We’ve all experienced it: a story that looks good on paper, features big-name characters, or starts with an intriguing premise—but somehow falls flat. Maybe the characters feel hollow, the plot drifts without purpose, or the ending lands with a thud. But what actually makes a story “bad”? Are there pitfalls you can look out for that can save your story? More importantly, how can you avoid these mistakes when writing or editing?
Bad storytelling is one of those things where you “know it when you see it.” Or, rather, you feel it. Sometimes when you read or watch something that isn’t working, it can be hard to put a finger on what’s gone wrong. And yet your gut knows. Your visceral reaction to the story may range from a mild sense of dissonance, confusion, or even boredom all the way up to outright irritation or even anger.
The good news is that, as writers, the moments when you start feeling the ick are the best teaching moments possible. They give you the opportunity to look deeper into your own experience and examine why the story prompts this reaction. Although the reasons can span the gamut and are often quite subjective and personal, today I want to look at five of the most common mistakes that can create an objectively bad story. I’ve included examples of stories in which the topic in question was well-executed as well as stories in which mistakes turned what might otherwise have been good stories into bad stories.
In this Article:
- Characters Who Don’t Accurately Reflect Humanity
- Characters Who Don’t Adapt/Learn/Change
- Plots That Are Constructed Around Actions Rather Than Motives
- Plots That Don’t Ultimately Mean Anything
- Themes That Are “On the Nose”
What Makes a Bad Story? The Top 5 Reasons Stories Fail
1. Characters Who Don’t Accurately Reflect Humanity
It’s not who you are underneath. It’s what you do that defines you.
When it comes to characters, truer words were never spoken than these from Batman Begins. This also goes back to that all-important adage, “Show, don’t tell.” Basically: audiences will always judge your characters based on their actions before they look to any other cues. Even if you’ve created a character who is archetypally coded as a good person, that isn’t enough by itself to prevent audiences from judging and disliking this character if the character is acting out not-so-good behavior.
Worse, if you suggest to audiences that a character is good, only to have that character’s actions fail to accurately reflect how such goodness plays out in real life, the character will likely seem hypocritical or worse. In real life, this is how we interpret such inconsistent behavior from other people. Why should we expect audiences to see our characters any differently?
But make no mistake, this is tricky, since authors too often fail to see their characters with the same objectivity as readers will. Not only do we tend to see characters how we intend to portray them, we also tend toward blindness where our skills aren’t pulling it off.
Bad Example: In the BBC series Land Girls, the character Joyce is presented as brave, plucky, humble, and hard-working. She courageously volunteers as a Land Girl to serve her country during World War II, soldiering on in the face of her fear for her beloved husband, who is a rear gunner in the RAF. The problem (amongst many in this beleaguered series) is that Joyce was written to consistently perform actions that showed her to be selfish and controlling—not least in abandoning her wounded husband for mistakes he made when he had amnesia in France.
Land Girls (2009-11), BBC One.
Good Example: The secret to remedying this problem is to write dimensional characters. Of course, no character is good all the time. In fact, such characters tend to be boring. But writing a character with layers and complexities is different from inconsistently presenting virtues and vices. Any truly good story does this one well, but a recent example that comes to mind is Wicked, which creates a complex dynamic between frenemies Elphaba and Galinda. Both characters present internal ironies: Elphaba is not as bad as she lets others think, and Galinda is not as good as she lets others think. Instead of glossing over these complexities, the story explores them honestly, not least in authentically representing the consequences of both characters’ decisions. The most obvious example is that Elphaba must eventually take on the role of the renegade everyone has always thought her, not least because it is difficult for others to believe the truth beyond the roles she has always played.
Wicked (2004), Universal Pictures
2. Characters Who Don’t Adapt/Learn/Change
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When characters don’t learn from their mistakes, and instead keep doing the same foolish nonsense over and over throughout the story, the intention on the author’s part is usually to milk a certain trope for all it’s worth. Comedy is an obvious example—and when the character in question is a supporting character this can sometimes work. However, although audiences will willingly accept vast shortcomings from a character, they will not long suffer a fool who refuses to learn and grow from the consequences of personal actions.
Stories are change. If everything is the same at the end as it was at the beginning, you don’t have a story. Even in Flat Arc stories, in which the protagonist does not change, the story world does change. Stories are ultimately studies in evolution—whether deeply personal and moral or just practical. If characters fail to grow over the course of the story, this not only lends itself to repetitive action, it also fails to accurately portray an intriguing individual who is worth following around for the entirety of a movie or book.
Bad Example: Let’s go back to some millennial rom-coms here. The Wedding Planner showcases the major problems of the genre in that the characters learn little to nothing from the conflict. In particular, Jennifer Lopez’s female lead shows as little grasp of self-worth at the end of the story as she did at the beginning. She changes her mind about potential love interest Matthew McConaughey, even though he has done nothing to erase the fact that he is a proven cheater—having compromised his relationship with his fiancée (who is not Lopez) repeatedly over the course of the story.
The Wedding Planner (2001), Sony Pictures.
Good Example: Both lead characters in the classic You’ve Got Mail learn from their mistakes and limiting perspectives (their Lies) over the course of the story. Both behave abominably at times, but their coming together in a relationship at the end of the story feels satisfying rather than frustrating because both have also proven their capacity to change. (Indeed, perhaps the most beloved romance of all time, Pride & Prejudice, follows a similar pattern and works precisely because the main characters change so dramatically in the end—particularly with Darcy’s benevolent rescue of Lizzie’s disgraced sister.)
You’ve Got Mail (1998), Warner Bros.
3. Plots That Are Constructed Around Actions Rather Than Motives
Most of the problems in this list come down to the central issue of characters that exist to serve the plot, rather than plots generated by the characters. The simplest way to check your story is to ask whether you’re inventing actions for your characters and then tacking on the motives afterward—or whether you are allowing actions to arise naturally out of deep motivations. We see this often in stories of all genres, but perhaps nowhere more obviously than in action-oriented stories, in which scene dynamics are constructed to take advantage of, exemplify, and hammer home certain character traits.
This is done to create what is intended to be the pleasurable experience of watching characters act out certain dynamics. Ironically, the result often fails for the basic reason that the character’s actions, however interesting in themselves, are not arising from or creating causal or consequential growth.
Bad Example: The recent BBC adaptation of Winston Graham’s historical drama Poldark diverged from its source material in its fifth and final season. The result was a noticeable shift in the quality of writing for the very reason that the writing became more about making the characters do things for the sake of the plot, rather than allowing the plot to rise realistically from the characters’ actions (something the series had done very well up until this point). The final season harps endlessly on the protagonist Ross Poldark’s “recklessness,” plunging him into increasingly foolish and absurd situations—no doubt in the belief that the audience has always enjoyed this personality trait. The difference in this season is that the character’s motivations are retrofitted onto his recklessness, rather than the recklessness arising as a natural personality response to his deeper motives.
Poldark (2015-19), BBC One.
Good Example: Although there are a few moments in the series that push this line, Yellowstone‘s presentation of Beth Dutton generally offers a strong example of a larger-than-life character who creates dynamic and interesting plot events that arise naturally from her own personality and motivation. There is rarely a sense that Beth is being forced to behave in certain ways just to create these plot events or to allow for potentially shocking or intriguing scenes. Rather, the force of Beth’s own passionate character creates the plot events as she goes. She is a particularly obvious example, since her personality is so aggressive and over-the-top, but she shows how writers can get the best plots simply by asking, “What would this character do in this situation?” instead of “How can I get this character to realistically do this thing?”
Yellowstone (2018-2024), Paramount Network.
4. Plots That Don’t Ultimately Mean Anything
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Stories have to mean something. Otherwise, why bother? Life is about meaning. The act of living is about finding that meaning, and stories are meant to reflect that. If they don’t offer meaning—a point—then not only do they almost always fail to entertain, they also miss out on a much greater potential.
How do you inject meaning into a story? It doesn’t have to be anything grand or sweeping or even deep. It just has to offer an ending in cohesion with the story that preceded it.
The meaning of a story is always found in the ending. The ending proves what the story was about. This means that, no matter how great the first 90% of your story, if the ending doesn’t offer a suitable commentary on everything that has come before, the plot won’t ultimately mean anything. Every scene in a story’s plot must drive the story’s conflict toward an endpoint that is cohesive and appropriately tense with all that came before.
Bad Example: I’m going to pick on the final season of Poldark one more time. It’s worth noting that, in the books, this season is not the end of the characters’ stories. However, for the purposes of this adaptation, the fifth season is the end and therefore the only opportunity for audiences to pull a final sense of meaning from the saga. Unfortunately, the comparatively poor writing in this finale not only weakened the overall characterization, particularly of Ross, but also failed to hone in on what had always been the throughline and point of the story: the conflict between Ross and his nemesis George Warleggan, [SPOILER] who is here relegated to the background with a bizarre portrayal of delusional madness in the aftermath of his wife’s death [/SPOILER].
Poldark (2015-19), BBC One.
Good Example: The contrived “ending” of Poldark‘s Season 5 aside, the overall presentation of the story in the previous four seasons were exemplary—not least because the plot naturally returned again and again to core themes: Ross’s tempestuous relationship with his wife Demelza, his obsessive feud with George Warleggan, and his passionate championing of his mine workers’ rights. Every ending of every season leading up to the final one felt satisfying exactly because the tightly focused plots allowed for outcomes that not only felt cohesive but that carried the weight of a deeper resonance.
Poldark (2015-19), BBC One.
5. Themes That Are On the Nose
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Good themes arise naturally from plots that are driven by strong characters. Although you can study theme (and in my opinion should—check out my book Writing Your Story’s Theme), you really don’t have to for the simple reason that if your plot and character are working well, so is your theme. In short, if you avoid all of the previous pitfalls, you’re probably already writing a story with innately chewy themes. On the flipside, however, is the problem of writing themes that feel too obvious or on the nose.
These are usually stories in which the theme is either explicitly harped upon (as a sort of “moral of the story”) or stories in which the thematic metaphor is blatant (i.e., the story’s external conflict is too obviously contrived as a mirror of the theme). There’s nothing wrong with an explicit thematic metaphor (such as the communism of Animal Farm or the underworld of grief in What Dreams May Come). But a good rule of thumb is that the more explicit the thematic metaphor, the more emotional complexity the story requires in portraying its moral quandaries.
Bad Example: Thunderbolts* was a much better film than much of what Marvel has been putting out in the last six years. Unfortunately, it suffered from a lack of thematic depth for the very reason that it leaned all of its thematic weight into the explicit metaphor of mental health and depression. [SPOILER]The bad guy is literally depression—a sentient and all-consuming void that has become disassociated from its human originator.[/SPOILER] On the surface, this is an excellent thematic metaphor, especially since it ties into the protagonist Yelena Romanov’s own existential struggles. And yet the film felt decidedly shallow in the face of such a tremendous thematic exploration, simply because its plot and character dynamics did not catalyze the theme. The characters and their involvement with this antagonist were largely incidental, thematically pertinent only tangentially through their personal histories with PTSD and guilt.
Thunderbolts* (2025), Marvel Studios.
Good Example: A much better example of cohesive themes is another Marvel entry, The Winter Soldier. Although structurally much the same as Thunderbolts*, this film is able to deepen itself beyond simple action-genre tropes into an earnest exploration of the complex intersection between moral values and relational loyalty. The reason its themes feel far more organic, and as a result more thought-provoking, is because those themes arise naturally from the protagonist, Steve Rogers, and his interactions with every other character, particularly his long-lost best friend Bucky Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier. One notable difference between these two films is that every character in Winter Soldier plays an important thematic role in interacting with the protagonist and prompting his own journey. In contrast, characters in Thunderbolts*, including the nominal protagonist Yelena, are little more than spectators to the main action, which is driven by the seeming bystander “Bob.” They could easily be changed out for an entirely different team of heroes, whereas Steve Rogers is specifically inherent to the plot and theme in Winter Soldier.
Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014), Marvel Studios.
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In the end, bad storytelling is usually the result of misalignment between character and action, plot and meaning, theme and execution. The most common narrative failures happen when writers try to force stories rather than uncover them. The silver lining is this: if you can recognize what doesn’t work in other stories (and your own), you’re already halfway to crafting something better. Great storytelling is simply honest storytelling driven by real characters, deep motivations, and resonant consequences.
Wordplayers, tell me your opinions! What’s a story you wanted to love—but just couldn’t? What made it fall apart for you? Tell me in the comments!
In Summary:
Stories that fall flat often share the same core problems: characters that lack dimensionality or growth, plots that prioritize spectacle over motivation, and themes that are either nonexistent or overly literal. Understanding these pitfalls can help writers tell stories that are more emotionally honest, structurally coherent, and ultimately more impactful.
Key Takeaways:
- Characters must reflect human complexity. Viewers judge characters by their actions, not the author’s intentions.
- Change is the heartbeat of story. If characters (or the world) don’t evolve, the story stalls.
- Plot must arise from character motivation. Don’t reverse-engineer actions just to create drama.
- Your ending is your meaning. A satisfying conclusion echoes and elevates everything before it.
- Themes work best when organic. On-the-nose metaphors often feel shallow without strong emotional grounding.
Want More?
If you’re ready to dive deeper into what makes characters truly work—and how to build meaningful arcs that drive everything from plot to theme—check out my book Creating Character Arcs. It breaks down exactly how to construct transformative journeys that resonate with readers and anchor your entire story—both plot and theme. You can find it here in my store or anywhere books are sold. It’s available as an e-book, paperback, and audiobook.
Click the “Play” button to Listen to Audio Version (or subscribe to the Helping Writers Become Authors podcast in Apple Podcast, Amazon Music, or Spotify).
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The post What Makes a Story “Bad”? A Guide to Why Your Narrative Isn’t Working appeared first on Helping Writers Become Authors.
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Author: K.M. Weiland | @KMWeiland