Most people can tell when a character arc works.
They might not be able to explain why, but they can feel it. The ending lands. The final choice feels earned. Something clicks into place — even if they couldn’t quite point to the moment where it happened.
And when an arc doesn’t work, the feeling is just as clear. The story may be well written. The idea may be strong. The character may even change in some abstract sense. But the ending feels flat, or rushed, or strangely hollow.
This article is a simple tool for diagnosing that feeling.
Not a checklist to follow while writing, and not a set of rules to memorize — just five questions you can ask of any story to see where the arc is doing real work, and where it might be soft, delayed, or missing altogether.
You can use these questions on your own work, on a movie you just watched, or on a story that almost works but never quite gets there. It works very simply: the question that’s hardest to answer is usually the most revealing. That’s where you can do the most effective work.
Think of this less as a method, and more as a lens — a way to slow down your instincts and see what they’re already responding to.
Let’s start with the simplest one.
Question 1: What Is the Character Unwilling to Do at the Beginning?
Before you think about growth, transformation, or theme, start here.
At the beginning of any story with a real character arc, there is something the protagonist will not do.
Not something they can’t do.
Something they won’t do.
This isn’t about morality or likability. It’s about behavior. What line does the character refuse to cross? What action feels off-limits, unnecessary, or unthinkable to them when the story begins?
Sometimes this refusal is explicit.
Sometimes it’s implied.
But it should be clear in practice.
In Legally Blonde, Elle refuses to let her ex-boyfriend dump her.
In The Prestige, Borden refuses to let anyone in on his secret.
In Nightcrawler, Lou refuses to be disliked.
This refusal usually leads to a repeatable behavior — often an immoral one.
Elle plays dumb.
Borden lies.
Lou fakes kindness.
These behaviors repeat because they’re strategies. Early on, they work. They keep the character safe, intact, or unburdened by consequences they’re not yet ready to face. They are bad habits that are deeply ingrained in the character.
If you can’t point to a clear bad habit — a concrete action the character takes in order to cover up a refusal — the arc often feels vague because it has nothing solid to push against. The story may still move, but the change will be hard to prove later.
A useful test at this point is simple:
If the story ended in Act One, what would this character refuse to do at any cost?
Everything else — pressure, escalation, theme — will eventually revolve around forcing that refusal back into the open and asking whether it can still hold.
Next, we need to understand why it holds for as long as it does.
Question 2: Why Does That Refusal Work — at First?
Once you’ve identified what the character refuses to do, and the resulting bad habit, the next question is just as important:
Why is that refusal a good idea at the beginning of the story?
Early behavior shouldn’t look like a mistake. It should look like a strategy.
Elle’s shallowness makes her popular.
Borden’s lies make him famous and envied.
Lou’s fake smile makes people trust and like him.
If the character’s initial stance doesn’t protect them in some meaningful way, there’s no reason for them to hold onto it — and no reason for the story to escalate. Change only becomes interesting when what works at first slowly turns into a liability.
This is where many weak arcs quietly fall apart. The protagonist is framed as “wrong” too early. Their initial behavior is punished immediately, or treated as obviously misguided from the start. When that happens, the story has nowhere to go. The arc collapses into correction instead of transformation.
A strong first act proves that the character’s refusal makes sense — until it doesn’t.
If you can’t articulate why the protagonist’s early stance is functional, the arc will often feel rushed later, because the story hasn’t earned the pressure it needs to apply.
Question 3: When Does the Character Act Differently?
This question is really about the midpoint: the moment where the old strategy still works — but no longer cleanly.
Throughout the story, the bad habit needs to be tested. Early on, it must be clear that this strategy is the best way forward for this particular character.
The second time — midway through the story — the protagonist gets away with it again, even though it’s starting to cause damage. They get what they want, but for all the wrong reasons.
Elle gets the internship because the professor is attracted to her, not because she has proven herself.
Borden outsmarts his rival by scheming, not by being a better magician.
Lou gains success, a job, a car, and a girlfriend by performing kindness, not by meaning it.
At this stage, it’s crucial that the protagonist does not change yet. They repeat the same behavior as before. The bad habit is still working.
But cracks are forming.
There is always someone who sees the cost of this strategy.
Vivian believes Elle doesn’t deserve the internship.
Cutter thinks Borden is going too far.
Nina feels that Lou is becoming soft and ineffective.
The protagonist doesn’t fully register this yet. They’re not self-aware enough. In fact, they often feel successful — even validated. This is exactly where you want them. The bad habit still works, but it’s no longer harmless.
If instead the character has already changed tactics at this stage — already learned too much — you’ve reached the end instead of the midpoint. You may need a stronger challenge.
Otherwise, keep going.
Question 4: Is This Story a Comedy or a Tragedy?
This question has nothing to do with humor.
It’s about whether the character ultimately makes the change the story demands — or refuses to change.
Most stories build toward a moment where the protagonist finally does the thing they’ve been unwilling to do all along. They drop the bad habit. They step forward. They act in alignment with THE Theme, even when it costs them.
This type of story is a Comedy.
Other stories build toward the same moment — and watch the character pull back, often collapsing under the weight of their refusal.
This type of story is a Tragedy.
Structurally, these stories are almost identical. They apply pressure in the same way. They return the protagonist to the same kind of choice again and again. The difference lies in what happens at the edge.
Does the character cross the line — or defend it one last time?
Elle forces the courtroom to judge her on merit instead of appearance — a comedy.
Borden refuses to come clean and ends up on death row — a tragedy.
Lou abandons any desire to be liked and becomes wildly successful — a comedy.
Both paths can be powerful. But they lead to very different meanings. If you’re unsure what kind of story you’re telling, this question will usually surface it.
(This distinction is explored in more depth in the free course chapter on Comedy vs. Tragedy.)
Question 5: Does the Universe Reward Change — and How?
This final question isn’t about the character.
It’s about the universe they live in.
Most story worlds reward change and punish stagnation. Borden refuses to change — and dies a tragic death as a result. That refusal tells us something essential about the theme of The Prestige: how ego leads to destruction.
But once the protagonist acts, how does the story respond?
Does the world open up — or close in?
Does alignment with the theme lead to freedom, connection, or meaning?
Or does it lead to power, control, or fear?
This response defines the moral logic of the story’s universe.
Some worlds reward sacrifice.
Some reward power.
Some reward goodness.
Some reward cruelty.
What matters isn’t which one you choose — but that the response is consistent with everything the story has been setting up.
Elle takes a genuine risk. She allows herself to be judged on intelligence instead of popularity. What began as a shallow quest becomes a story of persistence and self-belief. Her ending feels earned because her behavior truly changed.
Lou makes the same structural move — in the opposite moral direction. He drops the pretense of kindness and embraces notoriety. He ends feared, and he loves it. His world rewards ruthlessness. That consistency tells us exactly what kind of universe he inhabits.
If an ending feels confusing — even after you’ve answered the other questions — this is often why. The character made a clear choice, but the world responded in a way that contradicted its own logic.
(The Fundamentals course explores this distinction as the difference between Kind and Cruel worlds.)
Putting the Diagnostic to Use
Run through the five questions in order to see what’s really going on with your arc.
The most useful question is usually the one you can’t answer cleanly.
That’s where the story is soft.
That’s where the pressure leaks out.
That’s where the arc stops short.
Use this diagnostic on a story you love. Then try it on one that almost works. The contrast tends to be immediate.
A Quiet Next Step
If this way of looking at character arcs feels useful, the free Tale Spinning Fundamentals course expands on these ideas — especially how Comedy vs. Tragedy and Kind vs. Cruel worlds shape meaning long before the final choice arrives.
No obligation. Just a place to keep going if you want to look a little closer at how stories do what they do. And if you sign up for the newsletter below, I will let you know as soon as I release new, helpful articles or courses.