 What’s in it for me? Learn the scientific underpinnings of a good story.

 Our brains are built to enjoy stories.

 We’re particularly interested in flawed characters.
 A well-drawn character is crucial; if you create the right character, a rich plot will
inevitably follow. 
 A rich plot should prod us to wonder, “Who is this character, really?”
 You can further stimulate the story by giving the brain space to fill in the gaps.
 In the end, most good stories are ultimately about a change in status.
 Stories have a unique power to change our view of the world. 
 Final summary

What’s in it for me? Learn the scientific

underpinnings of a good story.
In an age where we listen to podcasts on our way to work, read the news at our desks, then
head home to binge watch TV shows on our couches, it seems like stories are everywhere we
look. Not only do we spend all day consuming stories, but we’re also constantly crafting
them. Storytelling is a crucial part of our social selves, whether we’re making up an excuse
for a missed assignment, gossiping about a friend, writing a letter, or drafting a screenplay. 

Stories are as much a part of our lives as eating and sleeping – so it’s worth taking a closer
look at what makes them tick. Drawing on a wide range of scientific research, these blinks
provide a roadmap on how to build a story that speaks to an audience. They show you how to
manipulate the human brain into feeling strong emotions, connecting with characters, and
staying hooked as the plot progresses. 

You’ll learn that the secret to building the “perfect story” isn’t so secret. It just involves
taking an in-depth look at the way our brains work.  

In these blinks, you’ll find out

 why you sometimes yell at the door you stub your toe on;
 why we always root for the underdog; and 
 what childhood stories and propaganda films have in common.

Our brains are built to enjoy stories.

Have you ever wondered if what you experience as real is in fact just a powerful simulation?
You may be surprised to learn that it’s not just a conspiracy – it’s true. 
Objective reality is impossible for us to see. The reality we experience is just a story that our
brain tells us. You’ll have encountered this phenomenon if you’ve ever mistaken a bush for a
shadowy human figure while walking alone at night. You didn’t just think you saw the figure
– for a moment you actually saw it. 

Our brain casts us as the hero of the narrative of the reality it creates. To do so, it will
reconfigure our past choices to fit our heroic narrative, telling us, for example, that it was
okay to steal from our boss because he profits unfairly from our work. Even convicts rate
themselves as above average for qualities like morality or kindness, even though they have
made clear transgressions in those categories.

Our brain also seeks to create a linear plot in our lives, ordering our memories into cause and
effect sequences. This capacity to find cause and effect even where it doesn’t exist was
demonstrated by two Soviet filmmakers in the early 1900s. They screened a series of films
for an audience where each film showed an actor’s expressionless face alongside stock
footage of various scenes, like one showing a bowl of soup, or another of a woman lying in a
coffin. The audience gushed at the actor’s skills, marveling at his mournful expression over
the coffin or his thoughtful look over the soup. 

The story our brain creates includes not just us, the hero, but other characters. We’re
surrounded by other people, and one of our deepest urges is to understand how their minds
work. It’s one of the ways our brains seek to control our environment.

Why are we driven to understand other people? The answer is rooted in survival. Our species
has lived on because of human cooperation, and as we moved into fixed settlements, having
social skills for trading and negotiations became a valuable asset. In humans of all ages, the
urge to understand others is so overwhelming that we even project human feelings onto
inanimate objects, like a “vengeful” door swinging back to hit us after we slam it.  

Stories give us an opportunity to satisfy our itch to understand the minds of others. And
there’s a particular type of character we are drawn to – one with flaws. 

We’re particularly interested in flawed

characters.
Our brains cast us as the heroes of our stories, a narrative in which we’re always morally
superior. As a result, we often look past our own faults. However, as we enter the mind of a
flawed character through story, a safe space is created for exploring our flaws.

Many flaws can be traced back to beliefs solidified in early life that help create our unique
warped vision of how the world works. Cultural influences play a major role. For example, a
character growing up in Victorian England would be taught the values of composure and self-
discipline, whereas a character who grew up during the pioneer era in the American West
would have been influenced by ideas about personal freedom and individual ambition.  

Once these beliefs are solidified, we spend our entire adulthood defending them. Confronting
opposing worldviews is so unsettling to us that it feels the same as being physically attacked.
In one study by the neuroscientist Sarah Gimbel, people were shown evidence that jarred
with their deeply held political stances. Scans showed that the response in their brains was
similar to someone being confronted by a bear in the wild. 

We cling to our flawed belief systems, and characters do as well. The difference is that while
your brain blinds you to your own flaws in order to cast you as a hero, it does not do the same
for others, making it easier to see their “mistaken” beliefs. 

One of the ways character flaws manifest is in how they help or hinder characters from
achieving their goals. For example, in the novel The Remains of the Day, we meet the
conservative English butler Stevens, who has a new employer, a less traditional American
man. Stevens’ devotion to emotional restraint causes him to not only miss out on a
relationship with a woman he loves but also to clash with his new employer, preventing him
from achieving his goals.

We thrive off meaningful and controllable goals. As a result, we enjoy reading about
characters who act toward such goals. An analysis of the New York Times bestseller list
showed that novels that made the list included goal-oriented words like “do”, “need” and
“want” twice as much as novels that didn’t. 

Just as our own flaws may keep us from achieving our goals, the flaws of a well-built
character will inevitably make his journey more difficult. Thus, it’s in choosing a character’s
flaws that the author finds the recipe for a spellbinding story. Let’s dig a little deeper into just
how this works. 

A well-drawn character is crucial; if you create

the right character, a rich plot will inevitably
follow. 
A good story idea is important, but a truly stimulating plot flows from a well-drawn character
–  a character with flaws, personality quirks, and a unique worldview that will cause her to
act in interesting ways. For example, the novel Gone Girl explores what happens when Amy,
a woman with an extreme notion of the importance of her reputation, catches her husband
cheating on her. Her warped values cause her to go to murderous lengths to keep it intact,
taking the plot in an exciting direction.  

When we speak about a flawed character, we’re mostly referring to the character’s flawed
theory of control, or the way he believes he must act in order for the world around him to stay
stable. A character’s theory of control is tested when confronted with unanticipated change in
his situation, like the butler, Stevens, in The Remains of the Day. Stevens has always excelled
in his job because of his reserved attitude, but he finds himself doing poorly when his new
employer expects him to be more personable and banter with him.  

Beyond the theory of control, personality is another key element of a well-drawn character.
Personality comprises five main categories: conscientiousness, neuroticism, openness,
agreeableness, and extraversion. A character can score anywhere on the spectrum from low to
high for each of these traits, and this combination can help determine what kind of choices
she will make and how she reacts to her circumstances.  

For example, someone high in both conscientiousness and neuroticism might work diligently,
but be wracked with anxiety. Someone who scores high in openness and agreeableness would
likely do well in a job that required adaptability and empathy, like a human resources
manager. 

Finally, no matter what type of story you are trying to tell, if you want to create a character
who is realistically flawed, make sure she’s as prone to misunderstanding others as real
people are. 

Researchers suggest that we “read” the emotions and thoughts of those closest to us with an
accuracy of only 35 percent! That leads to a lot of mutual misunderstandings – and in fiction
as in real life, those misunderstandings are the source of a lot of drama. In the classic novel
Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Darcy advises his friend Mr. Bingley not to marry Jane because he
misjudges her as being disinterested in Bingley. As a result, he keeps apart two people who
love each other.

A rich plot should prod us to wonder, “Who is

this character, really?”
An elderly man lies on his deathbed, a snow globe in hand. He says a single word, “rosebud,”
and the snow globe crashes to the floor. Thus begins the classic movie Citizen Kane.
Immediately we’re drawn in. We ask ourselves – who is this man?

A good story should always have us wondering who a character really is. This is the question
that keeps us reading or watching, and it’s founded in our urge to fully understand the minds
of others. But how do we determine what kind of person a character is? We put them in
specific situations to reveal their character.

Specific situations help us determine the question at the heart of understanding people: Is this
character selfless or selfish? This question can be traced back to tribal gossip, where language
first evolved. Even today, studies show that such gossip takes up about two-thirds of our
conversations. The majority of that time is spent discussing how others have selfishly broken
the moral rules of our in-groups, rather than selflessly abiding by them. Whether it’s gossip
about a friend’s flaky behavior or the biblical tale of Eve taking the apple, a good story
reveals to us whether or not a character is ultimately selfless. 

Another way to show characters’ true colors is through unexpected changes that test their
core beliefs. For example, in the movie The Truman Show, the main character, Truman,
believes he is living a normal life, but he has actually been the subject of a reality TV show
his entire life. As the story begins, unusual events, like a falling spotlight from the sky–
which is really the ceiling in a massive television studio– begin to clue him in to the fact that
things are not as they seem. 

This interplay between the surface plot and the “inner plot” of a character’s psyche is how we
start to see a character change. As the facade of Truman’s belief system is cracked, he starts
acting unpredictably – hiding from, threatening, and lying to his so-called friends as his sense
of who he really is changes. As a result, we no longer know who he is. 

Now you understand how to build a character and plot that keep a reader hooked. In the next
blink, you will discover more details you can add to give a story extra zing. 

You can further stimulate the story by giving

the brain space to fill in the gaps.
The poet Robert Frost conjured an instant image with the opening line,“Two roads diverged
in a yellow wood.” There’s a reason we remember the small details of stories long after the
intricacies of plot are forgotten. 

These details feed our naturally curious brains. Our brains want to fill in gaps in information,
especially as they gain more knowledge. Consider a study in which some participants were
shown three pictures of a person’s body parts, while other groups were shown just two
pictures, and others only one. The researchers found that the more pictures the participants
saw, the more eager they were to see a picture of the whole person. You can arouse the
brain’s curiosity by giving away just enough information, a tool you can utilize to keep your
reader interested in your plot and characters.
One way to reveal information about a character is through dialogue. Good dialogue works
on two levels, offering plot-developing information as well as telling your audience
something about the character’s background, personality and emotions. Take the film
Brokeback Mountain, in which two cowboys, Jack and Ennis, start a secret love affair while
working together in the mountains. During a particularly tense moment, Jack tells Ennis, “I
wish I knew how to quit you.” The line says one thing outwardly, but underneath it is
dripping with tension, restraint, and yearning.  

Descriptions of characters’ environments can also show the difference between how
characters presents themselves and who they are underneath. A room with a punk band poster
tells us something about who our character is outwardly. “Left-behind” items, like receipts
for embarrassing purchases, tell us something about who they are inwardly. Offering these
scenes without commentary lets readers make their own deductions about the character.

This isn’t to say you should shy away from descriptions. Poetic descriptions cause a frenzy of
activity in our brains. This is why our experience of something is greatly influenced by how it
is described. For example, research indicates that our perceptions of a wine’s value changes
depending on how the wine tastes to us.

Metaphors are one of our favorite types of description. They evoke powerful associations that
create a more vivid experience for your audience. In one study, some participants read the
phrase “he had a rough day,” while some read “he had a bad day”. Those who read the
“rough day” phrase had brain scans that showed neural activity in regions of the brain
associated with feeling textures.   

So we’ve uncovered all the elements of a killer story. But what type of story will keep people
hooked until the very end?

In the end, most good stories are ultimately

about a change in status.
The animal world is fueled by status. Crickets keep a running total of wins versus losses
against cricket foes. Chimpanzees keep an eye on their alphas, always looking for signs that
they may need to be dethroned. Humans are no different. 

While our ambition to understand other humans reflects our desire to “get along” with others,
we have another deeply ingrained need – achieving status. Researchers have observed that
people’s physical and mental well-being seem to depend on the status given to them by
others. However, our need for status often clashes with the pressure to act selflessly, creating
drama and conflict.
Our status-seeking gives us a concrete goal to work toward. If the brain is our narrator, goal-
direction is what keeps our story’s plot moving forward. This was shown in a study where
restaurant employees were asked to choose all possible futures they might have from a list, as
well as the ones their coworkers might have. They overwhelmingly predicted brighter futures
for themselves than their peers. 

Just as we enjoy working towards our own goals, we also like to feel like a participant in a
character’s struggle towards a goal. This might explain the obsessive nature of many video
game players who get lost in the goal-oriented worlds of games like Fortnite.

In our goal-based struggle, we all see ourselves as the underdog. Since we identify with those
with lower status, we root for them and wish to see those with higher status “put in their
place.” In one study conducted by researchers at Shenzhen University, participants played a
computer game, then were told they had achieved two-star player status. When they
subsequently were shown pictures of one-star and three-star players in pain, brain scans
showed they only really experienced empathy for the one-star players. 

Change in status can also lead to the breaking down of deeply-held beliefs, which is at the
heart of an interesting story. For example, in William Shakespeare’s play King Lear, the king
asks his three daughters to show their love for him in order to determine how to divide his
land. Two of his daughters gush over their love for him, all the while plotting to take power,
and they eventually succeed.  The removal of his status as all-powerful king by his own
daughters shatters his previously held belief that everyone acts in his best interest.

Stories have a unique power to change our

view of the world. 
When we think of propaganda, we may recall posters calling for war recruitment or movies
that show political rivals as enemies. But in a sense, most stories, from children’s books to
bestselling thrillers, are a form of propaganda. They teach us lessons about the right ways to
behave, and contain warnings for what happens when we don’t.

Stories teach us lessons about ways to gain and secure our status as individuals. This is most
easily recognized in religious texts and childhood stories. For example, in the children’s book
Mr. Nosey, a nosy character is repeatedly punished for his nosy behavior, until he stops and is
welcomed back into the community.  

What about when not just our individual status, but the status of our groups feels threatened?
We resort to stories to tap into the primal urge to maintain it. The infamous 1915 film The
Birth of a Nation spread vicious ideas about the threat that black Americans posed to the so-
called white race. This insidious message resulted in many joining the Ku Klux Klan and
increased the violence and hatred already experienced by black people. 

On the other hand, stories can also give us the ability to empathize with characters by
“transporting” us into their brains. If you’ve ever missed your stop on the bus because you
were completely engrossed in a story, you’ve experienced what psychologists call
“transportation.” Research shows that when we are in this state, our attitudes and beliefs are
more susceptible to change. For example, in the United States, autobiographical stories by
former slaves, such as The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, helped change white
attitudes about slavery. 

Finally, stories act as a type of play, allowing us to experience changes in control in a safe
environment. For example, the novel The Secret History explores how a tight-knit group of
college students is affected by the murder of their classmate, in which they are directly
implicated. We see how they lose control of their environments, ruining their previously
close relationship with a beloved teacher, turning to alcohol, and falling into depression. We
see the consequences of these losses in control—the direct result of keeping a dark secret—
without having to experience this loss in control for ourselves.

The power of stories lies in these experiences of losing one’s self. They become a journey in
discovering things about ourselves, each other, and the world that we share.  

Final summary
The key message in these blinks:

The human brain is drawn to stories about how flawed characters react and adapt to
unexpected change. A good story starts with a character with flawed beliefs about how
to control her environment and achieve her goals, then sets up obstacles that will test
those beliefs and prod the reader to wonder who the character really is deep down.
Adding elements like information gaps, poetic language rich in metaphor, and a theme
of status change stimulates the brain further, keeping the audience hooked and eager to
learn more. 

Actionable advice: 

Explore wants versus needs.

An interesting way to develop a character is to have him want something consciously, but
need something subconsciously. Think about what your flawed character may need to heal
his broken view of the world, then give him a surface-level craving for the complete opposite.
Consider the movie American Beauty, in which the middle-aged male protagonist wants to
feel young again by sleeping with his daughter’s seemingly experienced friend. Once they are
about to have sex, he learns she is in fact inexperienced, and comforts her as she cries, finally
becoming the mature adult that he needs to be. 

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What to read next: Stories for Work, by Gabrielle Dolan

You’ve learned throughout these blinks the secret to making a compelling story, the kind that
has the power to change how people see the world. While Storr’s advice works for stories in
any context, business professionals may want to learn some storytelling strategies that are
geared specifically to their work. 

If you’re one of those professionals, check out the blinks to Stories for Work, by Gabrielle
Dolan. Here, you’ll get the lowdown on how to turn your storytelling prowess into a tool for
employee motivation, persuading clients, and effective communication. You’ll also learn how
to use stories to achieve your own goals.