The Dramatic Question

One of the things that keeps us invested in stories is our relationship with the protagonist(s). In books and movies, we observe them and root for them (or are wonderfully appalled by their actions and wish they change their ways), while in video games, we are directly responsible for helping the protagonists reach their goals.

What keeps us on the edge of our seats is the right amount of tension between hope and fear. We hope that the protagonist reaches their goal, but we fear they may fail. In tragedies or stories driven by flawed characters, we fear the protagonist reaches their goal while we hope they change their minds and do something more constructive than their original plan.

In any case, to feel this tension, we must understand what the protagonist wants to achieve and what’s at stake if they fail. This is especially true when, as players, we are responsible for carrying out the plan.

Asking the Right Question

The tool I like to use to make sure the story is set up in a clear and engaging way, is called the dramatic question. The answer to that question sets up the basic tension in the story.

Usually it goes like this:

The answer to that question gives us the protagonist, the goal, and the stakes. Everything the players need to engage with our story. 

The better part of being a successful narrative designer is finding the right questions and concocting the right answers. We need a good dramatic question because it forms the backbone of the story we want to tell. But what happens behind the scenes, at our drawing boards, is just the half of the story.

We also have an obligation to the players, as it is our job to make sure that the dramatic question is asked in the story and that the audience understands it.

Start with the Question

When we start telling a story, we have some goodwill from the audience. They came here to listen to what we have to say, to play what we prepared for them. But, sooner or later the story must capture their attention. 

They must understand who the protagonist is, what they want to achieve, and what happens if they fail. Only then can the players start feeling the dramatic tension between hope and fear, and can start acting towards achieving the protagonist’s goal.

Some scriptwriters define the beginning of a story (the dramatic first act) as the part where we show the audience who wants what and why? And only when the question is asked and understood, the actual body of the story begins.

In action and plot-oriented games, this part is pretty straightforward. We usually show that life is good (or at least, normal), then introduce an outside opposing force, show what they are capable of, and set a clear goal for the protagonist.

If we do it right, the players are hooked, they understand what they must do to make the world right again, and they can jump straight into action.

Example: the Witcher

Let’s take a look at my favourite monster-slaying, lesser-evil-choosing mutant who is the protagonist of the Witcher series. Small spoilers ahead.

In the first game’s prologue, the witcher stronghold is attacked, ancient magical formulas are stolen, and a young witcher is killed. As soon as the thieves flee with their loot, we understand the dramatic question: will Geralt retrieve the stolen witcher secrets before they are used for nefarious purposes? Throughout the story, there are moments when the most likely answer seems yes, there are moments when we fear the answer would be no. This is the source of the main dramatic tension in the story.

Apart from that, we wonder how the witcher will achieve his goal, why the secrets were stolen, and what happens to the culprits when he does. But these are questions for secondary plots.

The second game explores the intricate politics of Northern Kingdoms, so the dramatic question is less about the existence of witchers, and more about how their powers can be used, or abused by the mighty of the world. In the introductory sequence to The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings, Geralt’s protector, King Foltest is killed by an unknown witcher, and the dramatic question becomes obvious: will Geralt bring the assassin to justice and uncover the plot behind the killing? 

The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt asks a much more personal question. After a dramatic intro, the relatively long first act explores this question: will Geralt find Yennefer? and at the end of the sequence, when Emperor Emhyr enters the scene, the real dramatic question of the game is asked: will Geralt find his adopted daughter Ciri? One might say, that in the wider perspective,  the dramatic question of the story is will Geralt reunite with his old family-by-choice? But without doubt, his relationship with Ciri is the backbone of the main plotline.

Want and Need

In stories built around the protagonist struggling with their flaws, the dramatic question is more about the need than about the want. Such an approach is especially well suited for tragedies and comedies.

It works like this: at the beginning of the story, the protagonist clearly states their goal. They might even say it verbatim—“I want this and that and I will stop at nothing until I have it.”

However, at the same time, the course of the story states indirectly, that what the protagonist wants is not what they need. And the audience ties their hopes and fears to the need, not only to the consciously stated goal.

This template can play out in many different ways. In tragedies, we root for the protagonist to abandon their conscious goal, because we see that it will only bring ruin and despair. The protagonist fails us, turning away from what they need to be a better person, and doubling down on their want. Which, of course, ends in tears.

In comedies, humor is built on this inability to change. We root for the protagonist to be better, they try, maybe even succeed for a while, but then fall back to their set ways. Hilarity ensues.

Example: God of War

In the original God of War trilogy, we root for Kratos, as he seeks his revenge against the gods of Olympus. We help him hack his way through the whole Greek mythology section of your local library, because we empathize with his tragic story and understand that he was wronged. The dramatic question is simple: will Kratos get his revenge?

As the story progresses, we might start having second thoughts, and although the carnage is still entertaining, a new question starts chiming in from the back seat: is the bloody revenge what Kratos really needs?

When the third game is over, with the whole pantheon dead, and we are standing bloody-knuckled over our father’s lifeless body, it hits us that the real question was: will the revenge Kratos wants bring him the peace he needs? The answer is: no.

The new Norse-based installment of the franchise finds Kratos in a spot, where his need and want finally align. He just wants to be a good father, and we applaud the goal. Even though we suspect that some gods might have to be killed on the way.

Example: Disco Elysium

This gem of a game starts with voices arguing in the protagonist’s head, and before even Harry du Bois opens his eyes, before he remembers he is Harry du Bois, we know his conscious goal. He tells us what he wants: to forget, to die, to disappear in the sweet oblivion. Soon after, we learn that he’s been working tirelessly toward this goal and some serious substance abuse was on the menu.

At the moment, most of us form a sensible dramatic question that will guide us throughout the game: will Harry du Bois get his life together? The most goal-oriented of us will probably see the dramatic tension in the question: will Harry solve the case? For some the most important issue would be: will Harry earn the friendship of Kim Kitsuragi? Such is the nature of video games, we are allowed to form our own dramatic questions.

But in all the above cases, we as players work against the protagonist’s conscious goal. We know what Harry needs better than he does. We don’t want our Harry to die a broken, miserable excuse of a man.

The Question of Vision

In some cases, when the story touches upon things philosophical or larger than any individual, the dramatic question is about exploring the author’s vision of the world.

In the largest sense, the opening sequence asks a question like: what is the meaning of life? and the story explores the question from many angles, arriving at a conclusion—or letting the players form their own answers.

Example: Before Your Eyes

In this indie game, where you play by blinking, you play a dead soul who gets to tell their story. As scenes from the protagonist’s life flash before our eyes, we explore the dramatic question of the game: what is a life worth living?

Example: Frostpunk

In this postapocalyptic city builder set on a frozen Earth, we explore how far a society can go when pushed to the limits. The game even poses the main dramatic question directly to the player. In the final sequence it recounts the draconic laws you introduced to survive and asks you: was it worth it?

Post Scriptum

For the last week or so, the dramatic question I struggled with was: with all that’s going on, will I manage to write the newsletter on time? The answer proved to be no, but I hope that you nonetheless had fun reading this article.

Till the next time.