The three-act structure is constantly held up as a nearly universal feature of Western storytelling. Three-act proponents talk about the structure like it’s a deeply influential idea passed down to us from ancient Greece, the collective wisdom of storytellers who have come before us. Meanwhile, critics see the three-act structure as an instrument of Western hegemony, crowding out all other ways to tell a story. The main thing these two sides agree on is that the three-act structure is everywhere, easily visible when you open a book or press play on a streaming site.
They’re both wrong. The three-act structure isn’t a universal guide for storytelling, nor is it a boot pressing down on creativity and expression. In fact, much like The Hero’s Journey, it’s nothing at all.
What Is the Three-Act Structure?
This is a surprisingly difficult question to answer. The three-act structure’s origins are largely a big set of question marks, as even its biggest proponents will acknowledge. The best we can do is vaguely point out Aristotle mentioning that the plays he’d seen usually had a beginning, a middle, and an end, things that literally all stories have. Oh boy, what a compelling paper trail!
To make matters more confusing, the three-act structure is often confused with other storytelling theories like Freytag’s Pyramid, which usually has two, four, or five distinct sections. Seriously, how am I supposed to turn this into three acts?
Should the entire pyramid be a single act? So act one is just introduction, and act three is just denouement? That doesn’t sound right. Wait, I’ve got it.
Nailed it.
At its most abstract, the three-act structure is nothing but dividing a story into three sections, something you can do with literally any piece of media. In fact, thanks to the linear nature of time, you can apply the same process to any object, idea, or experience. Eating breakfast can have a three-act structure if you want.
- Act One: Take bacon out of the fridge.
- Act Two: Fry bacon until it is charred and blackened.
- Act Three: Shovel bacon into mouthparts.
How do you decide that you’re finished with the beginning of a story and it’s time for the middle? It could be after the first scene, the first chapter, or the first third. In my example, I could decide that cooking the bacon is actually act one, eating it is act two, and tossing my plate in the dishwasher is act three. When the ending starts is even more nebulous. That could be the literal end, after which there is no story, or it could be when the protagonists reach their final goal. The list of permutations is endless!
If you zoom in past the point of drawing arbitrary lines, any agreement about the three-act structure disappears. What is actually supposed to happen in these poorly defined stages changes radically from advice giver to advice giver. Some will place the climax in act three, some at the end of act two, and some claim it should be at the story’s midpoint. More importantly, there’s very little about what the climax actually is or why it’s important, let alone why that function is complemented by dividing the story into three acts.
Syd Field’s Three-Act Structure
It’s impossible to critique the three-act structure as a whole because no such thing exists. Instead, for demonstration purposes, let’s take a look at author Syd Field’s version, as laid out in Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting. Originally published in 1979, it’s one of the more popular three-act iterations out there, though it’s surprisingly difficult to dig the structure out from the book itself. Fortunately, the book’s official website is kind enough to lay it all out for our perusal.
The only thing you need to know before we get started is that Field originally included specific page numbers for each of these points to occur on.* However, Field also admits that the page numbers don’t actually matter, so I’ve removed them to make the points easier to read.
Act One – sets up the world of the story and introduces the main character.
So the opening of a story should introduce the things we need to understand what’s happening. This is one of those things that’s technically true, but only in the trivial way that every story does it. It’s like sticking a vegetarian label on broccoli. If there’s meat in there, something has gone horribly wrong. If a story doesn’t open with what we need to understand what’s happening, that’s a serious problem, but a reminder to explain things is hardly a structure.
Inciting Incident – Inciting Incident and Plot Point One are within Act One. Inciting Incident happens first. Plot Point One happens at the end of Act One. The Inciting Incident is the circumstance that brings the lead character to the forefront; the situation that emotionally involves the character in the story. The scene without which there would be no story.
Ah yes, the inciting incident, an idea that persists for exactly one reason: Luke Skywalker’s introduction in A New Hope. We begin the film following R2-D2 and C-3PO; we don’t meet Luke until he joins with a plot already in progress,* so it’s easy to point out that moment as the one that incites Luke’s story. It’s certainly when he joins the film, though I don’t know how emotionally involved we can consider him. He’s emotionally involved in wanting to visit Tosche Station and pick up some power converters, that’s for sure.
Most stories, even the Hollywood screenplays that Field was writing about, don’t have anything nearly so clear cut. Where is the inciting incident in The Empire Strikes Back? Is it Luke seeing a vision of Obi-Wan? That starts Luke’s training plot, but said plot is only one part of Empire’s story. For that matter, it’s only one part of Luke’s story. Is the inciting incident when Vader learns about the rebel base on Hoth? That’s what leads to the Imperial attack, but it’s more like a twist in an existing plot, since the rebels were already fighting Vader and his forces.
Maybe Empire Strikes Back isn’t fair, since it’s a sequel film in an ongoing story. So what about Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan? The inciting incident could be Kirk taking command of the Enterprise, Khan capturing Chekov and Terrell, or Khan sending out a signal to lure in the Enterprise. The story certainly couldn’t occur as written without any of those scenes. But if we’re looking for emotional involvement, we’d have to wait until the first battle between the Enterprise and the Reliant, which is quite a ways into the movie.
If we use a generous definition of “inciting incident,” it could mean the moment where the protagonist gets involved in the main external conflict (or throughline). But for many stories, the protagonist is involved from the first page, so there’s no incident to identify. In others, the protagonist becomes involved through a series of incidents, making it impossible to pinpoint a specific one.
Plot Point One – moves Act One into Act Two. The true beginning of the story, embarking the lead character on a NEW journey.
The story doesn’t truly start until act two? That’s quite a while to wait. Again, this seems to have been written specifically with A New Hope in mind, since we can identify the deaths of Owen and Beru as the moment when Luke fully commits to fighting the Empire, thus setting off on a new journey to Alderaan. For this to fit, we need the Mos Eisley and Death Star escape scenes to both fall under act two even though they really feel like separate segments, but that’s still much closer than most stories get.
Where is this plot point in films like Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country or Villeneuve’s Dune? Undiscovered Country does have a scene where Kirk and co. are sent on a new mission to escort the Klingon High Chancellor, but that happens way before anything that could be considered act two. There’s also a major plot twist around the one-quarter mark, where Kirk and McCoy are arrested by the Klingons, but if we’re being that liberal with what constitutes the beginning of act two or a “journey,” then any twist at any time would count.
Dune is an even starker example. Paul and Jessica begin a new journey when they escape the destruction of House Atreides to live among the Fremen… except this happens at the end of the movie. The book is actually closer to Field’s ideal, with the same sequence playing out at about the one-third mark, but it’s also just one of many times that Paul could be said to set out on a “NEW journey.”
Act Two – confrontation, obstacles, and tests on the character.
In act two, things apparently happen! That’s as specific as the structure gets, since the items it lists could be just about anything. A confrontation might be between two characters, between a character and a monster, or between two forces of nature if we stretch the definition far enough. Obstacles are even looser and can encompass anything from a deadly wall of saws to a bout of ennui. And the character is abstractly “tested” any time they encounter adversity, so the third one somehow means the least.
Midpoint – Syd Field’s «discovery» in his second book, The Screenwriter’s Workbook. In this volume, Syd presents «the new paradigm» and includes the scene called Midpoint: «What happens to your main character from Plot Point I to Plot Point II? Knowing the Midpoint is a tool; with it you have a way of focusing your story line into a specific line of action». Syd recommends dividing Act Two into two sections. The division is called Midpoint. This scene spins the action into a different direction.
Even if it weren’t specifically called out, I might have guessed that this point was added retroactively, as it doesn’t make any sense. Something that “spins the action in a different direction” could just as easily be said to start a “NEW journey.”
In just A New Hope, there are probably a dozen scenes that fit this descriptor from around the middle of the film. Just to name a few:
- Option 1: Tarkin destroys Alderaan, spinning the action into a direction that doesn’t have Alderaan in it.
- Option 2: Our heroes are tractored aboard the Death Star, so now they have action around escaping.
- Option 3: Obi-Wan leaves to disable the tractorbeam. Now the action will happen with our heroes in different places.
- Option 4: Luke decides to rescue Princess Leia. Now the action is spinning Luke toward making out with his sister.
I could go on, but you get the idea. The midpoint’s description is so vague that it could refer to nearly any scene in a half-decent story.
Plot Point Two – takes Act Two into Act Three, from conflict to resolution. After the obstacles the hero, literally or metaphorically, returns or finds «home».
Hey, it’s the first time Field’s structure mentions conflict! Since there wasn’t anything about it before, I guess we’re supposed to insert some here for the hero to resolve. It’ll probably feel random and out of nowhere, but supposedly that’s how the pros do it.
The line about returning home makes this point even weirder. You should always be careful when writing advice mentions that something is “metaphorical,” because that can mean anything. Does Luke find a home with the rebels after destroying the Death Star? Sort of, in that he’s staying with them now, but nothing in A New Hope suggests he was looking for a home. At the end of Wrath of Khan, Kirk is still on the Enterprise, where he’s been for most of the movie. But he’s gotten emotionally closer to his crew after Spock’s death, so that’s kind of a home, maybe, if you don’t care what words mean.
It’s also weird to put this at the end of act two, because it sounds like we’re transitioning into falling action and epilogue. Field can’t be saying that all of act three should be falling action and epilogue, is he?
Act Three – where all loose ends are tied up, where closure begins. It goes from Plot Point Two to the end of the screenplay.
Update: Field is indeed saying that all of act three should be falling action and epilogue. That’s certainly a… unique take on the three-act structure. Under this model, A New Hope’s entire third act is Luke’s landing and the medal ceremony. Be honest, does anyone really think of the first Star Wars movie that way? I’ll bet 50 Republic credits that for most people, A New Hope’s third act is the Death Star space battle, with the medal ceremony closing things out.
Final Scene – by understanding the ending, writers can construct what must be built for the development of the characters.
Well, Field certainly made this section easy for me. There aren’t any instructions at all, just a statement about how understanding the ending is good for writing. That’s great and all, but what should actually be in the ending? Isn’t that what Field is supposed to tell me? I thought that was the whole point of this structure.
My Neighbor Totoro in Three Acts
Miyazaki’s My Neighbor Totoro is often held up as antithetical to the three-act structure, though the reasons for why vary. Sometimes, the claim is that Totoro has little to no conflict or tension, even though that has nothing to do with the three-act structure. A more cogent argument is that the film lacks an inciting incident and climax, which is about half true. The film does lack an obvious inciting incident, the same way that most films do. It absolutely has a climax though: when Mei goes missing and is feared dead.*
The point is that Totoro is a very different film from the big-budget action movies that are usually used to demonstrate the three-act structure. However, even Field’s more detailed iteration is so vague that any movie can be made to fit it, including My Neighbor Totoro. Don’t believe me?
Act One
We right away introduce the main characters, Satsuki and Mei, along with the idyllic country setting and the fact that their mom is in the hospital. We notably don’t start the movie by introducing a civilization of aliens on Mars, so Miyazaki must be following Field’s advice.
Inciting Incident: This is when Satsuki and Mei arrive at their new house, which is old, decaying, and probably haunted. They’re very emotional, and more importantly, if they weren’t here then the rest of the story couldn’t happen.
Plot Point One: Mei sees the small white spirit creature, which happens at almost exactly the one-third mark. This is where we embark on a new journey of discovering different kinds of magical creatures like Totoro and the Catbus.
Act Two
After the family settles in, they confront each other over who makes lunch. Then the characters have to face the obstacle that Mei is unhappy, and we test Satsuki’s patience with Kanta, who is being an ass to her for no reason.
Midpoint: When Satsuki and Mei meet Totoro at the bus stop. This happens somewhere around the middle of the film, and it spins the action in a different direction. The new direction is that Satsuki knows about Totoro and the other spirits, whereas before she’d only caught brief glimpses of soot sprites.
Plot Point Two: Mei goes missing, and Satsuki has to find her. Suddenly the story has way more conflict than it did before, and there’s even a fear that Mei might be dead. Satsuki resolves this conflict by enlisting Totoro’s help, and afterwards, they eventually go back to their house, which is a literal home rather than a metaphorical one.
Act Three
Satsuki and Mei briefly check in on their mom and discover she’s fine, tying up that loose end. Mei gets some extra closure by giving her mom a piece of corn that’s supposed to make a sick person get well.* The whole section, as I’ve decided to measure it, is about 10 minutes, which fits very well with Field’s idea for a third act.
Final Scene: This is Totoro and his buddies standing on top of a tall tree with their umbrellas. Does it show that Miyazaki understands endings and can construct what must be built for the development of his characters? I have no idea.
To be clear, this is a terrible way to analyze what happens in My Neighbor Totoro, let alone understand why fans love it so much. It’s also a terrible way to analyze Western stories, even the most conventional action blockbuster. The three-act structure doesn’t describe stories; the best anyone can manage is to awkwardly apply it after the fact, like an itchy sweater two sizes too small.
Field’s three-act structure is largely useless for the same reason Vogel’s Hero’s Journey is largely useless: neither of them give us any idea of what needs to be in the story. Instead, they both create a list of incredibly specific points, then fill those points with exceptionally vague advice. Somehow, they are too limiting and too permissive at the same time.
How It Distorts the Conversation
It’s critical to understand how unimportant the three-act structure is, whether one is for or against it. When writers can’t see through the mirage, it’s easy for them to get caught up contorting their story to fit arbitrary requirements, whether it’s from a famous name like Field or one of the countless writing advice sites that extol some version of the three-act structure.
At best, arranging your story like that won’t make it any better. More likely, you’ll end up straining the plot until the story isn’t even coherent anymore. At the same time, studying the three-act structure won’t teach you the skills needed to improve your story. There’s nothing in there about tension, plot arcs, or how to craft a satisfying turning point. At best, the three-act structure might provide some inspiration, and authors need to understand that limitation.
Likewise, critics waste their time tilting at three-act windmills. They feel pressured to write their stories a certain way, but the three-act structure isn’t doing that. It’s not coherent enough to. No one can look at a story and say that it’s bad because it didn’t follow the three-act structure, since what that means is entirely arbitrary. There are plenty of systemic issues in Anglophone storytelling; the three-act structure just isn’t one of them.
Worse, such critics often throw out anything that’s even associated with the three-act structure. That’s why so much of the Totoro discussion is dominated by questions of whether it has conflict or not. Conflict has nothing to do with the three-act structure, but the two are mentioned together so often that critics often conflate them.
Once we acknowledge that the three-act structure isn’t real, we can get on to discussions that actually matter. Maybe we could look into why so many authors feel pressure to write their stories as violent power fantasies, or consider what conflict is for and how to craft a light story that won’t bore people. And if someone summarizes a story in such a way that it looks to be written in three acts, we can remember that it’s all smoke and mirrors. The three-act structure persists by being too nebulous to pin down on anything, and we shouldn’t let it get away with that anymore.
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Personally, I’ve always felt that the three-act structure is a fancy way of telling people that a story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end. While that’s certainly true, it also has the information value of ‘water is wet.’ It’s true, but not something you normally need to tell people about.
In most stories, the most important people and conflicts are introduced early, because you want for people to care about them – if you don’t talk about the ‘Chosen One’ until after the final battle, it’s pretty pointless. That’s your beginning, telling people what they need to know to follow the story.
In most stories, stuff happens, driving the stakes up, developing the plots. Stories need conflict (as you’ve already pointed out here again and again) and conflict is created by things which happen to the main characters and lead them from plot point to plot point.
Stories usually don’t go on forever, so at some point, your stop new stuff from happening, tie up your plots, and put the finished story aside. You start a new project and eventually return for polishing, rewriting, and editing.
Technically, that’s a three-act structure, but if I wanted, I could pull out the old five-act structure and do it all through this as well.
I feel like you could divide stories into any number of parts and claim that the “X Part Structure” is universal. You could say stories have a two-part structure (everything building up to the climax being one part, resolution and falling action being the other) just as easily as a nine-part one (1. Protag is introduced, 2. Other major players are introduced and the world is expanded, 3. Protag’s personal conflict begins, 4. Protag’s personal conflict segues into the wider conflict, 5. Protag learns who their friends and enemies are, 6. Stuff Happens, 7. Protag’s presumably conflict is resolved, 8. Wider conflict is resolved, 9. Falling action and sequel hook).
The ability to claim that any of these parts can be metaphorical only further muddies things.
Yeah, I recently read about the four quarters and eight sequences, which are another way of splitting the story, based to a degree on the three-act structure, but with additional cuts to split up the story in more detail. They can be useful for planning, but saying ‘every story has to follow this’ is just wrong.
We all know what a story needs, as we’re raised on stories, even in education. Humans understand the world through stories (I like the ‘Science of Discworld’ idea of ‘pan narrans’). We all come up with a structure that helps us work on one. For some, it’s a three-act structure. Others use four, eight, five, nine, or any other number of parts to see what should be happening where.
Of course, this may have been influenced by plays at the time, some of which LITERALLY had a three-act structure
Right! And there were probably conventions of what should go in each of these literal three acts.
That makes it extra confusing when most plays I’ve ever seen have *2* acts! (sarcasm) How do they possibly make a story work with just 2 parts?!?!
If even the best storytellers can get confused on the three-act structure, that’s a bad sign. Quite embarrassing to say the least.
I think that the 3-Act structure is a useful conceptual device. A complete problem-solving story has at least one throughline (main problem to solve). Act 1 introduces the problem and the characters confronted with it, Act 2 shows the various attempts to solve the problem, and Act 3 has the resolution of the problem (with failure to solve the problem in the case of tragic story). Now the 3-Act structure is definitely not sufficient to tell the story. In particular the second act could have a lot of things in it, and knowing the 3-Act structure wouldn’t help one at all in figuring those out.
Also, a story could have more than one throughline, and the plot points and transitions between acts of each throughline could occur at different points in the story. For example, The Empire Strikes Back has two throughline in parallel – Han and Leia trying to escape from Vader, and Luke trying to train to be a Jedi. The inciting incident for the former is when Vader decided that Hoth was the rebel hideout, and the inciting incident for the latter is when Luke met the force ghost of Obi-Wan.
Another example is Return of the Jedi, where there are two throughlines happening sequentially. The rescue-of-Han one didn’t have Act 1, because Act 1 had occurred in the previous movie. For the Battle-of-Endor one, Act 1 was the briefing by Mon Mothma, Act 2 was the part of the movie up to the point when the Imperial troops surrounded Han and Leia and Luke started to fight Vader in front of the Emperor, and Act 3 was the rest of the movie.
I’m not sure I understand how the three-act structure’s supposed to work in those movies. It feels really arbitrary dividing the story up in that way. It’s better if we have a throughline divided into child arks.
In Empire Strikes Back, let’s assume that getting away from the Empire is the throughline for the sake of argument. In that case, Luke’s journey to become a jedi would be one of the child arks. All we have to do is divide those arks into the obstacles the heroes face along the way, big and small. We really don’t need the three-act structure for that to work.
Even if you divide the story into parent and child arcs, within each arc the 3-Act structure still serves as a useful conceptual device. Within each arc you still need to show the initial state of the arc and to introduce what drives the arc, the final state of the arc, and the parts of the story that connect the initial and final state. For example, in The Empire Strikes Back, without the Obi-Wan ghost scene on Hoth, the audience would be left wondering why did Luke go to look for Yoda and who was Yoda anyway? On the other hand, for the rescue-of-Han arc in Return of the Jedi, there was no need for Act 1 of that arc in the movie because we already knew why Han needed to be rescued.
“Once we acknowledge that the three-act structure isn’t real, we can get on to discussions that actually matter. Maybe we could look into why so many authors feel pressure to write their stories as violent power fantasies-”
Wait, what?
It’s a fairly common problem where authors feel like their story can’t be engaging without adding fight scenes an an arc where the hero’s power level goes over 9000
“Maybe we could look into why so many authors feel pressure to write their stories as violent power fantasies”
I’d certainly love to see an article on that, if you’re ever going to do it.
The number 3 have a great impact on the occidental culture, even fables and folk tales have a staple of let the hero try 3 times, failing the first 2. Three little pigs, Goldilocks, Cinderella’s 2 stepsisters… So it makes sense that the first two acts are just approachings to the end, in the first act the protagonist looks for an easy way to solve the problem and it fails, so he try harder in the second act just to win in the third one.
Anyway, as the Hero’s Journey, i find the 3 act structure as a sugestion on how to organize things in the story. (As a tech support, I know people that tells things in such a convulted way that they would benefit largelly from a 3 acts structure just to explain to me whats going on).
My point is, do stories built around the concept of 3 act structure or hero’s journey don’t work? (personally i use the 3 part structure applyed to my book, parts, chapters and scenes; all of them have an inciting incident, a climax and a falling action that leads to the next, of different importances, of course).
I’m sure there could be better structures out there, but i think it’s better that than nothing at all.
As someone once pointed out (not sure who): one failure can be a coincidence, two failures prove it’s probably not, but more than two can become tiresome. In other words, the three times people try is to establish that the hero needed to overcome their weakness/learn a lesson before they could be successful. Two times is not a fluke, but there’s still tension about whether the third time will be successful. After six failures, most people will assume the seventh try is doomed, too.
Stories built around the three-act structure or the Hero’s Journey can work, but they’re not the only way of constructing stories. A lot of people insist you need to follow ‘a certain way of doing things’ to be successful, which is one of the main problem of storytelling advice, especially on the more technical side, such as structure. What works for one person might not help another at all.
I learned a new word – Cogent.
I found this article to be cogent. Though I suspect you might be shouting into the wind.
If supporters are happy to agree that that anyone’s definition is valid (don’t want to be too prescriptive do we), then they already accept that the concept has no meaning.
Pros- incredibly flexible and can be applied to any material in an infinite number of ways.
Cons- totally useless and distracting for the purposes of deciding what to put in and where. Oh well.
It’s actually that not everyone plots a story the same way. I have no doubt that to some people the three-act structure (or the Hero’s Journey) are very helpful. To others, they are not. Telling people they’re a necessity to know/use if you want to be a writer is therefore not the right way to go about it. Introduce people to it and let them make their own choice.
I find the four quarters and eight sequences useful, but I wouldn’t say anyone has to use them – and they are based off the three-act structure. I have started out as a discovery writer who couldn’t finish a plotted story and have come a long way. Had you asked me to use them two or three years ago, I wouldn’t have found them useful at all, today I use them successfully.
It’s all about not seeing things in absolutes. Some people find certain structural advice useful, others don’t.
Hello Cay! You make a good point.
I’m not familiar with how four or eight act structures relate to three. Either way I’d not begrudge writers whatever tools help them get from a blank page to… well anything beyond a blank page really.
I should qualify that I found three act structure guides distracting. Analysing various kinds, there seemed a considerable lack of consensus on the specifics I was looking for – what to put in where. Perhaps I’d find it more useful if I was satisfied with picking one or another. In the end, emphasising the acts for me shifted the focus away from what definitely needed to be there. On the other hand, if there was consensus on what 3 acts means in terms of what to put where, I think it could be more useful, able to be critically analysed, but also probably be too prescriptive to still be accepted as nearly ‘universal’.
Suffice to say, I am in the group that found 3 acts structure advice unhelpful, and thus frustrated by its pervasiveness. Now you’ve really got me thinking about it, it’s easy to see why this article spoke to me.
It’s not four or eight acts. The four quarters and eight sequences are meant to break up the three acts into smaller pieces.
Four quarters:
1st quarter = 1st act
2nd quarter = 1st half of the 2nd act (ends with the midpoint twist)
3rd quarter = 2nd half of the 2nd act
4th quarter = 3rd act
For the eight sequences, you essentially half the quarters again, so you can, for instance, introduce setting and characters in the 1st sequence and focus more on the conflict/problem in the 2nd sequence.
I find it useful to use the quarters and sequences to break down general things happening in the story. They also help me to avoid to stretch out one part too much (like having a long first half of the story and then hurry to the end). What is in the quarters/sequences depends on genre, for instance. The same goes for the midpoint twist. In a mystery story, for instance, you often find a second murder or other thing that changes the situation there. In a James-Bond story, that might be when Mr. Bond is captured. In a heist story, that might be when the team realized they’re missing a crucial member or tool.
Here’s a thought experiment. For any story, I would define an inciting incident as the moment the protagonist first encounters a problem they must solve. That problem would have to have an uncertain outcome from the start to make it effective.
For the big problem, that might happen when the protagonist finds out that the big villain’s minions are attacking their village. That attack is part of a bigger threat.
If we were to use the three-act structure in that case, I would have that happen right at the beginning of act one. In that case, I would figure act one to simply be the first part of the story divided into three parts. Trouble is, the story has already gotten going in that case. The three-act structure as classically defined wouldn’t work because that means act one is extremely short. Not to mension that if the climax happens at the end of act two, act three would be really short as well.
In most stories, act one and three are a good deal shorter than act two. Act one usually ends with the main character beginning to work on the problem. Act two is where that work happens and the climax is set up. The climax can be the end of act two or the beginning of act three. Act three often is about ‘cleaning up’ after the climax and tying up the threads – telling people what happened with the characters or how the main character got back home, that sort of thing.
You mentioned dividing many of your stories into quarters in an earlier comment. How does that work again?
I’m glad to see this article.
Even as an 8-year old in school, I could sense that a writing advice / rule that says “your story has to have a beginning, a middle, and an end” (as if it was physically possible to create something that doesn’t fit this description) is a sham.
Reading the excerpts from Syd Field makes me picture the Scooby Doo gang unmasking the Three Act Structure to reveal The Hero’s Journey. Is it truly the secret villain behind every modern bad writing advice?
Years ago I used to divide my stories into four sections, w/ one quarter for the beginning, one quarter for the build-up to the middle, one quarter for the build-up to the climax, and one quarter for the climax.
However, w/ inflation each of the four sections is now thirty-five cents
LOL … but that is pretty much what the ‘four quarters’ I mentioned above does.
Yes, inflation hits us all…
It’s interesting that all commenters who use or defend “the” three act structure use a different iteration of it, proving Oren’s point that it’s too vague to be universal. Of course story structures or advice can be useful, whether we call it three acts or not. So long as the person following it knows what they’re trying to follow, good for them!
For me personally, Syd Field’s version is too vague and confusing; I wouldn’t know where to start from there. It also encourages a lack of tension especially in the beginning and neglects any idea of multi-tasking – why not try to introduce the character and their problem at the same time?
When I first started seeking out writing advice many years ago, I stumbled across a proponent of “the” three act structure. Again, it was defined differently from any of the ones mentioned in this article or comments. It was kinda useful for me at the time, as it gave some direction to build tension and was coupled with other mostly good advice. But it was confusing because I could not see this supposedly universal structure in other stories.
They said the inciting incident should happen as early as possible, preferably in the first paragraph, which is apparently unusual for things that call themselves three-act. Then the character should try to solve the problem the way they usually solve problems, fail, be forced to adapt their strategy, have a point of no return, then climax, then resolution. Which is a good way to tell a story, but definitely not the only one. For example, the main character could try something they never did before from the start.
Where exactly which step happens is not universal, as a good story might start with something that shakes up the MCs life fundamentally (point of no return in chapter one), or else have a character stick up for a good cause despite the temptation to return to their previously cosy life (point of no return is the climax, or is nonexistent).
For me, despite not being a complete pantser/discovery writer, it is useless trying to map out my plot points by where they’ll sit in the finished story. When I write the point of no return scene, I don’t yet know how long the rest of the story is going to be. OK, maybe that’s lack of experience on my part. But worrying over whether the scene I’m working on right now will end up being the midpoint once the story is finished would only hold me back from actually writing. I plan what plot points happen in what order, but I don’t care which “act” they’d fall into. Maybe that’s more useful for screenwriters who have to make their story a specific length.
Your article is fun, but it’s very existence suggests your wrong.
You make a premise
You explore it
You come to a conclusion
That’s three acts
Try reading this:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Into-Woods-Stories-Work-Tell/dp/0141978104
It explains where three act comes from, breaks down Freytag’s pyramid, ties it back to Shakespeare, Terence and forward to non-linear narrative and beyond.
Honest – every point you raise is answered clearly and concisely.
I exist
I observe the world
I change
That’s all three act structure is, and that’s why it’s universal – even if sometimes you have to poke under the bonnet to find it
You’re doing exactly what I did in the article with my bacon joke: arbitrarily dividing something into three acts when it could just as easily be two, four, five, or any number.
It could just as easily be:
1: I introduce an idea
2: I demonstrate the idea
3: I present evidence
4: I draw a conclusion
You’re not revealing a three act structure, you’re taking a finished product and slicing it into thirds.
I’d be hard-pressed to call either of your divisions arbitrary.
The three act structure is a model. All models are wrong, but some are more useful than others.
Are you saying that the three act structure is useful? Could you describe what use you are getting out of it?
I agree we shoulnd’t force the three-act structure (or any structure) on a story mindlessly.
Though I do think it’s a useful tool. Personally, I often use a three-act structure on a scene level. I divide them as:
1) the context to the conflict
2) the conflict itself
3) the consequences of said conflict
I found that when a scene feels flat or rushed, it’s usually because one of the three acts is underwritten. Again, no tool works for everyone but it’s still worth trying out.
The three act structure has no real structure to it, is the problem. At best people say the beginning is 25%, the middle is 50% and the end is 25% and even with that the entire story is straining. It gets worse since there is usually not much after a climax. So it is actually like 25% beginning, middle is 63% and the end is 12%. Then what do people give as advice, get right into the action as early as possible! So people cut from the set up.
So you have a 3 act structure and it is all middle.