Character v. Plot - The Fake Debate

Why every great story is character-first (yes, even John Wick)

Photo by Matthew Ball on Unsplash

John Wick is a character-based movie.

I’ll back that up, I swear — but my general thesis here is “Character-based” doesn’t mean “boring.”

It doesn’t mean slow. Or quiet. Or emotionally indulgent indie films where everyone wears muted tones and whispers at each other in diners for ninety minutes. (No disrespect to whispery diners. Some of those movies are great.)

But somewhere along the way, “character-based” became shorthand for not much happens — while “plot-driven” got branded as the fun uncle. The exciting one. Twists! Explosions! Cliffhangers! Stuff actually happening!

Here’s the truth: Plot is only interesting because of who it happens to.

I’m not saying plot doesn’t matter. Of course it does. And I’m not saying every single story needs to dig into a character’s trauma journal — I’m saying, even the best plots work better when we care who’s inside the chaos.

If your story’s a rollercoaster, then character is the track. No track? No ride. Just a bunch of loops and corkscrews sitting in a pile. (Hope you like your theme parks existential.)

And I’ll go one step further: the track is the loops. The loops are the track. You can’t really separate them and still have a “story.” Character with no plot is meandering and lacks momentum — plot with no character is really just… stuff happening.

It’s never been “Plot vs. Character” — One’s not better. They’re not rivals. In fact, they’re barely separate things.

Spoilers for Breaking Bad, Fleabag, The Last of Us, Everything Everywhere All At Once, Better Call Saul, Lost, and John Wick beyond this point.

Plot Is Character Meeting Conflict

That’s it. That’s the game.

Over-simplified? Maybe. There are exceptions — exposition, logistics, external threats like alien invasions or, y’know… the weather. In mysteries and heist films (think Knives Out or Ocean’s Eleven), a big part of the fun is the precision of the plot itself. Yes, the characters are making choices — but often, the thrill comes from how the plan unfolds, not just why it matters to the people involved.

THAT SAID — I maintain that the basic fundamental equation of storytelling is: Character + Conflict + Choice. If nothing else, it is how and why your character winds up in your story in the first place.

Let’s take a look at some specific instances of this equation, through the lens of some of iconic moments:

1. Breaking Bad – Walt lets Jane die

• Character: Walter White, increasingly power-hungry and possessive of Jesse.

• Conflict: Jane is threatening to take Jesse away — and along with him, Walt’s control.

• Choice: Walt watches her choke and does nothing. That one choice spirals into moral collapse.

2. Fleabag – The Confessional Booth Scene

• Character: Fleabag, emotionally closed-off, desperate for connection but terrified of being known.

• Conflict: The Hot Priest sees through her deflection and invites intimacy — spiritual and otherwise.

• Choice: She tells him she wants someone to tell her what to do — a raw, vulnerable admission that shifts their dynamic and deepens the tragedy.

3. The Last of Us (HBO) – Joel’s Finale Decision

• Character: Joel, still haunted by his daughter’s death, now emotionally attached to Ellie.

• Conflict: Saving Ellie means dooming humanity.

• Choice: He murders the doctors and lies to Ellie. Because love — for him — means never losing a child again, no matter the cost.

4. Everything Everywhere All At Once – Evelyn in the Void

• Character: Evelyn, overwhelmed by infinite versions of herself and the meaninglessness of it all.

• Conflict: Nihilism (via Jobu Tupaki) vs. hope.

• Choice: She chooses love. She chooses this life, this husband, this daughter — and it snaps the multiverse into emotional clarity.

5. Toy Story – Buzz learns he’s just a toy

• Character: Buzz Lightyear, a delusional space hero (in his mind).

• Conflict: His identity is shattered when he sees the TV commercial.

• Choice: He tries to fly anyway — and falls. But the failure births humility, and the real bond with Woody begins.

Memorable storytelling grounds its plot in emotional truth. There’s an internal drive behind every action — conscious or not, simple or complicated. Every betrayal, twist, or escape plan lands because of who’s doing it, why they’re doing it, and what it costs them.

My favorite TV drama is Better Call Saul — so you’ll probably see me reference it a lot. In that show, main character Jimmy McGill doesn’t just pull cons because it’s fun to watch (though it definitely is) — he’s driven by shame, by pride, by a desperate need to be taken seriously. That’s why every scam lands with (varying degrees of) emotional weight. Because it’s not just clever — it’s revealing.

And Severance — it’s high concept! It’s plot-heavy! Right? But the hook isn’t just “what’s going on in this weird office?” It’s who’s stuck inside it.

It’s not enough that weird stuff is happening. It’s that it’s happening to Mark, a man so broken by grief he volunteers to surgically split his consciousness in half just to escape the pain. It’s that we meet Helly in her first terrifying moments inside a system she never chose — and watch her fight like hell to get out. Every mystery, every oddity, every waffle party in Severance lands harder because we feel the people inside the maze.

Without that character foundation, Severance would feel like a surreal workplace documentary. Imagine the Musical Dance Experience scene — the lights, the music, the incredible dancing — but now imagine you don’t know who any of these people are. No context. No stakes. Just strangers getting weird with maracas under colorful lights. Hits a little different, right? … And why’d that one guy bite the other guy?

That’s the power of character. It makes the bizarre feel intimate. It turns the high-concept into something human. It gives your plot life.

It’s Not All Trauma Dumps and Introspection

Character-based stories can still move fast. They can have guns. Heists. Sword fights. Explosions. Car chases. Bear attacks. (…Anybody else want to watch this show?) “Character-driven” doesn’t mean lethargically stewing in emotion. It means we understand why the action matters. We know what it costs.

Take Hulu’s The Bear — a.k.a. Anxiety in TV form. Knives flying, tempers exploding, people shouting “COUSIN!” over beeping timers — but if the sensory chaos was the main source of tension, the show’s audience would quickly tap out from exhaustion. We tolerate the chaos (enjoy it even) because it tests and pushes the characters’ issues. Carmy’s anxiety. Richie’s insecurity. Sydney’s ambition. Every outburst is a pressure valve for something deeper. That’s why it’s so watchable. That’s why it feels like something.

Or — okay, fine — I’ll defend my claim about John Wick. On paper, it’s a revenge movie about a guy who kills the population of a small city over the murder of his dog. That screams “basic action.” But it works — weirdly, beautifully — because when you break it down, it’s John + dog murder + revenge.

Character, meets conflict, meets choice.

When John decides to invent bullet-fueled interpretive murder dance, we believe it. We feel it. That dog represented the last connection to his dead wife. His grief is real. His code is personal. And every improbable headshot stems from a man trying (and failing) to live with loss.

Strip that away, and what’re you left with? 101 minutes of a well-dressed sociopath on a murder tour with no emotional context… I won’t say that has no entertainment value… but it’s not technically a story.

Photo by Nik on Unsplash - I would 100% watch a LEGO John Wick…

So yeah, chase the twist. Write the heist. Blow up the building. Just make sure someone inside that chaos is being tested, revealed, or changed. That’s what makes it storytelling — not just spectacle.

Is A Character-First Mindset Always Necessary?

Depends on what you’re writing.

Film and TV don’t always play by the same rules. In a movie, the plot can do a lot more heavy lifting. Disaster films don’t need a ton of emotional nuance to be entertaining — they just need a big problem and a ticking clock. Rom-coms? They're often built around a “will-they-won’t-they” event more than a deep internal change. Action movies mostly need a good excuse to blow stuff up in between stunt sequences. Even comedies — while they live and die by character chemistry — tend to hang their best jokes on the plot beats that set them up.

That’s not a knock. That’s just how movies work. You’ve got two hours to land the plane.

But if you’re writing a TV drama? You’re not landing a plane. You’re building the runway — and you need to keep building it for 8, 10, maybe even 100 episodes.

In TV, character is the fuel.

Sure, a great premise might get someone to click “Play.” But it’s the characters who get audiences all the way to that “Are you still watching?” screen. White Lotus isn’t really about murder at a luxury resort. It’s about rich disasters trying (and mostly failing) to understand the point of vacation. Lost wasn’t about a plane crash — it was about the emotionally unstable weirdos who survived it, and how that island cracked them open like glow sticks. (One day I’m gonna write a good long rant about that show… a CORK… IN THE ISLAND. Come on…)

If your series hinges on an event — a murder, a twist, a reveal — you’ll eventually run out of road. Either the show fizzles out… or the plot starts folding in on itself, getting weirder and louder just to keep things moving. (*coughWestworld Season 3 cough*)

If you want longevity, depth, and clarity — you need character at the center.

How to Start with Character (Even if You Think in Plot)

Let’s say you’re a “plot-first” person. You’ve got a killer concept. You know how it starts. You know how it ends. There’s a big twist in the middle that’s going to melt faces. You can see the trailer already.

Cool. Now ask yourself: who’s the worst possible person to throw into that situation?

Not “worst” like annoying. Worst like… complicated. Someone who’ll resist the journey. Someone who’ll make the wrong choice before they make the right one. Someone who’ll drag all their emotional baggage into the plot and make it messy. Make it personal.

Because personal = stakes. And stakes = story.

You’ll notice this doesn’t change the killer concept or face-melting. It justifies it. Grounds it. And the more you get to know this character, the more they almost help you through writing the trickier scenes. If you know what a character wants, you can determine how they’ll behave.

What do they want?
What are they afraid of?
What do they believe that’s not true?
And how does your plot force them to confront it?

The best plot points apply pressure. An internal flaw dragged out into the world until the character has no choice but to deal with it. Or bury it. Or let it blow everything up.

That’s how you build a story that means something — not just one that moves.

And if you want help tracking all of this — if you want to turn “this is a cool idea” into “this is a character who had no choice but to take us here” — I’ve got a terrific worksheet for that, taught to me by seasoned industry pros. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in me posting on here!

But even if you skip the worksheet — just remember this:

Plot reveals character. And character is why we care.

That’s not a writing rule. That’s just how stories work.

What do you think? What’s a plot-heavy movie you love because of the characters? Or one you couldn’t finish cuz the characters felt hollow? Leave a comment — let me know.

Thanks for being here — and thanks for sticking around, I know this is a longer read… If you prefer shorter bursts, let me know!