the cost of participation.

Because contingency need stakes cannot, by themselves, sustain

emotional involvement, they are not included in the matrix. Thus,
each parameter has two variables: safety vs. spiritual needs and
high vs. low costs.

If the hierarchy of needs parameter is placed on the left, and the cost
of participation parameter is placed on the top, this will produce a
four-celled matrix.

Starting from the bottom right and moving counterclockwise, the cells
would look like this:
 low cost, spiritual needs (cell #1)
low cost, safety needs (cell #2)
high cost, safety needs (cell #3)
high cost, spiritual needs (cell #4)

To help you visualize the matrix, consult the diagram below:

The story stake matrix.

How to Evaluate Your Story Through the Lens of the Matrix

First, you can use the matrix to assess the commercial viability of
your premise. To do this, examine the stakes and modulating factors
presented during Act One. If necessary, you can modify them to
increase the intensity of your original concept. (We’ll get into more
specifics in due course.)

However, the primary function of the matrix is to evaluate the second

and third acts of your story, when your hero is pursuing his goal in
earnest.
Basically, you must examine the actions your hero is taking. Are they
high or low cost? Then, you determine if the cost of those activities is
warranted by the stakes in play.

After that, you judge how long this particular pairing will sustain
audience interest before you must raise the stakes. As the result of
these assessments, your story may cycle through multiple cells
(usually three, at the most) or stay in the same cell throughout.

Finally, you should take stock of your climax. Which cell does your
story end in? Does the combination of stakes and costs fulfill genre
requirements…or not?

If your story involves multiple protagonists, you need to do

evaluations from the point of view of each character. What does he
have to do in a particular scene? And are the costs of those actions
justified by the stakes that specifically pertain to his character?

In sum, the matrix helps you to establish and raise story stakes to
create the most gripping story you can.

Now that we’ve laid down the groundwork for the story stake matrix,
we can examine each of its cells at greater length.

Not so surprisingly, we’ll start with cell #1…

 CELL #1: LOW COST, SPIRITUAL
NEEDS
- chapter four -

Cell #1 of the story stake matrix pairs spiritual need stakes

with a low cost of participation.

I’ve divided this chapter into two sections. One focuses on comedies,
romances, and romantic comedies. The other focuses on action
movies, thrillers, mysteries, dramas, and fantasy & science-fiction.

While there is some overlap between the tips, for the sake of
simplicity, I’ve focused on presenting the ones that are the most
pertinent to each genre.

That being said, it’s still a good idea to read the tips in the action
movie section even if you’re planning on writing a romance (and vice
versa). Actually, if you’re writing a hybrid, like an action comedy or a
romantic thriller, then you should definitely read the tips discussed in
both sections.

Okay, let’s get to it!

 Comedies, Romances, and Romantic
Comedies
Comedies and romantic comedies tend to start—and finish—in cell
#1. The stakes begin and end with the hero’s happiness.
Furthermore, by definition, the costs have to remain low.

Stories in these genres are supposed to be amusing and

lighthearted. It’s not very funny if the protagonist has to truly risk his
life, freedom, or livelihood in order to achieve his goal. Even if a
protagonist does take on such risks, the tone of the story tells
audiences to take the stakes as seriously as they can, but not the
costs.

Romance novelists, take note: this rule about low-cost risks doesn’t
necessarily apply to you. I’ll address this topic in more depth, later
on, in chapter 5. Nonetheless, the tips in this section will still help
you craft a more intriguing romance, so don’t skip it!

To elicit the strongest emotional response from audiences:

(1) Spend extra time reflecting on the emotional bonding cues

you plan to use.

They carry a lot of weight here, perhaps more in this cell-and-genre

combination than in any other. Use as many as you can, without
bogging down the pace of the beginning of your story.

(2) Emphasize the connection between the acquisition of the

prize and your protagonist’s self-esteem.

Just be careful not to get too heavy-handed with the details. This is a
story, not a talk show!

(3) Make the prize something that your protagonist failed to gain
before.
Depict the failed pursuit on-screen (like the first Santa Anita
Handicap race in Seabiscuit), or have characters refer to it
themselves. If you choose the latter, work in this backstory in a
natural and dramatic way.

In a romance, the prospect of losing love will feel worse, and thus
more poignant, if your protagonist has experienced this situation in
the past. The greater the similarities between past and present
circumstances, the stronger the effect.

To depict past hurt, you can use prologue or a flashback. Alternately,

you can have the characters describe what happened through
dialogue.

Hitch uses both methods to explain why both the hero and the
heroine are so resistant to love. Through a flashback, audiences
learn that Hitch was cruelly dumped by his college girlfriend, who
was scared off by the intensity of his emotion.

Through dialogue, they learn that Sara’s sister almost died in an

accident. Afraid of feeling that kind of pain again, Sara limits the
number of people she lets into her heart.

Be cautious with this technique.

If you get too overzealous, it can do more harm than good.

Flashbacks can ruin the momentum of your story (in screenplays,
especially). They can also be confusing for readers.

Additionally, dumping too much exposition about the protagonist’s

past pain is not appealing. Think carefully about the context of the
revelation. In Hitch, Sara’s confession carries a lot of subtext.
Through it, she indicates that she is, despite her attempts not to,
opening up her heart to Hitch.

As a matter of fact, the defenses of both characters are down. They

are prime specimens of vulnerability. The scene is brimming with
emotional intimacy, which leads me to the next tip…
(4) At the midpoint, raise the stakes by increasing your
protagonists’ level of commitment.

As previously discussed, if you’re writing a comedy, your hero is

always going to engage in low-cost activities. It doesn’t matter what
he does. To maintain the humor, the risks can’t be taken that
seriously.

Still, there are gradations between low-cost activities. After the

midpoint, it’s time to step it up, to have your hero really commit. It’s
time for him to engage in behavior that is more dangerous
(superficially at least) than what he did before.

In The Hangover, during the first half of the second act (known in
screenwriting parlance as Act 2A), the “wolf pack” can ignore the
tiger in the bathroom of their hotel suite. But after the midpoint, no
longer. They have to cart the beast out of the hotel and deliver it to
Mike Tyson. Their cost of participation just went up, wouldn’t you
say?

Once the beleaguered protagonists of Horrible Bosses resolve to kill

their employers, they try to outsource the task and hire someone
else to perform the dirty deed for them. But right around the
midpoint, they take on more risk, and decide to explore killing their
bosses themselves.

This is a critical point. Many writers would naturally be inclined to

start the second act with the protagonists trying to kill their bosses
themselves. These writers would dig themselves into a hole because
this position gives them little room to escalate the cost of
participation. Hence, the latter half of the second act (known in
screenwriting parlance as Act 2B), would likely feel boring and
anticlimactic in comparison to the first half (Act 2A).

To avoid this, think carefully about what your hero has to do to

achieve his goal. Have him engage in those actions after the
midpoint, during Act 2B. Then, use your creative genius to
brainstorm the “lite” version of these actions. This is what your hero
will engage in prior to the midpoint, during Act 2A.

This method certainly won’t work for every story, but if you’re having
problems with escalation during the second act, it could provide you
with the perfect solution. (Note: Technically, Horrible Bosses starts
and ends in cell #2, not cell #1. But I included it in this section
because this is such an important point, and this example is easy to
understand.)

In any kind of romance, the increase in commitment will, at the very

least, entail some form of emotional intimacy. At the beginning of the
second act, the hearts of the hero and heroine usually aren’t truly
engaged. Oftentimes, their interactions will have a casual, flirtatious
vibe (or, if they’re initially enemies, a downright hostile one).

That all changes at the midpoint.

The hero and heroine become vulnerable to one another. Through

emotional intimacy alone (or emotional and physical intimacy
combined), they form a true connection. If they lose each other, the
negative consequences are worse than before.

If the romance ends, they won’t be able to walk away, unscathed.

Their hearts have become too committed for that. A breakup will
cause them real heartache (which is probably one reason why they
avoided intimacy in the first place).

(5) Before, or during, the climax, raise the stakes again with a
sacrifice.

As a refresher, the logic goes like this: if the hero gives up something
immediately prior to (or sometimes, during) the climax, failure to
achieve his goal will feel worse. Now, failure not only means he lost,
but also that he made his sacrifice in vain.

Little Miss Sunshine, for example, uses this concept quite creatively.
Olive’s brother, Dwayne, dreams about flying jets for the US Navy.
But en route to Olive’s beauty pageant, he makes an unpleasant
discovery. He’s color-blind. (You can’t fly jets in the military if you’re
color-blind.)

Dream destroyed, Dwayne freaks out, and demands that his family
pull over to the side of the road. Dwayne would like nothing more
than to stay right where he is, and wallow in his misery. But he
doesn’t. He sacrifices his own need to grieve in order to deliver Olive
to the pageant on time.

On the surface, this might not seem like much. Nevertheless, without
this sacrifice, the eventual arrival of the Hoover family Volkswagen
microbus at the pageant’s headquarters would be far less
emotionally resonant.

In romantic comedies and romances, in order to obtain love, the hero

or heroine will often sacrifice their pride (or other protective
mechanisms), and perhaps, in addition, a chance of career
advancement.

In the case of love triangles, one (or both) of the protagonists will
sacrifice a relationship with an alternate romantic prospect. There
are two main ways to enhance the emotional power of this sacrifice.
(Note: For the sake of simplicity, the following examples are
illustrated from the hero’s point of view, although they are equally
applicable to the heroine.)

One, the alternate romantic prospect whom the hero gives up should
be awesome in her own right. It’s not much of a sacrifice if the hero
has to choose between a subpar woman and a sublime one.

Two, because of events that have already transpired, it should

appear unlikely that the heroine will forgive the hero’s
transgressions. When the hero initiates his final pursuit, he has little
guarantee that the heroine still reciprocates his affection, and thus,
incurs more of a risk.
In essence, before or at the climax, the protagonists in a romance
will frequently have to sacrifice one stake for the sake of another.
This works very well when the stake that gets sacrificed only
involves the protagonists’ personal happiness. A promotion, for
instance.

In a romantic comedy, this will inevitably be the case. Again, to

preserve the humor, the costs must remain low.

Things are more complicated when the protagonists must sacrifice

someone else’s fate for their own happiness. They can have love,
but only by sacrificing their brother’s own livelihood, their parents’
family home, or their best friend’s freedom.

These are high costs—taking us out of cell #1 altogether. Again, I will

address this topic at greater length in a special section just for
romance novelists. For now, it’s time to venture onto the next tip.

(6) At the climax, insert a ticking clock.

Returning to Little Miss Sunshine, there’s a reason the Hoover family

doesn’t arrive at Olive’s beauty pageant on time, with minutes to
spare. They don’t have to arrive late in order to honor the essence of
the characters. Nor do they have to arrive late to honor the rules of
that particular story world.

This is a deliberate restriction—artificially imposed by the writer—in

order to increase the urgency, and hence, the tension during the
climax.

To give your audience the most intense emotional experience, follow

Sunshine’s model. Don’t give your protagonist a second to spare.

In fact, Sunshine goes the extra mile and gives audiences not one,
but two (!) ticking clocks. In addition to the clock immediately prior to
the pageant, there’s one included within the pageant itself.
Backstage, an aide keeps pressuring Olive to take the platform for
the talent portion of the competition. Again, the aide doesn’t have to
rush Olive for the sake of authenticity. Few movie-goers would be
familiar with pageant timetables.

This is a case of exploiting naturally occurring elements of the setting

in order to maximize the urgency of the scene. If you look hard
enough at the setting of your climax, you should be able to do the
same.
 Action Movies, Thrillers, Mysteries,
Dramas, and Fantasy & Science-
Fiction
In contrast to comedies and romantic comedies, the bulk of action
movies, thrillers, mysteries, dramas, and fantasy & science-fiction
stories neither begin nor end in cell #1.

Sleuth-based stories are a major exception to this rule. By sleuth-

based, I’m talking about stories where the goal of the protagonist
(whether an amateur or a professional) is to solve a case that
originates with a dead body.

At first, the sleuth must catch the perpetrator for the sake of justice
(spiritual need stakes). Plus, his investigation will initially require low-
cost participation, like collecting evidence or interviewing witnesses.

The combination of spiritual needs and low costs places these

stories squarely in cell #1. To enhance the commercial appeal of
such stories, consider the following:

(1) Link the sleuth’s backstory to (a) the victim, (b) a prime
suspect, or (c) another investigator.

Your story will inherently be more interesting when there’s a personal

connection between the two parties, even if it’s tenuous and remote.

For instance, in Lethal Weapon, Murtaugh served in the military with

the victim’s father. Murtaugh hasn’t spoken to the man in years, but
their shared past adds intrigue to the story’s beginning.

The closer the connection, however, the more effective the tactic.

A case where the victim is a mentor who supported the sleuth during
tough times is going to be more powerful than a case where the
victim is a colleague from another department whom the sleuth
barely knows.

(2) Forge a connection between the victim and audiences.

Begin your story by introducing the victim before he is killed. Use

emotional bonding cues to make him likeable, sympathetic, or
fascinating.

This method comes with two warnings: one, audiences can

potentially feel cheated.

That is to say, they invest their emotions into a character…only to

discover, a few pages later, that this character has been basically
removed from the story altogether—rendering their emotional
investment, to some degree, a waste. On the other hand, this
situation can also intensify their desire to see the hero obtain justice
on behalf of the victim.

Second, it’s also possible that audiences can connect so strongly

with the victim, that their emotional identification with your sleuth
might be weak by the time you get around to introducing him.

To avoid the second pitfall, you could introduce your sleuth first,
cementing the bond between him and audiences, and then in a
following scene, have him meet the victim (before, obviously, the
victim is killed). Thus, audiences still get to know the victim, but
through the point of view of your hero.

(3) Couple stakes of reputation with setting.

While the murder remains unsolved, a dark cloud will hang over
someone’s good name, possibly jeopardizing this person’s chances
of political or social advancement.

(4) Add in stakes of happiness.

Make it known that the sleuth’s own career advancement hinges
upon solving the case.

If he fails to bring it to a successful conclusion, he won’t lose his job

(that would shift your story into cell #2), but his prospects of a
promotion or a better job elsewhere will be destroyed.

This technique is particularly effective if you are exploring a theme of

ambition in your story.

(5) Include a deadline from the outset.

Giving the sleuth a limited time frame to solve the case does not
create the same degree of tension as a ticking clock, but it still helps.
(Incidentally, you might incorporate a ticking clock later on, after
you’ve raised the stakes.)

The General’s Daughter, for example, uses almost all of these

techniques to get audiences involved in the mystery of who killed the
eponymous victim.

Paul, a military investigative agent, has two interactions with the

victim before she is killed. These interactions make him (and
audiences) more invested in finding her killer than if they hadn’t
gotten to know her prior to her untimely death.

Actually, Paul’s connection to her runs deeper than that. Paul served
under the general in Vietnam, and it’s hinted that this case will test
Paul’s loyalty to him.

Additionally, Paul is given a mere 36 hours to solve the case before

the FBI descends and turns everything into a media frenzy. Under
normal circumstances, this would hardly be ideal. Because the
general is a serious contender for vice president, in this situation, a
media frenzy has even more serious repercussions.

Finally, Paul is assigned a partner to help him solve the case. A

woman. And not just any woman, either. In the past, he had an affair
with her when she was engaged to someone else!

Raising the Stakes and Shifting into Cell #2

Even with the enhancements described above, your story cannot
remain in cell #1 forever. By or at the midpoint, you need to raise the
stakes and transition into cell #2 (or, in some rare cases, possibly
cell #4).

In a nutshell, to accomplish this, modify circumstances so that, in

addition to spiritual need stakes, your protagonist is driven by safety
need stakes: general protection, demise, livelihood, freedom, sanity,
reputation, or access. (Be careful with the last two. Remember they
can be classified as either spiritual or safety need stakes; it depends
on context.)

To see how doing this can work to your advantage, let’s revisit White
Collar. This example has several nuances, though, so bear with me.
In episode five from season four, “Honor Among Thieves,” Neal
wants a crime scene report that will hopefully, among other things,
help him figure out who murdered his surrogate mother (stakes of
justice).

Trouble is, the report is stored in a database server located on the

22nd floor of the federal marshal building. Although Neal’s a talented
thief, Neal’s tracking anklet (ironically monitored by the federal
marshals) prevents him from stealing the file himself. Plus, Peter,
Neal’s FBI handler—and more important, friend—would easily
deduce Neal’s involvement.

A female thief tempts Neal with a deal: steal a pricey work of art for
her, and she’ll steal the police file for him. Neal refuses because, for
him, the cost—Peter’s trust—is too great. Although it’s too high for
Neal, notice that according to our definitions, this cost of participation
is low. (There’s another—more serious—cost involved, but for the
sake of illustration, we’re only going to focus on this one.)
Despite Neal’s refusal, the female thief doesn’t let it go. She reveals
to Neal that she broke in anyway and stole (technically, I suppose,
copied) the file. And when she did, she planted strands of Neal’s hair
at the scene of the crime.

If Neal doesn’t steal the artwork for her, she’ll tell the marshals that
he broke into their building. Even though he didn’t, with all the
evidence pointing his way, he’ll go to jail for sure.

Voila, there it is! The stakes have been raised. They have gone from
justice (spiritual needs, cell #1) to freedom (safety needs, cell #2).

Notice the effect of raising the stakes. They’re now so high, they
override Neal’s initial reluctance to betray Peter. This is an important
point because Peter has put his career on the line—more than once
—to save Neal, who should repay Peter with his loyalty.

Still, because safety need stakes are involved, audiences can

understand and support Neal’s decision. Critically, in spite of his
betrayal, Neal’s likeability is preserved—yet another example of how
powerful story stakes can be when they are employed with skill.

That’s not all. Neal doesn’t seem like he’s backtracking just so the
episode can conveniently go where it was headed all along (the
artwork heist). His decision to reverse course is completely
believable, nipping potential complaints in the bud. Rather than
grumble about contrivance, audiences are free to fully enjoy the
hijinks of the heist.

Although this episode of White Collar manages it quite nicely,

sustaining audience involvement until you raise the stakes and shift
into cell #2 from cell #1 is kind of an uphill battle. Frankly, even with
the techniques described in this chapter (such as linking the sleuth’s
backstory to another party), it requires tremendous skill to pull off
with success.

If you’re not a master of dialogue, suspense, or—if you’re writing a

buddy cop mystery—humor, you’re probably better off beginning with
more of a bang, i.e. with cell #2.

Put another stake into play—specifically a safety need stake—during

Act One. Because it grabs reader interest right away, this addition
will make your concept “an easier sell.”

For instance:

Stakes of Justice + Stakes of Livelihood

Your sleuth botched up his last case so bad, his boss is at the end of
his rope. If your sleuth doesn’t seal this case up and deliver an
answer wrapped in a red ribbon, he can kiss his job good-bye.

Stakes of Justice + Stakes of General Protection

There’s more than just one dead body. All evidence points to a serial
killer. If the sleuth doesn’t solve the case soon, more innocent people
will die.

Stakes of Justice + A Hint of Stakes of Demise

The perpetrator of the crime knows that the sleuth has been
assigned to the perpetrator’s case. To scare off the sleuth, the
perpetrator calls the sleuth and threatens to harm him or his family if
the sleuth persists in his investigation.

The sleuth reckons that if he catches the perpetrator, the sleuth will
not only achieve justice but also prevent the perp from ever coming
after his family.

You can also use this tactic to create a misleading clue, or red
herring. That is, the perpetrator of the crime doesn’t threaten the
sleuth. It just looks that way.

The person really making the threat didn’t kill the victim, but this
person is, nevertheless, afraid of what secrets the sleuth’s
investigation might uncover, and so, tries to use coercion to stop it.
Stakes of Justice + Stakes of Freedom + Stakes of Access

Evidence leads to one prime suspect: a father with three children.

Still, despite it, the sleuth feels that the suspect is innocent. If the
sleuth doesn’t exonerate him in time, the suspect will go to jail, and
the suspect’s kids will become wards of the state.

By starting your story in cell #2, notice that you’ll no longer be able to
raise the stakes by shifting from cell #1 to cell #2 at the midpoint.
How then, do you raise the stakes? We’ll discuss various methods at
the end of chapter 5. For now, let’s tackle—

A Major Exception: Classic Whodunits and Cozy Mysteries

Classic whodunits and cozy mysteries may squarely begin and end
here, in cell #1.

The likeability of the sleuth, the appeal of the setting, and curiosity
over who did it—and why—keep readers turning the pages.

This holds true, even if the sleuth’s activities are limited to gossip
and observation, which carry little, if any, risk.

Gosford Park is one such example. The story contains no danger to

anyone (save the victim). As a matter of fact, 80 minutes pass before
he’s even murdered! And when an amateur sleuth of sorts, a young
Scottish maid, confronts two perpetrators, she does so without any
risk to her safety.

Although excitement isn’t provided through thrilling high-cost

activities, the film is not without its charms. Audience interest is
sustained through other means, mainly: anticipation of the murder
itself, curiosity over who actually did it, and fascination with the class
divide between the suspects.
 CELL #2: LOW COST, SAFETY
NEEDS
- chapter five -

Cell #2 of the story stake matrix pairs safety need stakes

with a low cost of participation.

Based on genre, this chapter is divided into three sections:

comedies and romantic comedies

romances, specifically romance novels
action movies, etc.

Note: If you’re writing a romantic comedy screenplay, the tips in the

romance novel section may still be helpful to you. All the same,
please realize that they are primarily intended for novelists. (The
hypothetical premise, especially, isn’t high-concept enough for a
feature film.)
 Comedies and Romantic Comedies
It’s rare for a comedy or romantic comedy to start or finish in cell #2.
If yours does, first, let me advise you to follow the same pointers as
for cell #1.

Second, let me offer my congratulations! Safety needs tend to evoke

a stronger degree of emotion than spiritual needs. Thus, you have
an extra advantage over your competition.

Groundhog Day, Mrs. Doubtfire, Legally Blonde, and Liar Liar were
megahits. Sure, they all are high concept and well executed. But it’s
their stakes that truly elevate them. If the protagonist fails at the end,
he risks more than just unhappiness.

In the case of the former two, safety needs (freedom and access to
children, respectively) are at stake from the very beginning. In the
case of the latter two, freedom and access to children, respectively,
are also at stake. However, these stories begin in cell #1 and
transition into cell #2 around the midpoint or immediately prior to the
climax.

To be clear, you can write a great comedy or romantic comedy

without transitioning your story into cell #2. But if you’re feeling
ambitious and want to give yourself a writing challenge, find ways for
your story stakes to encompass more than just your hero’s own
happiness.

Brainstorming along these lines could greatly enhance the

blockbuster potential of your original comedic concept!
A Special Note for Romance Novelists
A lot of tips and examples in this book focus on other genres. At this
time, I want to take a moment to focus specifically on a hypothetical
that will help you, the aspiring romance novelist. If you have no
interest in writing a romance novel, you might want to skip ahead to
the next section.

Unlike romantic comedies, which need to maintain a lighthearted

tone, romance novels routinely incorporate safety need stakes into
their plots. For example, one protagonist may try to preserve his (or
her) freedom or livelihood through low-cost activities. Typically, these
entail romancing the other protagonist under false pretenses.

Furthermore, protagonists can sometimes make high-cost sacrifices

in order to gain love. For instance, if the heroine marries the hero,
she will lose access to her parents.

While these situations technically can be described with the story

stake matrix, in this circumstance, using the lens of the matrix may
be more trouble than it’s worth.

So, we will abandon it for now. Instead, we will distill the principles
behind it to two core issues: (1) how to use stakes to enhance your
initial premise, and (2) what to do when your hero or heroine has to
make a high-cost sacrifice for love.

Note: If you’re writing a romantic thriller, the tips in this section won’t
necessarily apply. The tips discussed in the action movie section in
this chapter, however, will. Please be sure to read it (along with
chapter 6, which covers cell #3)!

How to Use Stakes to Enhance the Initial Premise

of Your Romance Novel
In our hypothetical example, the hero and heroine are both
landscape architects. In fact, they are competing over a lucrative
waterfront development contract to be awarded by the city. To spice
things up a little, we’ll throw in a “false pretenses” gambit.

The hero, for whatever reason, doesn’t have enough time to design
his own architectural plans. Instead, he intends to woo the heroine to
get a peek at her own designs, copy the best ideas, and perhaps,
undercut her proposed budget.

This is our basic premise. It’s got lots of potential for personal and
professional conflict. But it’s not complete because it lacks stakes.
We have the what—the contract—but what about the why?

Why is securing this contract so important to the protagonists?

We’ll start with the heroine. She’s just started her own architecture
firm. As owner of a fledgling operation, she needs to quickly
establish her professional reputation. Getting the contract will secure
her future. Failing to get it would ruin her entrepreneurial dreams.

This is a fine start, but it’s a little too “me-oriented” for my liking. To
soften it up, we could try this: she started her firm against the advice
of her family, who told her it would be too risky, and that 80%–90% of
small businesses fail within their first few years of operation.

While that might work, in this example, we’re going to take another
tack. Her financial success is going to affect more than her own level
of happiness. It’s going to affect the life of someone else precious to
her…like a younger sister…in, let’s say, moderate trouble.

This sibling is constantly being teased by her female classmates. It’s

not full-scale bullying—not yet—but the heroine is afraid it’s going to
reach that point soon. If the heroine gets the waterfront contract,
she’ll have enough funds to send her sister to a private school, far,
far away from the bullying crowd.
See the difference the stakes make? If readers weren’t rooting for
the heroine before, they’d really be rooting for her now.

To get them even more invested, let’s play around with the heroine’s
backstory. Up until recently, she was working at a much larger
company. Before she left, she had been up for a promotion. She
probably would’ve gotten it too, but a relationship with one of her
coworkers distracted her.

She was so consumed by their romance, she let her work slip. Not a
lot, but enough so that she didn’t look like the best candidate for the
promotion. The man she had been dating got it instead.

Actually, he had wooed her purposefully so she’d lose focus. After he

secured the promotion, he immediately broke off their relationship.
Every time she saw him in the hallways or at staff meetings, the
heroine was reminded of her stupidity. She couldn’t take it anymore,
so she left. That was the impetus for her to start her own firm.

This addition enhances our story in multiple ways:

It gives the heroine a strong reason to resist the hero’s

overtures, besides the fact that we need their conflict to keep
the plot going!
When the heroine discovers the truth about the hero, the
similarity of it to her past experience makes this current
emotional blow even more devastating for her—and more
compelling for audiences.
Finally, if the hero learns about the heroine’s past (and meets
her little sister), it will be harder for him to suppress the twinges
of his conscience, generating a healthy dose of internal conflict.

Speaking of the hero, he’s coming across as a rather unsavory

fellow, isn’t he? At this stage, he doesn’t seem worthy of the
heroine’s affections or reader empathy…but he might be—if we add
some stakes to the picture.
As a starting point, let’s say that he’s driven by ambition. If he can
bring in the lucrative waterfront contract, he’ll be promoted to a
member of the board of the midsized firm where he works.

While this gives him a credible motivation, because he has to seduce

the heroine, his motives need to be less mercenary. By the end, of
course, he will fall in love with her, and likely abandon his scheme.

But, readers still have to care about him before he views the heroine
as more than just a mark. Otherwise, they won’t be that happy about
the “happily ever after,” when the hero and heroine are finally united
in love.

So what can we do? We must raise the stakes.

Let’s try this: the midsized firm where the hero works was founded
by his great-great-great-grandfather (or someone like that). It’s been
run by the oldest son in each generation for over a century.

But now, it’s fallen on tough times. If the company doesn’t get a
major cash infusion soon, it’ll have to be sold to an out-of-state
corporation that wants to use the family firm’s illustrious pedigree for
its own (probably no-good) purposes.

The hero and his dad have always had a strained relationship. In
fact, the hero uses his mother’s maiden name to distance himself
from his father and his father’s dreams for the hero’s future. (The
name issue will also enable the hero to befriend the heroine without
making her look stupid for not realizing that he’s working for the
competition.)

Maybe, to avoid the responsibilities he feels his dad is forcing upon

him, the hero has spent the last 5 years abroad, dilly-dallying in
Europe. When he returns home, he discovers that his dad is dying,
that the family firm is in trouble, and that his dreams are more in
alignment with his dad’s than he ever realized.
The dad, on his deathbed, asks his son to maintain the family legacy
and protect the firm from the circling corporate sharks. The hero
solemnly promises to do so.

Good stuff, good stuff. Right?

But we still have a problem: the hero should rely on his own merit,
rather than trying to steal design ideas from the heroine. This is
another truth that requires softening. Perhaps, the hero’s own guilt
and grief are preventing him from developing suitably grand ideas of
his own.

There might be a time crunch too, and the hero doesn’t feel he has
enough time to design something good. Maybe he’s always been
inclined to take the easy way out—that could have been a source of
contention between him and his dad—so instead of relying on his
degree in architecture to get ahead, he decides to rely on his degree
in seduction.

We’re getting there, definitely getting there.

Depending on what we do with scenes told from the hero’s point of

view, I think audiences will sympathize with him. They still won’t want
him to succeed with his scheme. All the same, it’s enough so that
they won’t be completely alienated by his behavior till he changes
course.

Let’s say though, that writing the hero’s interior monologue is proving
to be more difficult than expected. Is there another way we can get
audiences onboard?

Why yes, yes there is.

We can raise the stakes yet again, so that they encompass more
than just the family legacy.

For instance, a husband-and-wife team could’ve worked at the

hero’s firm for years. While industrious, they’re not particularly
imaginative, so they can’t contribute to designing the waterfront
project (in case you were wondering).

But, they have provided the hero with something far better. Lacking
children of their own, they have treated him like their own son. As a
child, the hero often sought out the husband for advice rather than
his own dad.

If the out-of-state corporation buys the hero’s firm, the hero knows
that the couple will be fired, and their pensions probably destroyed.
To protect these people, the hero will do anything to stop the
takeover—including taking advantage of the heroine.

We’ve got a solid combination, now, don’t we? Can you see the plot
unfolding naturally from these basic elements?

And, furthermore, can you see how readers would invest more in the
protagonists’ journey than if the hero and heroine were after the
waterfront contract only for personal gain?

When Your Hero or Heroine Must Make High-Cost

Sacrifices
As we both know, at the end of our hypothetical story, the hero and
heroine are going to be united in love. To get there, at least one of
them will have to make a sacrifice.

Because the hero is the one approaching the heroine under false
pretenses, it stands to reason that he should be the one to give
something up. In basic terms, we can think of it like this: he has to
sacrifice Stake A (whatever motivated him to pursue the waterfront
contract) in order to achieve Stake B (personal happiness generated
by his relationship with the heroine).

Sounds simple, right?

Don’t be deceived. It’s a danger zone loaded with potential

problems.
See, once the hero decides to sacrifice Stake A, it’s no longer a
stake. It transforms into a cost—the price he must pay in order to
achieve Stake B.

If this cost only affects his personal happiness, you’re golden. The
hero can give up his personal ambition for love—and with full
support of your audience. Likewise, he can give up the family legacy
(assuming no other siblings are involved) without incurring reader
wrath. These are both low costs.

Things get trickier when the costs run higher.

If the hero sacrifices the livelihood of the husband and wife who
treated him like their own son, he’s not noble. He’s selfish. He’s no
longer worthy of the heroine’s love, nor your reader’s affection.

Whatever you do, don’t drop the husband-and-wife stakes because

they’ve suddenly become troublesome. They can’t miraculously
evaporate from your story. (I’ve seen this happen more than once!)

Additionally, the hero can’t come to the realization that the couple
would want him to choose love over their own well-being. At least, he
can’t make that realization all on his own. If that were the case, what
prevented him from making this realization earlier on?

Nothing, nothing but your need to keep the hero and heroine apart.

Savvy readers will immediately recognize this contrivance. When

your hero finally goes after the heroine, they won’t be cheering him
on. They’ll be musing on how convenient it is for him to come to this
remarkable realization…just as your story is coming to a close.

Instead, try one of these options:

(1) Remove the stakes from your story altogether.

This is perhaps the simplest solution. Don’t use stakes that are
linked to other characters at all.
Stick to stakes that affect only the hero’s own happiness.

On one hand, this solves the problem. On the other, it has the
potential to significantly decrease the amount of tension permeating
your story, making for a less satisfying read.

If you think the tradeoff is worth it, then go for it. If not, try one of the
other options below.

(2) Take the stakes out of play.

Instead of removing these stakes from your story, keep them in. But,
when appropriate, take them out of play. Here’s how:

In this situation, someone’s future hangs in the balance. Whoever

that is, that person needs to have a conversation with the hero and
give the hero his blessing to proceed. (This, you’ll note, is a lot
different than having the hero give himself permission to sacrifice
another person’s future for the sake of his own.)

The hero’s still paying a high cost, but this way, he doesn’t seem
selfish for doing so. The “collateral damage” aspect has been
eliminated. Hence, readers can fully invest in the hero’s decision as
well as his final pursuit of the heroine.

(3) Have the hero choose the other set of stakes over love.

In this option, the hero knows that his decision will preclude a
romantic relationship with the heroine. But the costs are too high for
him not to sacrifice his own happiness.

However, although the heroine has been betrayed, she

acknowledges the difficulty of the hero’s situation. Contrary to his
expectations, she magnanimously forgives him. He, happily,
promises to spend the rest of his life making it up to her.

(4) Find a way for the hero to have his cake and eat it too.
Basically, you must use your ingenuity so that the hero doesn’t have
to make a sacrifice at all.

Somehow, he finds a way to preserve someone else’s future, while,

at the same time, ensuring his own happiness.

If you’re not careful, though, this tactic may seem very contrived. You
can’t pull your happy ending out of a magic hat.

In our hypothetical, the hero can’t suddenly receive a windfall, which

would give him the cash he needs to forestall the takeover of the
family firm, thus putting an end to his competition with the heroine.

Well…he can’t receive that windfall out of the blue.

If you weave in hints about your magical solution, it’s a different

matter altogether. Stock options, mysterious benefactors, royal
relatives—all can extricate your hero—as long as you set them up
beforehand.
 Action Movies, etc.
As with comedies, romances, and romantic comedies, action
movies, thrillers, mysteries, dramas, and fantasy & science-fiction
stories that begin with safety needs at stake are able to conjure a
greater depth of emotion than those that begin with spiritual needs.

Start your story in cell #2, and you start from a position of strength.

Remember, emotion is the key standard by which your story will be

judged. If yours can elicit a deeper emotional investment from
audiences, captivating them from its very beginning, you’ve
substantially increased the commercial viability of your concept.

Because you’re starting from a stronger foundation, observe that the

effect of modulating factors is multiplied. It’s like multiplying 100 by 5
versus multiplying 10 by 5.

Take deadlines, for instance. Which is more suspenseful: having 48

hours to discover who killed a victim (stakes of justice, cell #1) or
having 48 hours to rescue a missing person before he is killed
(stakes of general protection, cell #2)?

Once you’ve hooked audiences with your high-stake premise, you

need to sustain and, hopefully, deepen their involvement.

To achieve this, consider using the following three-pronged

approach:

(1) During the first act, employ the same techniques as

suggested for sleuth-based stories that begin their second act
in cell #1.

To quickly recap, these include:

 creating hero backstory that connects him to present-day
characters
developing the audience-stake bond
coupling stakes of reputation with a high-stake setting
adding in stakes of happiness (specifically a job promotion)
including a deadline from the outset

To these, you can add another modulator—using children (or

childlike adults) as story stakes.

Technically, this modulator could be used in cell #1. The murder of a

child is automatically going to elicit more emotion than the murder of
an adult. However, I find it rather macabre to make this suggestion.
It’s more palatable for me to recommend that you use children as
story stakes with the knowledge that while their young lives are at
stake at the beginning, these lives will be saved by the end.

To understand how modulating factors can deepen audience

involvement, even when you start with a high-stake, “cell #2”
premise, let us once again examine Taken.

Bryan Mills’s daughter, Kimmy, is abducted by a prostitution ring

(stakes of demise). How can this situation be any worse? How can
audiences become more invested in the outcome than they already
are? Is it even possible?

Indeed, it is.

First of all, Bryan only has 96 hours to rescue Kimmy before it’ll
become impossible to track her whereabouts.

As discussed previously, due to the demands of his job, Bryan has

neglected his relationship with Kimmy in the past. If he doesn’t save
her now, he will never be able to make amends (stakes of regret).

During the first act, audiences spend a decent amount of time with
Kimmy. Because they know she has a passion for horses and has
dreamed about becoming a singer since she was 5 years old, their
bond with her is strong. (Although we’re focusing on the groundwork
laid down during Act One, it should be mentioned that this bond is
reinforced throughout Act Two through several reminders.)

Kimmy is no longer a child; she’s on the cusp of adulthood.

Nevertheless, her innocence is preserved in one key respect. Unlike
the friend who was abducted the same time she was, Kimmy is still a
virgin. It’s a terrible thing to be abducted and then forced into the sex
trade. But if this is Kimmy’s first experience, her nightmare becomes
even more nightmarish.

Together, all of these details make Kimmy’s dire predicament—which

is intense and emotionally compelling to begin with—even more
intense and compelling.

This is the mark of a pro.

Amateurs would be content to have devised a high-stake premise: a

CIA-trained operative goes to Paris to save his daughter.

Boom! They think they’re set.

Pros, on the other hand, know better. To rise above the competition,
they can’t skate by on stakes alone. Through skillful use of
modulating factors, they go beyond that, pushing audiences to the
emotional edge—from the story’s very beginning.

That’s not all. This use of modulating factors will have positive
consequences (in terms of storytelling), which will reverberate
throughout the story.

Imagine, for a second, if these modulating factors were removed

from the beginning of Taken. Bryan has a good relationship with
Kimmy; he isn’t trying to make amends. Audiences are never shown
Kimmy’s passion for horses or music. Kimmy isn’t a virgin.

Then, think about some of the actions that Bryan has to take during
the second act: investigating the apartment from where Kimmy was
taken, hiring a nervous translator, evading local police, single-
handedly destroying a construction site, watching Kimmy being
auctioned off to the highest bidder.

Think about the climax and resolution too: chasing (either by foot or
via Audi) the fancy boat where Kimmy has been transported, leaping
onto the vessel, killing every bad guy onboard. Kimmy, hugging her
dad, telling him “I love you,” (and, unlike earlier, not because she’s
emotionally blackmailing him to secure his parental consent for her
trip).

Without the Act One details listed above, do you think audience
response would be the same to Acts Two and Three?

Nope. Me, neither.

Whether Bryan’s participating in low- or high-cost activities to rescue

his daughter, these actions are going to elicit a deeper degree of
emotion based on what transpired during Act One.

A pro writer uses this knowledge to his advantage. Accordingly, he

adjusts his first act so that an objectively high-stake situation
subjectively feels “higher.” I encourage you to do the same.

(2) Increase the cost of participation and shift your story into
cell #3.

Due to the high stakes already in play, undercurrents of tension will

permeate the first half of Act Two.

These currents help sustain audience involvement, even when your

protagonist is engaged in common low-cost activities such as
interviewing witnesses, assembling a team, or training for his
mission.

But your story can’t stay in cell #2 forever. At some point, your hero
needs to risk more than embarrassment, humiliation, the loss of a
promotion or legacy, or simply wasted time and other resources.
He has to put some skin in the game.

If participation in his journey doesn’t cost your hero something major,

you will either relegate your story to the ghetto of mediocrity or fail
completely to make good on the promises implied by your genre—or
both.

Plus, when you stick to low-cost activities, audiences are not going
to stew about your hero’s safety.

Why should they, when he’s not doing anything that dangerous?

You’re missing out on a prime opportunity to amplify their tension,

and correspondingly, keep them turning the pages of your story.

So, when’s a good time to increase the cost of participation?

The answer is the same as in comedies, romances, and romantic

comedies: the midpoint.

The midpoint is when several stories increase the hero’s cost of

participation and make the transition from cell #2 to cell #3. The
longer you delay, the more you risk audience disengagement before
you get to the juicy stuff.

In fact, many writers view the midpoint as a “point of no return” for

the hero. During Act 2A, he may’ve had options on the table. But
around the midpoint, the costs increase, the stakes are raised, and
those options vanish for good.

There are no more remaining exits; they’ve all been sealed off. It’s
time for your protagonist to fully commit to his journey.

At first, Thelma and Louise can preserve their freedom through low-
cost activities: driving, arguing, renting motel rooms, and engaging in
romantic liaisons. Eventually, though, to keep audiences invested,
the two women will have to take on more risks during Act 2B, and
fully commit to being outlaws.
To get much-needed cash, Thelma robs a grocery store. To avoid
being arrested, both ladies lock a police officer inside the trunk of his
own cruiser. These actions are not only dangerous, they carry
severe penalties.

Before, there was a possibility, a small one, but still a possibility that
Thelma and Louise could, if they wanted, return to their old lives. But
once Thelma’s robbery is caught on tape, that option ceases to exist.

To quote the detective tracking them, “There’s two girls out there that
had a chance. They had a chance…now, they’re in serious trouble.”

Raising Costs Prior to the Midpoint

Many action movies and thrillers will actually increase the hero’s cost
of participation sooner, about halfway through Act 2A.

In Taken, this happens when Bryan pursues the spotter who gave
the prostitution ring his daughter’s address (as well as when he
beats up the spotter’s accomplice).

We can find the same pattern in Inception. Costs rise the first time
when Cobb teaches Ariadne the basics of lucid dreaming. When she
gets nervous, objects around them start to explode. Within the same
sequence, Ariadne will be stabbed by Cobb’s wife.

Costs rise again later on in Act 2A, when Cobb ventures to

Mombasa to recruit a forger to his inception team. Unlike hiring
Ariadne, recruiting this forger is much more dangerous. That’s
because Mombasa happens to be “the backyard” for a shady
corporation that has a price on Cobb’s head. Once discovered by its
agents, Cobb must run for his life in a thrilling chase sequence.

Although these 2A scenes fulfill genre requirements, they’re usually

not terribly risky. Or, if they are risky, they’re brief or small in scope. I
think of them as “action-lite,” or in the case of Inception, as “pseudo-
thrills.”
Ariadne, you’ll notice, is not in any real danger. She’s dreaming.
Cobb’s wife can’t really hurt her. But it doesn’t feel that way to
Ariadne—nor to audience members who are experiencing the story
from Ariadne’s point of view.

These kinds of Act 2A scenes, with action-lite and pseudo-thrills, are

quite beneficial. Why? They help sustain audience investment, but
still give you enough room to escalate the tension and, through a
more extensive set of stunts or thrills, raise the costs (and hence the
stakes) at the midpoint.

If you’ve already significantly delivered on the genre goods during, or

at the very tail end of, Act One, you might not need to incorporate an
action-lite sequence before you reach the midpoint.

That being said, the best stories tend to fulfill genre requirements as
often as possible—while being cognizant of other factors, such as—

Pacing

Your entire second act can’t be an action stunt. Audiences will soon
tire of your hero’s exploits and become just as bored as if there were
no action at all.

Once you transition from cell #2 into cell #3, per the dictates of
pacing, you should (as illustrated in the diagram below), oscillate
between the two. Your hero will have to resume low-cost activities
just to give audiences a respite from the action or thrills:
 To avoid tiring out audiences, your protagonist must
periodically resume low-cost activities.

To sustain audience engagement without wearying them out—and

without reverting your story back to cell #2—consider increasing the
cost of participation without actively endangering your hero’s
physical life.

For example, if your protagonist pursues his path of inquiry, he risks

losing his job—not a promotion—but his very means of livelihood.
(We’ve seen this already in A Few Good Men.)

This type of risk creates something I like to call “the hover effect.”
Knowledge of it is always there, hovering at the back of audiences’
minds, coloring their experience of what’s unfolding on-screen or on
the page.

Even when your hero is engaged in objectively low-cost activities,

because high-cost danger constantly lurks in the background, these
scenes will subjectively feel more tense. By marrying high costs with
slow pacing, you get the best of both worlds. It’s a win-win all
around.

There’s another option too. It’s the last element of our three-pronged
approach:

(3) Add new stakes to those already in play.

If you want audiences to care even more about what happens to

your hero, then…give them more to care about.

Unfortunately, adding a new set of story stakes (ideally one that

concerns safety needs) at the midpoint, or sometime thereafter, is
easier said than done. Hopefully, the collection of examples below
will inspire you during your own plotting sessions.

Making Things Worse

Sometimes, adding new stakes is a matter of sheer brainstorming, of
persistently asking yourself if there’s a way to make things worse for
your hero. You might have to play around with the rules of your story
world to accomplish this.

To illustrate, let’s return to Inception. Around the midpoint, Cobb and

his crew descend into the first dream level. There, they discover that
their target, Fischer, has militarized his subconscious. Contrary to
their expectations, the protagonists will have to deal with automatic
rifles and a freight train.

The film already established that if you’re killed in a dream, you’ll just
wake up. That low-cost penalty is fine for the beginning of the
second act. But not here, not now. If venturing into various dream
levels carries no danger, then all the action with the guns and the
train is pointless.

The premise, as intriguing as it is, becomes boring.

Knowing this, writer and director Christopher Nolan increased the

costs, permanently shifting the story into cell #3. Due to the potency
of the sedative the team had to take to descend into three dream
levels, if they’re killed on any of the levels, they won’t wake up.

Instead, they’ll be sent to Limbo: raw, infinite subconscious with

nothing in it except for whatever was left behind by someone who’s
been trapped there before. If left there, they will likely forget all about
the real world. And even if they do remember its existence, by the
time they figure it out and return, their minds probably will’ve been
turned into mush.

As Cobb says, “Downwards is the only way forwards.” To exit the

dream levels and return to the real world, his crew will have to
descend deeper and deeper into this alternate reality—where they
will encounter Fischer’s heavily-armed subconscious projections at
every turn (who, again, by fatally wounding Cobb and his crew, will
send them to Limbo).
In other words, the protagonists must risk their sanity in order to
preserve it.

Nifty little trick, isn’t it?

Although ingenious, adding stakes of sanity, on top of the stakes of

access already present, is not that intuitive (which is why I said that
you might have to play around with the rules of your story world to
add a new set of stakes to your story).

Incidentally, observe that the stakes of access in Inception are

overlaid by stakes of regret. Cobb’s separation from his children puts
him in a desperate position indeed; but his guilt over not calling out
their names and seeing their faces one last time—when he had the
chance to do so—makes his situation even more poignant.

Because it relies on the time-tested trope of time travel, our next

example of putting new stakes into play is a little more
straightforward than Inception’s. At first, in Back to the Future, when
Marty McFly ventures back to the year 1955, the negative
consequences are bad—but not that bad. He’s trapped in a different
time period, without his girlfriend.

As far as stakes of freedom go, these are pretty low-key. Marty may
be unhappy about the situation, but hey, he’s not behind bars! He’s
still got free will. He’s still alive.

That possibility, however, changes—you guessed it—right around

the midpoint. When Marty shows Doc a photo of Marty’s family, it’s
revealed that Marty’s brother has been partially erased from the
picture. As Doc concludes, if Marty doesn’t find a way to get his
parents to fall in love, Marty will cease to exist.

Cha-ching!

The stakes just got higher.

As a side note, notice that later on, at the Enchantment Under the
Sea dance, the photo takes on extra functionality. First, it reminds
audiences that Marty will die, should he fail to reunite his parents at
the dance.

At the same time, it acts as a ticking clock: Marty must get his
parents to share their first kiss before he completely vanishes from
the picture. Study this example carefully. It exemplifies the kind of
economy that all storytellers should aspire to.

In both Inception and Back to the Future, the stakes were raised by
adding another set of safety need stakes on top of the safety need
stakes already present. This task may seem impossible to you.

Don’t sweat it. I started with the hard stuff first. There is an easier
way to raise the stakes, that old standby—

Making Things Personal

If you start with general stakes of protection, there are different ways
to make things personal for your hero, and thus, raise the stakes.
Here are two:

In Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows, Holmes is trying to stop

the diabolical Professor Moriarty from embroiling Europe in war.
When the professor explicitly refuses to “take Watson out of the
equation,” things turn personal for Holmes.

The detective must jeopardize his own life and stop Moriarty not just
to avert a world war (general stakes), but also to save the life of his
best friend (stakes of demise).

Frank Farmer is hired to be The Bodyguard to superstar Rachel

Marron because a stalker has been sending her threatening letters.
At the film’s outset, saving her life is just a job to Frank. She
represents general stakes that he’s been assigned to protect.
But around the midpoint, after he and Rachel enjoy a date that’s both
sexy and romantic, the stakes undergo a fundamental alteration. If
he fails to save her, it won’t just hurt him professionally; it will hurt
him personally too. Rachel’s character has shifted from representing
general stakes of protection to stakes of demise.

Complicating matters further, a romantic entanglement clouds

Frank’s judgment, making it even more likely he will fail—which is
why he quickly extinguishes their affair, incurring her wrath and
generating more sparks and more conflict!

***

It is possible to craft a gripping second act without raising the cost of

participation or adding in new stakes. Take The Silence of the
Lambs. Despite the use of modulating factors, the stakes—although
high—essentially remain the same, while Clarice’s participation stays
low.

Sure, she has to deal with a cannibalistic serial killer. But although
Hannibal Lecter is sadistically clever, he’s confined during all their
interactions. Clarice doesn’t really risk her life (or, for that matter, her
freedom or livelihood) by talking to him.

His system of quid pro quo exacts a psychological toll. While not
painless, it is, according to our definitions, low cost. This will change
at the climax when Clarice must confront a different serial killer, “in
the open,” without the security of prison bars to protect her.

This example raises a key point: action movies, thrillers, mysteries,

dramas, and fantasy & science-fiction shouldn’t end in cell #2 (or, for
that matter, cell #1). To create a captivating finale, you must raise the
cost of participation and shift into cell #3 (or possibly cell #4) by the
time the climax begins in earnest.

To learn more about cells #3 and #4, keep reading!

 CELL #3: HIGH COST, SAFETY
NEEDS
- chapter six -

Cell #3 of the story stake matrix pairs safety need stakes

with a high cost of participation.

From now onward, our discussion of the story stake matrix will
exclude comedies, romances, and romantic comedies, and focus
exclusively on action movies, etc.

Again, this is because, by definition, comedies and romantic

comedies can’t allow their protagonists to engage in high-cost
activities. Not when these stories are supposed to be amusing and
lighthearted.
To be in cell #3 (or #4), the danger to the hero has to feel real. Your
comedy or romance will only fall into these two cells if you’re writing
a hybrid like an action comedy, romantic thriller, romantic drama, or
comedic drama.

If that’s the case, to craft an emotionally compelling story, combine,

as needed, the success strategies from the appropriate story stake
matrix cell.

If you’re writing a romance novel that is not a hybrid in the vein of

The Bodyguard or Titanic, your story may shift into cells #3 or #4.
But those kinds of stories will not be discussed here. For guidance
on how to handle them, please refer back to the special note for
romance novelists (found within chapter 5).

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s explore cell #3!
 Beginning Act 2A in Cell #3
Launching your second act from cell #3 is tricky. It certainly makes
for a gripping start, that’s for sure.

But if you begin with safety needs at stake and with a high cost of
participation, it’s difficult to raise the stakes later on. Not impossible,
mind you, just difficult.

You probably only have to worry about this if you’re writing a story
with an “on the run” plot. Act 2A will typically begin with an exciting
and dangerous chase sequence, with the hero being pursued by a
member of law enforcement, the villain, or one of the villain’s
henchmen.

Of course, the chase can’t last forever. Eventually, you’ll have to

slow down the pace, and take your hero to a place of relative safety.
This gives him (and audiences) a chance to recuperate from all the
action. (Alternatively, you can also shine the story spotlight on other
characters who are engaged in less vigorous activities.) Either way,
your story will slide back into cell #2, for a little while at least.

If your hero gets caught, he’ll either be killed or sent to prison,

maybe be put under mind control. Clearly, these consequences are
extremely negative. So how do you raise the stakes at the midpoint?

You don’t.

Not technically. Technically, you put a new slant on the cost of

participation. That is, you change your hero’s strategy from
defensive to offensive.

To increase the tension within your story, your hero should voluntarily
abandon his safe spot and venture out into the open, ideally to a
location where he’s most likely to be recognized and apprehended.
Because he can get caught at any second, because anything can be
a potential threat, everything he does is a high-cost activity.

Whether he’s snooping through someone’s mail or buying a drink

from a convenience store, danger is constantly lurking in the
background. It’s the hover effect on steroids!

This way, even when your hero isn’t dodging bullets, audiences are
going to be worried for his safety. This means that you can still fulfill
genre requirements, while minimizing the potential for audiences to
suffer from “action fatigue.”

Although suspense tends to fatigue audiences less rapidly than

action stunts, nevertheless, audiences can’t remain under this
degree of tension for too long. It will put a strain on their nerves and
detract from their overall experience.

Again, for pacing reasons, every so often, even when your hero’s out
in the open, shift your story back into cell #2. Bring him to a place
where he can temporarily be at ease, giving him (and audiences) a
chance to relax. You might consider doing this immediately prior to
the climax, when your story will shift into high gear yet again.

As you may’ve concluded, on-the-run plots spend more time in cell

#3 than any other kind of story. This is why, when done well, they
contain so much commercial appeal. Keeping audiences at the edge
of their seats, these stories elicit a strong emotional response for
sustained periods of time. The intensity of audience experience thus
paves the way for rave reviews and word-of-mouth
recommendations.
 9 Ways to Make Your High-Stake
Climax Even More of a Nail-Biter
Your hero is about to embark on a high-stake showdown, which will
endanger his life, freedom, or livelihood.

With things already so tense, how can you make audiences care
about the outcome of the climax a little more? How can you pull their
emotional strings tauter?

First, perhaps, we should address why you should even bother with
this extra step. Audiences, remember, are judging your story by its
ability to make them feel. If you can wring out even an extra drop of
emotion from them at this critical time, your story is going to be more
powerful and compelling than the stories that don’t implement these
tactics.

As I said earlier, for a screenplay, this could mean the difference

between a pass and a sale; for a novel, it could mean the difference
between a three- or four-star review and a five.

So, if you want to elevate yourself above the competition, consider

implementing one of the tactics below prior to (or, if appropriate,
during) your story climax:

(1) Add in stakes of demise to the general stakes already in

play.

Give the hero a deeply personal reason to participate in the climax.

He’s not just risking his life to save the hostages, city, or planet, but
also to save someone precious to him.

If you’re strongly resistant to this idea because, so often, the hero’s

loved one gets captured right before the climax, remember Len
Wiseman’s Live Free or Die Hard commentary. Audiences have a
much easier time connecting to a personal mission than to a general
one. A stronger connection will yield a better review—and all the
benefits attendant on that.

Rather counterintuitively, the reverse—beginning with stakes of

demise and then adding in stakes of general protection later on—
tends to feel anticlimactic. It’s the equivalent of telling someone,
“Your wife is missing. Oh, and by the way, the fate of the world is at
stake too!”

If you want to focus on your hero first, and bring in general stakes
afterward, then at least foreshadow their advent.

In Avatar, for example, when audiences see the brightly colored

arrows sticking out from machinery owned by the military base, they
know that there is a larger conflict going on. Right away, they realize
that this story is going to encompass something more than Jake’s
personal goal to gain freedom from being paraplegic.

Also, keep in mind that if your story, like Taken or The Fugitive, starts
out highly personal, it’s difficult to make it more personal, without
veering into melodramatic territory. Instead, to keep audience
involvement at peak levels, try one of the other approaches
discussed below.

(2) Incorporate stakes of reputation.

One effective (but often overlooked) way to escalate tension during

the climax is to explore stakes of reputation, specifically the concept
of legacy.

In some cases, the hero will actively jeopardize his legacy in order to
save others. As aforementioned, in A Few Good Men, Kaffee must
elicit a confession from Colonel Jessep during the courtroom climax.
If he doesn’t, Kaffee will likely be court-martialed. The disgrace of it
all will tarnish the family name and the vaunted legacy of his father, a
famous lawyer and former US attorney general.
Audiences would be rooting for Kaffee to succeed anyway. He is
likeable; Jessep is smug; and the defendants are innocent. But
audiences root even harder for Kaffee’s success because they know
he is putting his father’s legacy (as well as his own career) at risk in
order to prevent two men from being unjustly convicted of murder.
Since the personal costs to Kaffee are so high, audiences are more
engaged by the climax than they would’ve been if only the fate of the
defendants had been involved.

In other cases, legacy is not a cost, but a stake. The hero’s

participation in the climax doesn’t endanger his legacy, but rather,
should preserve it. We already saw one example of this with Iron
Man. An even better one can be found in Batman Begins.

When Bruce Wayne’s father was murdered, he left behind a legacy

consisting of four components: his grieving son, the family name,
Wayne Manor, and Gotham City itself. In regard to the fourth item, he
used his wealth and influence to transform the decaying city into a
place that thrived and flourished once more.

Before the climax begins, the villain causes Bruce to engage in

behavior that brings disrepute to the Wayne family name; burns
down the manor in a fire; and almost kills Bruce himself. Being a
villain, naturally, he is not satisfied with all of this devastation. Three
out of four isn’t enough; he intends to destroy Gotham City too.

Thus, at the climax, Bruce (as Batman) must save Gotham City. This
is a worthwhile stake in and of itself, and quite captivating on its
lonesome. The fact that this city is part of his father’s legacy,
however, adds an extra layer of depth and nuance to Bruce’s
actions. This dynamic makes the climax much more emotionally rich
than if only stakes of general protection had been in play.

Using stakes of reputation is one of the easiest ways to distinguish

your climax from countless others. All you have to do is reflect on the
nature of your hero’s legacy, periodically refer to it throughout your
story, and then, prior to the climax, draw audience attention to it in
some way.
Pretty painless, and well worth your effort!

(3) Explore stakes of regret.

Your story climax will be more poignant if the actions your hero must
engage in will redeem him from past failure. In other words, the
climax isn’t just about saving someone, it’s also your hero’s chance
to atone and make amends.

Like stakes of reputation, adding stakes of regret to your story is

fairly simple and straightforward. Again, you must first reflect on your
hero’s backstory and how you’re going to communicate the relevant
details to audiences.

Second, you must construct the actual climax so that it echoes his
past failure literally (as in In the Line of Fire) or symbolically (as in
The Silence of the Lambs).

Additionally, you can also explore the missed opportunity variation of

regret. As discussed earlier, the universality of this feeling adds extra
resonance to a situation that’s already highly charged.

Give the stakes a keener emotional edge; create your own version of
asking Rosie Cotton to dance.

(4) Remind audiences about the stakes.

This tactic may seem like it’s too simple and obvious to be effective,
but it really does work. Not only that, if reminders are lacking from
the climax, audiences definitely feel their absence.

Remember though, that it’s most efficacious when you remind

audiences about the stakes through images rather than through
dialogue.

(5) Generate stakes of justice.

Prior to the climax (and in some cases, during it), have the villain or
one of his henchmen kill someone who is precious to the hero. (Or,
alternatively, devise another heinous crime for the villain to commit.)

This should recharge audience interest in seeing the villain defeated,

making audiences even more invested in the outcome of the climax
than they already were.

Note: If stakes of justice are not combined with a safety need stake,
then your climax actually falls into cell #4 (which we will get to, in due
course).

(6) Foreshadow future stakes.

To do this, hint that if the hero fails to overcome the villain in the
present, someone else’s life will be at stake in the future.

This works even if the threat isn’t explicitly conveyed to the hero. As
long as audiences are aware of this potential danger, another
undercurrent of tension will heighten whatever they’re already
feeling.

In Gladiator and Minority Report, the villains not only have

jeopardized the freedom of their worlds (stakes of general protection)
but also have victimized the hero quite horrifically (stakes of justice).
For these reasons, audiences would already be substantially
invested in the outcome of the climax.

These films deepen that investment even further by giving audiences

yet another thing to worry about. If Maximus fails to defeat
Commodus in Gladiator, Rome will never become a republic;
Maximus will fail to avenge the murder of his wife and son; and, quite
possibly, Commodus will kill his own young nephew.

In Minority Report, if Anderton doesn’t expose Burgess, the Precrime

program will spread its pernicious tentacles across the nation;
Anderton will be framed for a murder he did not intend to commit (a
murder Burgess hoped to engineer by preying on Anderton’s grief
over his dead son); and, quite possibly, in order to protect himself,
Burgess might kill Anderton’s wife.
(7) Prior to the climax, boost the likeability of either the hero or
the stakes.

To get audiences to root even harder for the hero to rescue the
stakes, enhance the likeability of either party.

This is often accomplished by having the hero (or the stakes)

demonstrating kindness or sympathy toward others. Since the hero
(or the stakes) are in a precarious situation themselves, these acts of
generosity are especially emotionally resonant.

In The Fugitive, Dr. Kimble has been falsely convicted of murdering

his wife. He is likeable, sympathetic, and innocent. From the very
beginning, audiences are rooting for him to find the real murderer
and clear his own name. It seems almost impossible for them to be
more invested in his plight.

Almost impossible.

Disguised as a janitor, Kimble sneaks into a hospital to find

information that could lead him to the murderer. While there, he
realizes that a young boy has been misdiagnosed. Kimble takes the
time to alter the child’s medical chart and to transport the boy to the
correct operating room.

Logically, Kimble should be worried about his own safety. The longer
he lingers in the hospital, the more likely it is that he will be detected.
Because he places his own life at risk to save the boy’s, Kimble’s
likeability—already high—approaches stratospheric levels. As a
result, audiences root even harder for his success.

Although effective, likeability boosters do come with a major

drawback. Like some of the reminder strategies we discussed earlier
on, they can affect your story’s momentum. If you want to use this
tactic, be careful.

Don’t make your hero go completely outside of the trajectory of your

story to help another person. In The Fugitive, Kimble has good
reason to venture into the hospital in the first place. His likeability
booster evolves from that initial motivation, which was already
strong.

(8) Make use of stakes of sacrifice.

Prior to the climax, have your hero make a significant sacrifice.

That way, going into the climax, audiences know that if the hero fails,
this sacrifice will have been made in vain.

This adds an extra layer of poignancy to the climax itself, which

again, bolsters its ability to elicit emotion from audiences.

(9) Draw audience attention to boundaries of time, resources, or

magic.

The climax is the time to go beyond a deadline, tighten the hero’s

restrictions, and incorporate a ticking clock. (Remember, it doesn’t
have to be a literal clock.)

Make sure to cut away to it every now and again. If you don’t remind
audiences about it, you’re not going to achieve the desired effect.

If you haven’t included a clock, reconsider.

It creates urgency that amplifies the tension audiences are already

feeling due to the stakes currently in play. Without a clock, you’re
leaving a significant advantage on the table. It’s like going to a free
buffet, and sampling everything except for the ultra-expensive jumbo
prawn cocktail.

Additionally, you can draw attention to the depletion of the hero’s

resources as well as to his vulnerabilities to certain types of magic.
While these also intensify audience emotion, most of the time,
they’re still not going to be as powerful as a ticking clock.
 Avoiding the Anticlimactic Ending
High stakes plus high-cost action. Sounds like a recipe for a
captivating climax, doesn’t it?

And it is.

But both components need to be present in order to avoid an

anticlimactic ending. (There are a few other elements to consider
too, but these, I’m afraid, are beyond the scope of the story stake
matrix.)

Your story, in short, needs to remain squarely in cell #3 (or possibly

#4) for the vast majority of its grand finale.

If safety needs are at stake, you need to keep them in play until the
very end of your climax.

Writers, for some reason, have the propensity to take the stakes out
of play prematurely. Perhaps, they have come to identify with the
stakes so strongly that they can’t bear to keep the stakes in extreme
danger for too long.

Whatever the cause, the result is the same: when you take the
stakes out of harm’s way, your climax is over. Whether you intended
to or not, you’re transitioning into the resolution of your story.

Bear in mind, you just need to keep something at stake. It doesn’t

necessarily have to be the same thing. If you take one set of safety
need stakes out of play, but put a new set into play, you’re still
golden.

In Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, once Robin saves a band of

Sherwood folk (including Little John’s son) from the hangman’s
noose, these stakes go out of play.
But the climax is not over, because the Sheriff of Nottingham’s darkly
ambitious plans continue to threaten Lady Marian (stakes of demise)
as well as the future of England (stakes of general protection). Both
of these stakes help fuel the rest of the climax, although, it should be
noted, that the latter doesn’t carry nearly as much emotional weight
as the former.

In Face/Off, during one part of the film’s lengthy climax, the life of the
hero’s wife is at stake. When she is brought to relative safety, new
stakes are put into play. The hero’s daughter suddenly materializes
—surprise!—and now, her life too, is at stake.

The daughter manages to injure the villain, and he runs off. The
immediacy of the danger is gone, but, nevertheless, the villain still
poses a threat to the hero’s family. This future possibility sustains the
rest of the climax—along with the hero’s need for payback (which
broaches cell #4 territory).

Before we delve into the intricacies of cell #4, we’ve got to address
the second key component of a riveting climax: the cost of
participation.

You might begin the climactic sequence with a low-cost activity such
as preparation, but your hero’s actions need to escalate into riskier
endeavors that have the potential to injure life, limb, and future.

Due to the danger they entail, these high-cost activities should also
help you fulfill genre requirements, providing audiences with the
action, drama, or thrills they paid to experience. Without the genre
goods, audiences are going to be disappointed. To them, the climax
will feel anticlimactic—no matter how long the stakes remain in play.

Consider the thriller Fracture. Smart and stylish in several respects,

it’s full of engaging, “cat and mouse” encounters between the
protagonist (district attorney Willy Beachum) and the villain (wealthy
engineer Ted Crawford). Unfortunately, the final confrontation
between the two men—which, as part of the climax, should be the
most thrilling—is one of the least compelling encounters of the
bunch.

To see why, let’s analyze the film with the story stake matrix. At the
beginning, Crawford shoots his adulteress wife, who’s in a coma for
most of the movie. Thus, her tragic condition fires up stakes of
justice.

During Act 2A, to achieve this justice, Beachum engages in low-cost

activities, mainly: (a) arguing with a police detective about the
missing murder weapon, and (b) visiting Crawford in jail to discuss
issues with Crawford’s confession. With this combination of spiritual
need stakes and low costs, the story remains in cell #1.

But after the midpoint, the costs rise. If Beachum fails to convict
Crawford, Beachum can say good-bye to his new (and lucrative) job
with a corporate law firm. Due to the enormity of such a failure, he
wouldn’t be able to return to his old job with the district attorney’s
office, either. Did I mention Beachum has thousands of dollars in
student loan debt to pay?

These are high costs. Combined with stakes of justice, after the
midpoint, the story falls into cell #4. Critically, however, it doesn’t stay
there. At the end of the climax, when Beachum confronts Crawford
at Crawford’s home, these costs have disappeared.

At this point, due to lack of evidence, Crawford has been acquitted.

Beachum has lost the case, his corporate law position, and his job
with the D.A.’s office. Technically, the lattermost is re-offered to him,
but he declines to accept it.

But, in the grand scheme of things, this technicality isn’t of

consequence. No matter how you look at it, when Beachum enters
Crawford’s home, Beachum’s career is not on the line.

Let’s examine another high-cost option: risking freedom. Does

Beachum risk imprisonment by confronting Crawford?
The answer to this question depends on whether audiences believe
Beachum might kill Crawford to obtain justice on behalf of Crawford’s
wife. If so, Beachum could potentially be convicted of murder
himself, and consequently, be sent to prison.

At this stage of the story, Crawford’s wife is no longer in a coma;

she’s dead. Crawford pulled the plug on her life support, and
Beachum failed to stop him. Even worse, Crawford exhibits no
remorse over the way he killed her, even going so far as to taunt
Beachum about the vacation he’s taking, a second honeymoon,
which “won’t be the same” without his wife.

The egregiousness of Crawford’s crime, coupled with the

callousness of his attitude, gives credence to the idea that Beachum
might be driven to kill Crawford. This idea is further reinforced in two
key ways.

Moments before the final climactic confrontation, Beachum says to

his former boss, “I let a man get away with murder. How am I
supposed to live with that?” Then, during the confrontation itself, the
film occasionally zooms in on a gun Beachum has found on
Crawford’s premises and keeps at his side, as if to imply Beachum
could deploy it at any second.

Yet, despite these hints, it’s difficult to believe that Beachum will
shoot Crawford. While Beachum appears to be haunted by this case
(unlike the man Crawford’s wife was having the affair with, who,
incidentally, committed suicide earlier on), Beachum doesn’t have a
deeply personal connection to the victim.

More important, through images of Beachum reading law textbooks

and through gestures Beachum makes at police headquarters right
before he visits Crawford’s home, it’s indicated that he’s gleaned
fresh insight into the case.

Although audiences don’t know what it is exactly, they know

Beachum has some new trick up his sleeve. He’s not arriving on
Crawford’s doorstep completely “empty-handed.”
In other words, he’s not at the end of his rope. He’s not desperate
enough to kill Crawford and lose his own freedom for the sake of
justice. Everything signals that Beachum has found an intellectual
solution to this mess—not a suicidal one.

This high cost is out…leaving us with death. To stop Beachum from

taking him down, Crawford could theoretically kill Beachum. After all,
Crawford already shot his wife—and got away with it. What’s to
prevent him from doing the same to Beachum?

Crawford’s own calculating personality, that’s what.

Crawford’s crime was not committed out of passion. He shot his wife
cold-bloodedly, having meticulously planned its execution—and his
escape—down to every last detail. It would be a major betrayal of his
character (not to mention a major cheat) for him to kill Beachum in a
fit of hot-headed rage now.

True, it can be argued that Crawford has lured Beachum to his

house to pull a similar stunt. That is, kill Beachum in such a way that
Crawford can, as he did with his wife’s murder, get away with the
crime.

But again, Crawford’s personality rules out this possibility too. He is

arrogant, smug, convinced of his own invulnerability. He’s unlikely to
go to such lengths when he’s concluded that he’s won the game,
while Beachum, on the other hand, has lost, and hence, no longer
poses a threat.

Time to look at our final tally. We’ve crossed off the loss of livelihood,
freedom, and life as potential high costs. This means that Beachum
engages in low-cost activities at the tail end of the climax, placing it
squarely in cell #1.

We’re in anticlimax territory—a death knell for any thriller.

To underscore this point, let’s contrast Fracture’s ending with the

final confrontation between Kaffee and Jessep in A Few Good Men.
Interestingly, it’s possible Beachum’s own character was heavily
inspired by Kaffee’s. Unlike Kaffee, who plea bargains his cases
away, Beachum takes his cases to court.

But their behavior is manifestation of the same flaw: both men are
afraid to lose. Instead, they content themselves with numerous, but
shallow, victories. By the end of their journeys, these two
protagonists will overcome their fears and put their talents to good
use.

Nonetheless, despite this intriguing parallel, Men’s final climactic

encounter is more riveting—by a wide margin too.

Why?

At the end of Men, as we’ve previously discussed, Kaffee puts his

own career on the line to save two marines. This high cost, paired
with safety need stakes, places the final courtroom showdown in cell
#3. (Note: Kaffee’s also jeopardizing his father’s legacy, but this
doesn’t put the showdown in cell #3. It does, however, enhance the
resonance and intensity of the encounter.)

And so, when Kaffee is interrogating Jessep on the stand, audiences

are at the edge of their seats. They’re wondering if Kaffee (who
seems to be floundering) will be able to acquit his defendants. But
more than that, they’re wondering if he has badly miscalculated, if he
has taken a risky gamble with his career and is about to lose big.
This climax is enthralling, through and through.

The same can’t be said for Fracture. Superficially, with atmospheric

lighting and music (and the close-ups of the gun by Beachum’s side),
the end of the climax has the hallmarks of a thriller…but it’s all
smoke and mirrors.

Yes, the stakes are both emotionally compelling and in play until the
very end. Even so, Beachum’s cost of participation—unlike Kaffee’s
—is low. Consequently, audiences are unlikely to be in suspense
over the outcome of Beachum’s final encounter with Crawford.
In sum, while the film’s ending is certainly poetic (if Crawford hadn’t
insisted on pulling the plug on his wife’s life support, he’d still be
untouchable), it’s not very thrilling. Ultimately, it fails to satisfy.

The lack of high costs is the troublemaker here. If present, Fracture’s

ending would be greatly improved because, in this story, the stakes
of justice are powerful enough to warrant high-cost action.

This isn’t always the case with spiritual need stakes, as we’ll see in
the next chapter…
 CELL #4: HIGH COST, SPIRITUAL
NEEDS
- chapter seven -

Cell #4 of the story stake matrix pairs spiritual need stakes

with a high cost of participation.

If any part of your story—especially the climax—is categorized by

this cell, you must proceed with caution.

Unlike cell #2, the misalignment between the cost of participation

and the needs it fulfills can bother audiences. And for good reason.
You’re veering into the territory of reckless endangerment.

Your hero is purposefully courting the loss of livelihood, freedom,

even life—and for what?
For the sake of love. Perhaps justice or reputation, or for esteem.

While these stakes certainly enrich human existence, in the world of

movies (and novels), they just don’t elicit the same kind of emotional
response and level of understanding as safety need stakes.

Accordingly, you’ve got to become the Ogilvy of creative writing.

You’ve got to “sell it.”

Really, really sell it.

You’ve got to make audiences believe that the dangers the hero is
about to face are worth the rewards.

Alternatively, you must add in new stakes, shifting from spiritual

needs to safety needs, thereby moving your story into the safe zone
of cell #3.

Pictorially, your options look something like the diagram below:

 Cell #4 stories are tricky. You must (1) emulate famous
advertising executive David Ogilvy and convince audiences
that the stakes justify the high-cost risks. If this proves too
difficult, consider (2) raising the stakes, i.e. shifting your
story into cell #3, where no “selling” is required.

Selling it is not as easy as it may sound. Hopefully, the examples in

this chapter will help clarify what you must do to get audiences to
buy into your protagonist’s high-cost actions.
 Selling Stakes of Justice
To invoke stakes of justice, the villain must commit a heinous crime
against the hero, and the hero’s journey, consequently, is about
exacting payback.

Alternatively, the villain may perpetrate an awful crime, not

necessarily against the hero, but the hero is, nevertheless, willing to
risk his job (or pay another high cost), in order to bring the villain to
justice.

If the crime is heinous enough, and if audiences experience it

firsthand, stakes of justice are usually enough to fuel the entire
second act.

Keep in mind, though, that three other factors play a role:

bonding with the victim

time elapse
the initial threshold of the costs

If the victim is presented as likeable or sympathetic, and if his value

to the hero is clearly demonstrated, then audiences will be more
likely to understand why the hero is so motivated to seek justice.

Even so, the effect of a heinous crime on audience emotion wanes

over time. Furthermore, as the costs to the hero escalate, it may
seem like he’s foolish to risk his own life in order to avenge someone
who is already dead (no matter how likeable or sympathetic the
victim is).

For these reasons, generally speaking, it’s at the climax where you
hit a sticky wicket.

If the heinous crime is committed during Act One, the climax is going
to be separated from it by a wide interval. Additionally, fulfilling genre
requirements during this particular sequence requires the hero to
face maximum danger. Such risky behavior may appear
unwarranted, especially if, at this point, audiences have forgotten
how likeable or sympathetic the victim is.

To put these concepts in perspective, let’s take a look at Beverly Hills

Cop. During the film’s beginning, one of the villain’s henchmen
murders Michael, a friend of detective Axel Foley. Since Michael had
been living in Beverly Hills, Foley decides to journey there to
discover who is responsible for his friend’s death.

Before Foley leaves, his boss issues him a stern warning. If his boss
finds out that Foley has been conducting any kind of investigation
during “the vacation” Foley requested, he will fire Foley. Right away,
audiences know that Foley’s pursuit of justice is a high-cost
endeavor.

And they are totally onboard with the idea!

How does the film accomplish this feat?

Through a variety of techniques:

Audiences see the murder firsthand. (It isn’t shunted offscreen;

it isn’t described to them by witnesses after the fact.)
Although Foley and Michael haven’t seen each other in a long
time, they were friends during childhood.
Michael even covered for Foley when they were 15 years old
and got caught stealing a car. (It was a Cadillac, BTW!)

Taken together, all of these details sell audiences on the idea that
the risk to Foley (the loss of his livelihood) is worth the reward
(stakes of justice). Because of this understanding, audiences not
only support Foley’s decision, they root even harder for him to
succeed!
This choice is the mark of a professional. An amateur would’ve been
content that he created a personal relationship between Foley and
the victim. An amateur would be delighted with the premise of a
wiseass Detroit cop venturing off into ritzy Beverly Hills to solve a
case (which, admittedly, is a good premise).

An amateur would’ve been so pleased with himself that he would’ve

stopped there. He would’ve had Foley begin his jaunt to Beverly Hills
with his boss’s blessing. This, you’ll note, would mean that the
second act would begin in cell #1.

A pro, on the other hand, will not be content with a good concept.
He’ll want to make minor alterations to it, to transform it into
something great.

In this case, the pros introduced a high cost early on, shifting the
second act into cell #4. This choice makes the negative
consequences of failure even worse—from the very beginning of Act
2A—which, in turn, raises the stakes and deepens audience
engagement. The simple inclusion of a high cost, in other words,
generated a more powerful second act.

Before the climax, the costs will rise again. Bogomil, a lieutenant with
the Beverly Hills police force, orders one of his officers to escort
Foley to the city limits. Bogomil warns Foley that if he returns to
Beverly Hills, Foley will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

By continuing his investigation, Foley not only risks unemployment,

but also incarceration. Because audiences admire Foley for his
willingness to risk so much, again, they become more invested in his
goal.

During the climax, however, this admiration could’ve easily soured.

The whole house of cards could’ve potentially collapsed.

Look at what Foley has to do: he must storm the villain’s mansion.

A mansion protected by a bevy of security guards.

Security guards with machine guns.

Except for two Beverly Hills cops, who have little experience with
serious crime, Foley has no backup.

The costs have become so high that stakes of justice can no longer
warrant them.

If Foley blithely blazes into the villain’s stronghold just to avenge

Michael, Foley may appear brave, but he also comes across as
foolish.

That is the kiss of death.

You never want audiences to have niggling thoughts, which question

the hero’s rationale for participating in the climax. Not even the ghost
of a niggling thought. Not even the whisper of a ghost of a niggling
thought.

If this happens, those doubts will color their entire experience of the
climax. No matter how exciting the climax is, audiences will
disengage from it. They won’t be as emotionally involved as they
would’ve been, had they not had cause to question your
protagonist’s participation at all.

Consequently, they’ll be less inclined to wax enthusiastic about your

story as a whole. Instead of rave reviews, you wind up with a
lackluster response.

Of course, everything changes if there is a reason why Foley cannot

walk away from the climax. And the movie supplies one: Jenny.

A childhood friend of both Foley and Michael, she’s been taken

hostage by the villain. If Foley doesn’t storm the mansion now, Jenny
will die. Foley absolutely cannot wait for backup.

In sum, stakes of demise were added to the stakes of justice already

in play. Now, with this addition, the stakes justify the risks. Audiences
can fully and wholeheartedly invest in Foley’s (and the two other
officers’) attempts to infiltrate the mansion and rescue Jenny.

To put it another way, in order to create a riveting ending, the story

had to shift into cell #3 immediately prior to the climax. It couldn’t
remain in cell #4.

Could the climax be sustained by stakes of justice alone? It’s hard to

say.

Perhaps, if audiences had, firsthand, seen Michael cover for Foley

when the two had been caught stealing the Cadillac, if audiences
knew that this generosity had ruined Michael’s own dreams of
becoming a cop, and if Foley is plagued with guilt over what had
happened, then maybe the climax could’ve worked without bringing
Jenny into the equation.

That’s a lot of ifs.

Even with them, it’s still a close call. If you ever doubt whether
stakes of justice, by themselves, could sustain your climax, do
yourself a favor.

Move your story out of cell #4 and into cell #3. Add in safety need
stakes, so that the rewards match the level of risks, and audiences
have no reason to question your hero’s judgment.

Actually, this will give you the best of both worlds. With the inclusion
of stakes of demise (or another safety need stake), an extra layer of
tension will be added to the climax. Audiences will be even more
emotionally involved in its outcome than if only stakes of justice were
in play.

As an alternative option, use the power of time elapse to your

advantage. Have the villain kill someone precious to the hero
immediately prior to the climax. This way, the interval between the
heinous crime and the climax itself will be brief. So brief, in fact, that
the effect of the former should be strong enough to fuel the latter.
 Selling Stakes of Reputation
If stakes of reputation are tied to safety need stakes, as a general
rule, you don’t have to do any selling. Audiences will be worried that
someone might die or go to jail or be unable to make a living. The
fact that a reputation also hangs in the balance adds extra depth to
the tension already present.

Things get a bit tricky, however, when stakes of reputation function

as a spiritual need stake—and the hero has to engage in high-cost
activities to preserve it.

To illustrate, let’s examine National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets. Ben

Gates is on yet another treasure hunt, this time for Cibola, a lost city
of gold. But—and again, this is the mark of a pro—he’s not in it only
for the money.

At the film’s outset, Ben’s ancestor is implicated in the assassination

of Abraham Lincoln. In a convoluted bit of logic, the discovery of the
city would clear this ancestor’s name, preventing it from being turned
“to mud.”

When the costs are moderate, these stakes of reputation can sustain
the action. It’s easy to buy into the idea that Ben would fly to Paris to
clear the name of his ancestor. It might be less easy to buy into the
idea that Ben would sneak into Buckingham Palace and the Oval
Office to locate clues to the treasure, but it’s feasible.

In short, the concept of legacy is enough to pull the story forward

during Act 2A. But things start to crumble once the movie hits Act
2B, when the costs start to escalate.

See, the president knows the location of a special (and somewhat

mythical) book that contains a facsimile of the last clue Ben needs to
find the treasure.
To get the book, and hence the clue, Ben decides to kidnap the
president.

Yes, the president of the United States.

That’s when the stakes, in combination with the costs, crash into a
brick wall.

As everyone knows, bad things happen to people who try to go after

the president. Ben is actively risking imprisonment—or worse—and
why?

To get his hands on a clue, which should lead him to a treasure,

which, in turn, will clear his ancestor’s name. Ben’s ancestor is long
dead. His reputation doesn’t significantly impact Ben’s present (or
future) or the present (or future) of the people Ben loves. The costs
outweigh the stakes, and it’s virtually impossible to sell audiences on
the idea.

Now, this misstep didn’t hurt the film’s box office success any. There
are several reasons for this:

Goodwill from the first film carried over into the sequel.
Children in the audience (and some adults) would be enthralled
by the sheer verve of Ben’s plan.
The Secret Service agents don’t appear that menacing, which
helps downplay the risk Ben is taking.
Actors Nic Cage and Bruce Greenwood delivered compelling
performances.

That last one is the most important. Nic and Bruce sell audiences on
the sequence.

But, I would not recommend this approach if you’re trying to sell a

spec screenplay or publish your novel. The actors won’t be there to
do the selling for you.
You’ve got to rely on your writing alone.

In the case of National Treasure 2, the easiest way to do this is to

move the story out of cell #4. That is, add in safety need stakes and
shift the story into cell #3.

For instance, the villain could get ahold of Ben’s mother and threaten
to harm her if Ben doesn’t provide him with the last clue. Now, Ben
has to kidnap the president, not just for the treasure (stakes of
happiness), not just to restore the good name of his long-dead
ancestor (stakes of reputation), but also to save his own mother
(stakes of demise).

With our addition, the costs are in alignment with the stakes, and
audiences can happily enjoy Ben’s kidnapping caper without
reservation.

As a matter of fact, in the film, a variation of this actually happens

immediately prior to the climax—but critically—after the kidnapping.
We’ve just changed the timing of the villain’s threat to create a more
effective story.

Do you see the difference?

Instead of having the plot go there (the kidnapping stunt) because

the filmmakers wanted it to go there, we made it so that the story
couldn’t go anywhere but there.

No one can complain that our hero is testing all bounds of credibility
and, as a result, put down our story in disgust.

To be fair to National Treasure 2, after the stunt with the president,

the risks and stakes did match. The president can’t tell anyone why
Ben kidnapped him because the book of secrets is supposed to
stay…well…secret.

In another bit of convoluted (but buyable) logic, Ben must find the
treasure to avoid going to jail for trying to kidnap the leader of the
free world. The threat of imprisonment has transformed into a stake.
To put it another way, Ben’s no longer actively courting incarceration.
Instead, he’s trying to avoid a lengthy sentence in Leavenworth.

A subtle difference, but an important one.

It means that Ben has yet another motivation to find the lost city of
Cibola. When his final pursuit of it threatens his life (as well as the
lives of the people he loves), audiences won’t think he jolly well
deserves it. They could’ve potentially felt that way, if he were only
motivated by greed, or by foolish (if noble) sentiments about his
ancestor’s legacy.

Instead, because Ben is propelled into the final search for the
treasure by the desire to save his mom (stakes of demise) and avoid
jail (stakes of freedom), audiences are still onboard with him.

Because the stakes have been raised, audiences do not deem him a
fool and disengage from his quest. Quite the opposite. They are
more invested in his plight than ever before. Hence, they will remain
under tension, at the edge of their seats, until they know that he’s
reached safe ground.
 Selling Stakes of Happiness
In the case of National Treasure 2, we added in stakes of demise to
make it plausible that the hero would risk incarceration for the sake
of his goal. This shifted the story into cell #3, and raises a good
question.

Can heroes be willing to risk incarceration merely for spiritual need

stakes?

Sure. But you have to be able to—you guessed it—sell it.

We’ve actually discussed an example of this earlier on: Ocean’s

Eleven. Here, let’s delve into more specifics.

At first, audiences think the casino heist is mostly about the money
and partly about getting back at the house, “who always wins.” The
latter is a nice sentiment. Coupled with the likeability and charisma of
Danny Ocean’s con men crew, it’s enough to sustain the first half of
the film’s second act.

Then, the guys are participating in low-cost activities, like conducting

reconnaissance missions and building a decoy vault. But in Act 2B,
the costs start to rise. The guys have to steal an expensive device
from a local university—not to mention pull off the heist itself.

You could argue that the size of the pot—$160 million—is worth the
risks. But remember, stories in which the hero endangers his life or
freedom just for money tend not to be emotionally compelling. As for
the vague idea that the guys are getting back at the house? That no
longer cuts it either.

Audiences need something more to keep them invested in the heist.

At the midpoint, when their interest could dwindle, the movie gives
them another reason to care: Danny’s ex-wife, Tess.
That’s when audiences learn that Terry Benedict, owner of the three
casinos the crew is targeting, is none other than Tess’s new
boyfriend. Now, Danny isn’t actively courting another prison
sentence just to pull off a million dollar heist; he’s also doing it to win
back the heart of his ex-wife.

Like money, pursuit of love generates stakes of hero happiness.

Thus, even with this addition, we still have a combination of high
costs and spiritual need stakes. The film is still in cell #4.

The big difference, though, is that it’s a lot easier to get audiences to
root for love than it is to get them to root for money.

So, how exactly do the filmmakers sell audiences on the idea of

love? Here are a few of their tricks:

Danny continues to wear his wedding ring.

At the demolition of Reuben’s old casino, when everyone’s
watching the destruction, Danny’s gaze is squarely on Tess.
Linus says the best part of his day is watching Tess. (This
supplements the idea that she’s a catch, and therefore, worth
the risks.)
Tess and Danny’s conversations sizzle with chemistry.
Benedict is not the kind of man Tess believes him to be (and
their relationship is showing cracks at the seams).

In combination, all of these details convince audiences that the risk

(imprisonment) is worth the rewards (the millions and Tess).
Audiences are totally onboard with the scheme, rooting even harder
for the charismatic crew to succeed.

And so, at the end, when Danny (who was sent back to prison for
violating parole) is released and walks out into the fresh air, with his
millions and his ex-wife waiting for him, audiences won’t watch the
credits scroll down the screen, while thinking he was a fool for trying.
Instead, like Danny himself, they’ll say to themselves, “Man, that was
worth it. It was really, really worth it!”
 THE STORY STAKE MATRIX:
WRAPPING UP
- chapter eight -

In this chapter, we will address some loose ends pertaining to the

story stake matrix and your implementation of it.

Specifically, we’ll look at:

final pointers that concern all cells in the matrix

a basic version of the matrix that involves only four steps (!)
resources to help you apply what you’ve learned

Ready to dive in?

 Final Pointers for Cells #1–#4
After you’ve evaluated your plot through the lens of the story stake
matrix, there are some last minute assessments to make.

You should double-check that:

(1) Your protagonist hasn’t engaged in excessively callous

behavior.

Although less than ideal, this usually isn’t a deal-breaker in a plot

driven by safety need stakes. But one excessively coldhearted act
can kill a story that is solely fueled by stakes of hero happiness.

If your protagonist fails to achieve his goal, it’s not the end of the
world. He’ll just be unhappy. That’s all.

Emotional identification with him is holding your entire story together.

Lose that, and your screenplay or novel will fall apart at the seams.

(2) Audience goodwill hasn’t dissipated by the time your

protagonist goes after his goal.

If you want to avoid fidgety audiences, make sure your protagonist

takes concrete steps to achieve his goal by the 25% mark of your
story (or thereabouts).

Audiences can’t root for him to get the girl or save the world until he
actually starts to play the game!

(3) Your protagonist has endured enough ordeals.

If life’s been too easy for your protagonist during Act Two, as much
as they like Nice (or Naughty) Ned, audiences will feel like he hasn’t
earned his Act Three reward.

Make him work for it.

Make sure he experiences a variety of obstacles that require either
low or high costs to overcome.
 The Basic Story Stake Action Plan
At this point, you might be thinking that the story stake matrix is…a
little complicated.

I agree. It can be.

But as I said earlier, mastering it should yield rich dividends. Once

you understand it, it will help you write the kind of story that keeps
readers up at night, the kind of story that gets readers to rave about
your work.

That being said, you may find a simpler approach more useful.

Voila!

Your wish is about to come true.

The principles behind the story stake matrix can be distilled into four
core elements. I couldn’t share this basic story stake action plan with
you earlier, because in all honesty, it makes better sense when
you’ve had a thorough introduction to the matrix, as a whole, first.

Now, you’re prepped and ready.

So here it is:

(1) During Act One, spend time establishing the central story stakes.

(2) Periodically, raise the stakes by (a) increasing the cost of

participation, and/or (b) putting new stakes into play. The best times
to do this are usually at the midpoint and immediately prior to the
climax.

(3) Whenever possible, weave modulating factors into the fabric of

your story.
(4) Verify that the cost of participation is in alignment with the stakes.
This is essential throughout Acts Two and Three, but it’s especially
so during the latter, when your hero will typically face the greatest
level of danger.

That’s it. That’s the story stake matrix in a nutshell.

Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it?

In fact, at first, you might feel more comfortable just using the basic
story stake action plan to craft your plot (or, if you’re a pantser, to
evaluate your rough draft). If you adopt this approach, your
screenplay or novel should be off to a solid start.

But to stand out in a crowded marketplace and give your readers the
most intense emotional experience possible, you should treat the
basic action plan as a supplement to the full story stake matrix (as
discussed in chapters 4–7), rather than as a replacement for it.
 Helpful Resources for You
There’s no better time than the present to apply the knowledge
you’ve learned so far!

Before reading the next chapter in this book, take a moment to

download and fill out a free story stake worksheet made especially
for you.

If writing exercises are more your style than worksheets, I’ve still got
you covered. Take a few minutes to scribble down an answer to one
of the writing exercises included in this section.

Both of these activities are, of course, completely optional. If you

prefer, you can ignore them altogether, or perhaps, return to them
after you’ve finished reading this writing guide. (By the way, you can
easily return to this page from the table of contents.)

Free Story Stake Worksheet

If you’re about to start, are in the middle of, or have just finished a
rough draft of your screenplay or novel (or an outline for either),
please take a look at the (printable) story stake worksheet that’s
available at my website.

Created just for readers of this writing guide, it will walk you, step by
step, through a series of questions and checklists designed to help
you perfectly develop the stakes in your story.

You can download it for free from here:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/stakes-worksheet/

3 Story Stake Exercises

If you aren’t in the middle of a writing project, but would still like to
apply the knowledge you’ve learned from this book, try one (or more)
of the following exercises.

I hope this practice session will be one step on your path toward
story stake domination!

Exercise #1: X-Men

At the climax of the film, several world dignitaries are about to be

turned into blobs of jelly through a contraption devised by the villain.

Tensions rise as destructive rays emitted by the contraption come

closer and closer to the assembled dignitaries. The fate of one of the
heroes also hangs in the balance.

The stakes seem pretty high already, don’t they?

And they are…but can you think of a way to wring even one more
drop of emotion from audiences?

Hint: audiences haven’t gotten to know the dignitaries. Try to

incorporate one of them into the fabric of the plot so audiences form
a bond with the general stakes, and correspondingly, will care even
more about their fate.

Exercise #2: Four Christmases

Kate and Brad planned to spend Christmas relaxing in Fiji. But when
their flight gets canceled, they’re forced to spend the holiday with
each of their parents.

Cry me a river.

Attractive and affluent, Kate and Brad are living the good life. Why
should audiences care about their first-world problems?

Rewrite the beginning so that the hero and heroine come across as
more likeable, sympathetic, or fascinating.
Exercise #3: Fool’s Gold

This film has a decent premise: a divorced couple joins forces to find
a lost treasure off the coast of the Bahamas. The problem (one of
them at least) is with the stakes.

Give Tess and Finn another reason to go on a treasure hunt besides

the fact that it’s exciting, romantic, and lucrative.

Both have some debts to pay off, but as I recall, that angle isn’t
played up enough to truly count as a strong stake. Start from there,
or create new stakes altogether.

If you’re feeling really ambitious, give the Honeycutt family another

reason to fund the hunt besides the fact that it’s—say it with me—
exciting, romantic, and lucrative.

***

If you’ve come this far, you’ll be a pro at using story stakes to

increase tension and sustain audience involvement in your
screenplay or novel. Although these are “the biggies,” there are other
purposes for stakes. In the next chapter of this writing guide, we’ll
examine five additional uses for them.
 5 ADDITIONAL PURPOSES FOR
STORY STAKES
- chapter nine -

So far, we’ve focused on the central story stakes, the ones attached
to your protagonist’s overall goal, which provide the underlying
motivation for the majority of his actions.

These stakes will dominate your story, keeping readers turning the
pages and sustaining their emotional involvement with your plot and
characters.

However, it’s time for us to widen our gazes and examine how
stakes can be used for other purposes.

In this chapter, we will specifically look at how stakes can be used to:

craft a dynamic opening

humanize the antagonist of your story
provide relief from action or monotony
create suspects and red herrings (in a mystery)
advance your plot without sacrificing your characters

With that bird’s eye view taken care of, let’s dig a little deeper!
 Craft a Dynamic Opening
Stakes create tension. Readers keep on reading to relieve this
tension.

Hence, it stands to reason that opening your story with something at

stake is a great way to secure reader interest from page 1.

Keep in mind that these initial story stakes usually don’t drive the
overall plot of your story (although they may be connected to it).
They will quickly go out of play. This is just a short-term strategy. To
grip audiences for the long haul, to keep them wholly invested, you
must present the central story stakes sometime thereafter.

Also, unlike central story stakes, initial story stakes can still be
effective even when audiences don’t exactly know what the negative
consequences of failure entail. As long as audiences get the vague
sense that something bad will happen, your opening should possess
enough tension to suck them into your story world.

Finally, the best openings accomplish multiple objectives. (This is

especially crucial in screenplays, where you’re limited to 120 pages.)
The first sequence shouldn’t just contain tension generated by the
stakes. Ideally, it will also introduce the hero (or villain); fulfill genre
requirements; and set up key details, which will become pertinent
later on.

Take Twister, for example. It opens with a tense, brief prologue that
shows the fate of a family at stake. They are desperately trying to
reach their underground shelter as a tornado approaches.

The family consists of a young girl (the heroine as a child), her mom,
her dad—and in a fantastic use of a modulating factor—their pet
dog. Concern for the dog’s safety makes this beginning at least 10
times tenser than it would’ve been without the inclusion of the little
pet.
Besides generating enough tension to hook audiences from the get-
go, notice that this opening immediately provides audiences with a
glimpse of the special effects they came to see. Additionally, it
introduces the heroine, while simultaneously overcoming a credibility
hurdle, which could’ve arisen in the future.

Without it, audiences could question why the heroine, Jo, is willing to
risk her life to chase tornadoes. To them, she might appear like an
adrenaline junkie, who recklessly endangers her life for kicks. Sure,
she’s trying to gather data that will enable a more accurate
forecasting system. But because her later predicaments are so
extreme, her motives could’ve been suspect.

Since Jo’s dad died in the disaster showcased in the prologue,

everyone understands why she’s willing to risk so much to get this
data. She doesn’t want anyone else to suffer the way she has. Thus,
her past personal experience justifies her current behavior,
strengthening the story as a whole.

That’s not all. It also provides an explanation for why Jo and her
husband split up. She couldn’t fully commit to their marriage
because, due to her past, she’s afraid of loss. She pushed her
husband away so that she wouldn’t be in a position to lose him the
way she lost her dad.

Note that Jo’s failed marriage isn’t extraneous backstory, included to

round out Jo’s character. It’s essential to the film because her
estranged husband will join her for the ride!

One more thing: at the end of the second act, a tornado almost kills
Jo’s Aunt Meg and destroys Meg’s home. Critically, this reminds
audiences of what is at stake right before the climax, and
consequently, recharges their emotional investment in its outcome.
Plus, since audiences know that Jo’s family was already victim of a
tornado, Meg’s experience has extra resonance.

You might be thinking that this is all well and good when you’re
writing a story with lots of action or thrills.
But what if you’re writing a romance or a comedy?

Then, it’s not so easy. Unless your hero is a firefighter, you probably
can’t begin your story by putting someone’s life at stake.

True, true. But to get audiences to worry, you just need to put
something at stake. It doesn’t have to be someone’s life.

For instance, in your opening sequence, you could show your hero
at a copy & print shop. Having picked up a staggering stack of thick
reports, he desperately navigates through traffic to reach his
workplace on time.

It might not be 100% clear what will happen if your hero is late. Still,
audiences know that some kind of unwanted consequence will
ensue. This, granted, is not as gripping as the opening of Twister.
But it doesn’t have to be. The level of tension it generates is perfectly
suited for your genre.

Taking this hypothetical example one step further, let’s say that your
hero does arrive at work in the nick of time. Whew! He does a little
victory dance. (Privately, of course.) He delivers the reports to his
boss, who promptly fires him.

Surprise!

Notice that the hero’s initial ordeal has added benefits besides
generating tension that mildly sucks audiences into your story. It not
only creates a minor reversal (audiences would be worried about him
being late, not about him getting fired), it also intensifies the impact
of the reversal itself.

Because your hero has been dismissed, audiences would be

inclined to feel sorry for him. This sympathy, as intended, creates a
bond between them and him, heightening their emotional investment
in later events. Furthermore, this sympathy will be amplified to some
degree since audiences just witnessed your hero’s initial trials—and
now know that he endured his suffering in vain.
This makes the opening stronger. Maybe not by much, but enough to
yield a slight advantage. And, as we both know, to stand out in a
crowded marketplace, you need all the advantages you can get!
 Humanize Antagonists
Because story stakes inspire emotional involvement, if audiences
know what your antagonist will lose should he fail in his objective,
this can, to a certain degree, make them more sympathetic toward
him.

In The Devil Wears Prada, editor-in-chief Miranda Priestly is the

most demanding and unreasonable of bosses. Audiences see her
put the heroine through hell—repeatedly. And yet, when the
possibility looms that Miranda may be fired, they don’t salivate at her
comeuppance. Since they know that her dedication to her job has
cost her not one—but two—marriages (stakes of sacrifice), they feel
sorry for her.

Similarly, in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, audiences know

that if Draco doesn’t kill Dumbledore, the villain will kill Draco (stakes
of demise). Although they certainly don’t want the boy to be
successful in his mission, Draco’s own terror, however, makes it
more difficult to hate him for it.

There’s no requirement for you to use stakes to make audiences

sympathetic toward your antagonist. Bad guys can be bad guys.

At the same time, you don’t want your villains and nemeses to be
one-note. You want them to come across like real people, not
caricatures. Showing audiences what your antagonist should lose (or
has already lost) if he fails to achieve his goal, is one way to go
about that.

Additionally, using this method makes the relationship between

audiences and antagonists less straightforward and more nuanced
and complex. This can increase readers’ enjoyment of your story.

It can also spectacularly backfire.

Sometimes, audiences appreciate the ambiguity. At other times, they
may prefer the comfort of knowing exactly against whom they should
direct their animosity.

As a cautionary tale, watch Law Abiding Citizen. Initially, the film

presents the villain as a hero, someone who brutally lost his family
and is trying to seek justice denied to him by the judicial system. It
tries to get audiences to root for his success. And at first, through
stakes of justice, the film succeeds.

Problems crop up, though, when the villain’s circle of carnage starts
to encompass individuals who are remotely, if at all, connected to the
loss of his family. Like earlier on, he’s a vigilante. Only this time, his
actions are not so easy to support.

Because the stakes of justice started off so strong, some audience

members will continue to root for the villain till the very end. Others
will disengage from him, but unfortunately, due to the way the hero
(an ambitious district attorney) is portrayed, they won’t fully invest in
the hero either.

In the end, the hero “wins,” and the villain dies. This outcome
infuriates audience members who are still onboard with the villain.
Those who disengage from the villain won’t be that enthused either.
They can’t be, not when they feel so lukewarm toward the hero.

At the end of the day, the film provides an uneven, and ultimately
dissatisfying, experience for both groups (which, incidentally, is
further aggravated by a huge credibility issue).

One more point before we move on: you can also apply this
technique to your hero. If you want to get audiences to support
morally questionable behavior (sometimes the very kind that villains
typically engage in), then make sure to emphasize what’s at stake
should your hero fail.

In Avatar, for example, Jake infiltrates the heroine’s world under

false pretenses. The duplicity, nevertheless, isn’t alienating because
his motives are so compelling. If he wins the trust of the Na’vi tribe,
he’ll regain his legs—and his freedom.

In Gone in 60 Seconds (2000), Memphis Raines has to steal 50 cars

in one night. Auto theft isn’t exactly behavior that the average movie-
goer would rally behind. But they enjoy the high-octane ride without
reservation since they know stealing the cars is the only way
Memphis can prevent his little brother from getting killed by a crime
boss (stakes of demise).

History provides us with another great example. If Henry VIII

maltreated and murdered his wives to procure a male heir in order to
prevent civil war from erupting in England after his death (stakes of
general protection), then his actions will be easier to sympathize
with. In the hands of a skilled writer like Mario Puzo (and a skilled
director like Francis Ford Coppola), audiences—as they do while
watching The Godfather—might even root for Henry to commit
murder.

If, on the other hand, Henry’s motivation to produce a male heir, and
hence, eliminate the wives who couldn’t fulfill his objectives, solely
arose through his notions of legacy (stakes of reputation), his
behavior is almost impossible to support.

Almost.

Again, a talented writer might be able to successfully sell audiences

on the idea. Perhaps, you too, are up for the challenge!
 Enhance Pacing
Remember when we discussed strategies to remind audiences
about the stakes? I recommended that you use reminders in order to
maintain the emotional bond between audiences and the stakes.

Reminders have another benefit: they provide a change in pace.

To illustrate, let’s return to The Two Towers and the climactic Battle
of Helm’s Deep. Cutting away to the stakes, as we already covered,
is a powerful way to remind audiences what the battle is all about. As
a bonus, it also gives audiences respite from the action.

If audiences spent all their time on the battlegrounds, the action they
witness will start to lose its effect. They will become numb to it,
developing action fatigue. In contrast to the battle scenes, the
scenes with the stakes are slower in pace; calm and action-free.
Although brief, they give audiences enough time to recharge.

So, when the story returns to the battlefield, audiences not only
become more emotionally invested in the outcome of the battle, they
are also better able to appreciate the action stunts unfolding on-
screen.

Likewise, in The Perfect Storm, the mini-subplot with Bobby’s

girlfriend doesn’t just add an extra layer of poignancy to the ending.
It also brings the story back to land, occasionally providing relief from
the monotony of the stormy ocean. This change in scenery enables
audiences to better enjoy the Atlantic action when the story, once
again, leaves land for water.

As ever, you have to assess how your choices affect momentum.

Oftentimes, the tradeoff will be worth it. By taking the time to remind
audiences about the stakes, your story momentum might dissipate a
little, but the benefits (increased emotional resonance, a change in
pace) more than make up for it.
 Create Suspects and Red Herrings
Even when your victim is a rich guy, it’d be boring for your readers if
every suspect were motivated by greed. Reflecting on story stakes
can help you avoid such tedium.

Gosford Park is a prime example. Three attempts are made on

aristocrat William McCordle’s life, each one fueled by a different kind
of story stake (noted in italics). Anthony Meredith, an in-law through
marriage, can’t afford for McCordle to pull out of their business deal.
Meredith tries (but fails) to kill McCordle to ensure his own livelihood.

McCordle has a history of seducing his factory workers, and then,

when they become pregnant, forcing them to give up their babies for
adoption. Now grown, one of these children stabs McCordle to exact
justice. However, this suspect, Robert, merely manages to stab a
corpse. McCordle is already dead.

He has been poisoned by his housekeeper, Robert’s mother, who

unbeknownst to Robert, is still alive. With a servant’s gift of
anticipation, she knew what Robert planned to do, and executed the
task herself to stave off Robert’s demise. Now, he can never be
convicted of murder and sent to the gallows. Now, he is safe.

You can also use story stakes to develop a different kind of red
herring. Instead of asking yourself, “What would motivate a suspect
to kill the victim?” ask yourself, “What would motivate a suspect to lie
about it?”

For example, one of the suspects could be an inveterate gambler

who promised his wife to quit gambling. On the night of the murder,
he was lured back to the blackjack tables. If he tells the police the
truth about where he was, he’d have an ironclad alibi—but it would
cost him his marriage (stakes of happiness), maybe even custody of
his children (stakes of access).
Because of his lies and the activities he engages in to keep the lies
going, the gambler will appear suspicious to both police and
audiences, even if he doesn’t have a motive for murder. Alternately,
he could very well have good motive to murder the victim, but he’s
so confident the police won’t dig it up, that he continues to lie about
his alibi in order to preserve his family.

Even so, you won’t be able to use the gambler as a red herring
forever. Once the police poke holes in the false alibi or uncover a
possible motive (as they always do!), and arrive on the gambler’s
doorstep with a warrant for his arrest, stakes of freedom are going to
take precedent. The gambler will have to come clean.

Hopefully, at this point, you have another red herring to keep readers
guessing, or, alternatively, are ready to reveal the true culprit.
 Advance the Plot Without Sacrificing
Your Characters
In some stories, your protagonist may be reluctant to engage in a
certain activity. At first, this may suit your purposes very well. You
need to cover more ground before you get to that point.

But eventually, it will become necessary for that action to happen.

You don’t want to delay it any longer; you want it to take center
stage.

You need to take your story to the very place your protagonist has
spent half of it trying to avoid. And you’re tempted to have him,
apropos of nothing, change his mind. So, so tempted.

Don’t do it.

Readers have spent pages and pages with this character.

Sometimes, they may even know his mind better than you do!

Once they detect the inconsistency—and don’t kid yourself, they will
—they will feel that you’ve betrayed not only your protagonist but
also their trust.

Crying out in frustration (and, possibly, contempt), they will put down
your story.

This, clearly, is not a recipe for success.

You can’t sacrifice a character for the sake of your plot. It will only
bring you, and your readers, heartache. You also can’t let your plot
come to a complete and utter standstill.

So, what should you do?

The solution is simple. Put another stake in play.

That way, your protagonist won’t be servicing the plot at the expense
of his character. Instead, he’ll be servicing the stakes, and readers
can easily buy into his change of heart.

They’ll understand that circumstances change. They’ll readily accept

that he has no choice but to go against his principles, personality, or
penchant for lurking at the periphery of all the action.

You’ve already seen one example of this in chapter 4, when we

discussed the “Honor Among Thieves” episode of White Collar. As a
quick refresher, because the stakes were raised, Neal can
participate in the artwork heist, thereby backtracking on his earlier
decision not to betray Peter, without incurring complaints of
contrivance from audiences.

Here’s another example, also heist-themed, from The Usual

Suspects. Keyser Soze, a criminal mastermind, wants a band of
small-time crooks to participate in a cocaine heist worth millions.
Keaton, one of the crooks, repeatedly resists the overtures made by
Soze’s emissary.

For one thing, Keaton thinks it’s a suicide mission. In his estimation,
the risks aren’t worth the rewards. For another, Keaton has good
reason to distrust both Soze and Soze’s emissary. Finally, Keaton is
also trying to make an honest living for the sake of his girlfriend, a
clean-cut attorney.

Keaton’s resistance serves the plot very well…until it comes time for
the heist to actually occur. To advance the story, Keaton must agree
to participate. But if he changes his mind all of a sudden, the movie’s
credibility would be shot to shreds. Even with the surprise twist
ending, the film would not continue to enjoy the rave reviews it does.

So how did screenwriter Christopher McQuarrie make Keaton’s

change of heart believable and not contrived?

He upped the stakes. Keaton learns that his girlfriend will be killed
unless he participates. Faced with these new stakes of demise,
Keaton, quite credibly, caves. Qualms notwithstanding, he has no
choice but to do his best to successfully pull off the heist.

With Keaton’s cooperation secured, the climax (including its twist

ending) can proceed on schedule, and audiences eat it all up with a
spoon the size of an ice cream scoop.

A Few Good Men advances its story forward using the same
technique, but links the stakes to a character other than the hero. If
Dawson pleads guilty to involuntary manslaughter, Kaffee can have
Dawson (and his co-defendant) home in 6 months. Logically,
Dawson should take the deal. Six months in jail, as Kaffee puts it, “is
nothing. It’s a hockey season.” But Dawson can’t accept.

Why not?

To have a courtroom climax, the case has to go to trial. It can’t be

stalled with a plea bargain. The story will be cut short before it ever
really has a chance to begin.

This reason works for the writer. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work for
audiences, who need something more.

Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin gave them more. He put another stake in

play. Or more accurately, he pitted one stake against another.

For Dawson, an admission of guilt would mean that he had behaved

dishonorably—and honor is the cornerstone of his personal code of
conduct. Thus, he can’t plead guilty. Not because the story requires
his refusal in order to continue, but because he values stakes of
reputation over stakes of freedom.

Having been sold on the idea, audiences can, without complaint,

accept Dawson’s decision.

Hence, they get a gripping finale. Kaffee gets his opportunity for
growth. The film gets an Oscar nod for Best Picture.
Everybody wins!
 MAKING REAL MAGIC
- chapter ten -

Magic tricks are fun to think about.

In terms of being a successful screenwriter or author, magic tricks

typically boil down to networking and marketing.

Networking with Hollywood assistants and utilizing the latest savvy

book-marketing technique can definitely yield results. However,
they’re usually short-term solutions.

They get your foot in the door. They get somebody to read the first
page of your screenplay or novel.

But, to achieve your dreams, you need more than that.

You need readers who go all the way.

You need a studio executive to keep on reading till page 110, and
become so impressed with your screenwriting talent, he calls his
assistant to schedule a meeting with you.

You need a bookworm to keep on reading till page 350, and become
so enthralled with your novel, she tells all her friends to buy your
book (and its sequel).

For long-term success, you need real magic.

And that is what stakes provide.

Building a network and trading in some favors with a hotshot

producer’s assistant won’t get him to rave about your script to his
boss.
Revamping your ebook cover or engaging in a 99 cent promotion
won’t make a fiction junkie stay up all night to finish your novel.

Stakes, on the other hand, can do both.

They are your long-term strategy for epic sales. They’re what great
storytelling careers are built on.

Investing the time to master story stakes now should pay off in the
future, and accelerate your entry into the big leagues. It is my
sincere wish that the knowledge you gained from this book will help
you get there.

May your writing career be long, illustrious, and filled with real magic.
 WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO
NEXT?
Do you want to learn how to use story structure to create
stories that readers can’t put down?

Story structure generates the up-and-down rhythm that captivates

readers so they feel compelled to devour page after page of your
screenplay or novel.

Along with stakes, story structure keeps readers glued to your story.
You already know how to use stakes to create reader “glue.” Learn
how to do the same with story structure. Download the Story
Structure Essentials series, available now on Amazon.

Read a free preview of the first book, Inciting Incident, which’ll teach
you how to craft a story beginning that (a) hits readers’ “buy buttons”
and (b) gets your plotting pieces in place.

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00D9UQUXO/

International readers: http://scribemeetsworld.com/amazon-

international-structure-series/#inciting

To learn about the other books in the Story Structure Essentials

series (Midpoint Magic, Trough of Hell, and Story Climax), click on
the link below:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/books/#structure

*** Prefer a shortcut? ***

Check out my online course, Smarter Story Structure.

It takes the best tips from the Story Structure Essentials series and
combines them into an easy-to-apply framework that you can use—
right away—to create stories that readers crave.

Because this multimedia course is online, you can take it from the
comfort and convenience of your own home. (It’ll be like getting all
the great takeaways from a weekend writing seminar…without
dealing with bad traffic, hotel fare, and airport lines.)

Click on this link for more details: http://scribemeetsworld.com/3AS/

Do you want to achieve your writing goals despite all the

demands on your time?

With the Iterative Outlining series, you’ll learn how to use outlines to
maximize your efficiency, so you can get more writing done in less
time.*

Here’s a brief overview:

In Sizzling Story Outlines (book #1), you’ll learn how to quickly

generate an outline from your story idea. This way, you won’t
waste time asking yourself, What happens next? or How to take
my characters from A to B? You’ll already know.
In Solid Story Compass (book #2), you’ll check whether the
story on the page matches the one in your head. Basically, you’ll
learn how to be your own developmental editor or script
consultant. This will help you produce a clear, cohesive story,
while saving hundreds (maybe thousands) of dollars.
In Sparkling Story Drafts (book #3), you’ll learn how to identify—
and fix—plot holes and other problem spots in advance so you
can produce cleaner rough drafts, reduce your revision time,
and get crazy-good stories onto the marketplace—faster.

Read a free preview of Sizzling Story Outlines (book #1) here:

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B016W6QL30/

International readers: http://scribemeetsworld.com/amazon-
international-iterative-series/#outline

To find the other 2 books in the series, click on the link below:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/books/#outlining

* If you’re a “pantser,” who writes on the fly, without an outline, you

can still benefit from the Iterative Outlining series. That’s because
you can use the practical tips in these books to edit your draft into
shape (while minimizing overwhelm).

Do you want to share your thoughts about this book (Story

Stakes)?

I’d love to know your honest opinion of Story Stakes and how it
may’ve helped you. Long reviews are great *smile*, but brief reviews
(even 2 words!) are also appreciated.

To make things convenient for you, the links below will help you
quickly access Story Stakes’s page on Amazon, where you can
easily leave your review.

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MU9JQOA/

International readers: http://scribemeetsworld.com/amazon-

international-stakes/

Merci, fellow scribe. Merci!

 COMPLETE BOOKLIST
Story Stakes

Story Structure Essentials series

Inciting Incident

Midpoint Magic

Trough of Hell

Story Climax

Iterative Outlining series

Sizzling Story Outlines

Solid Story Compass

Sparkling Story Drafts

Also Available

Smarter Story Structure (online course)

To access a printable version of this booklist, click on this link:

http://scribemeetsworld.com/printable-booklist/
 Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
11 TYPES OF STORY STAKES WHICH INCREASE TENSION AND
READER ENGAGEMENT
Stake Type #1: General Protection
Stake Type #2: Demise
Stake Type #3: Livelihood
Stake Type #4: Freedom
Stake Type #5: Reputation
Stake Type #6: Sanity
Stake Type #7: Access
Stake Type #8: Regret
Stake Type #9: Suffering and Sacrifice
Stake Type #10: Justice
Stake Type #11: Hero Happiness
Show Me the Money (and Something Else)!
Manufacturing a Mesmerizing MacGuffin
8 MODULATING FACTORS WHICH AFFECT THE EMOTIONAL
IMPACT OF THE STAKES
Modulator #1: The Emotional Bond Between Audiences and the
Hero
Emotional Bond Wrecker #1: Too Much Delay
Emotional Bond Wrecker #2: Potential Alienation
Emotional Bond Wrecker #3: Dilution of Loyalty
Modulator #2: The Emotional Bond Between Audiences and the
Stakes
Forging the Audience-Stake Bond
6 Ways to Maintain the Audience-Stake Bond
Modulator #3: Boundaries and Restrictions
Time
Resources
Magical Powers
Modulator #4: Vulnerable Populations
Modulator #5: Hero Backstory
 Modulator #6: Setting
Modulator #7: Contingency Stakes
Modulator #8: The Secret Modulator
THE STORY STAKE MATRIX: GROUNDWORK
The Hierarchy of Needs
The Cost of Participation
High vs. Low Costs
Cost vs. Stakes
The 4 Cells of the Story Stake Matrix
CELL #1: LOW COST, SPIRITUAL NEEDS
Comedies, Romances, and Romantic Comedies
Action Movies, Thrillers, Mysteries, Dramas, and Fantasy &
Science-Fiction
Raising the Stakes and Shifting into Cell #2
CELL #2: LOW COST, SAFETY NEEDS
Comedies and Romantic Comedies
A Special Note for Romance Novelists
How to Use Stakes to Enhance the Initial Premise of
Your Romance Novel
When Your Hero or Heroine Must Make High-Cost
Sacrifices
Action Movies, etc.
CELL #3: HIGH COST, SAFETY NEEDS
Beginning Act 2A in Cell #3
9 Ways to Make Your High-Stake Climax Even More of a Nail-
Biter
Avoiding the Anticlimactic Ending
CELL #4: HIGH COST, SPIRITUAL NEEDS
Selling Stakes of Justice
Selling Stakes of Reputation
Selling Stakes of Happiness
THE STORY STAKE MATRIX: WRAPPING UP
Final Pointers for Cells #1–#4
The Basic Story Stake Action Plan
Helpful Resources for You
Free Story Stake Worksheet
3 Story Stake Exercises
5 ADDITIONAL PURPOSES FOR STORY STAKES
Craft a Dynamic Opening
Humanize Antagonists
Enhance Pacing
Create Suspects and Red Herrings
Advance the Plot Without Sacrificing Your Characters
MAKING REAL MAGIC
WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO NEXT?
COMPLETE BOOKLIST