The Purpose Of A Plot
There was one brutal lesson I had to learn when writing my first book.
Plot matters.
It helped me through what were 80,000 terribly assembled words and countless nights of frustration. When my characters wandered, when events spiraled without direction, I go back to the plot. This brings it back, weaving a thread through cause and effect.
It turns out, having a good plot is generally a good idea. After all, plot isn’t just a framework; it is the structure of story. It allows me to take fragments and arrange them into something that makes sense.
Now, I will note that having a good plot is not the only important thing when writing a book. But it was the lesson that provided some truly remarkable insights.
That’s what got me thinking about this more seriously. What makes it so crucial? Why does it keep us coming back for more? So, I started digging.
To A Psychologist
To a psychologist, plot isn’t just a storytelling device. It’s a survival mechanism. Looking back to early human history, plot-like structures in storytelling likely emerged as practical tools. They helped people remember critical information about their world. These included where to find food, how to avoid danger, who could be trusted, and how to navigate social alliances.
It suggests that the ability to weave events into cohesive, structured narratives gave early humans a distinct advantage.
One of the key proponents of this theory was Jerome Bruner. He is a cognitive psychologist who saw narrative fundamental to human thinking. According to Bruner, stories help us structure our experiences. Story and plot give us a way to order information and make complex events digestible.
Plot serves as a mental “schema,” or a framework for organizing memory. This understanding of the sequence of events makes it easier to recall information in moments of urgency.
Bruner’s theory on stories as cognitive tools really resonates when you look at the Brothers Grimm. These fairy tales weren’t just bedtime stories of old Europe. They were compact life lessons for their time.
Think of Hansel and Gretel or Little Red Riding Hood. These tales structured themselves around survival, social dangers, and consequences. According to Bruner, narratives like these offer a framework for understanding the world and ourselves. The Grimms’ fairy tales, in particular, gave clear cause-and-effect storylines that helped people make sense of the world and its dangers.
But beyond survival, plot is also about identity. Dan McAdams, a leading psychologist in narrative identity research, shows how we create our sense of self through stories. We don’t just remember our experiences, we actively construct narratives about them. These aren’t random memories, but handpicked moments that align with our self-image or aspirations.
Take The Epic of Gilgamesh, for instance. This ancient tale tackles universal themes of mortality, friendship, and identity through its hero’s extraordinary challenges. It shows how humans have long used narrative to explore life’s fundamental questions. Just like McAdams suggests in his research, stories like Gilgamesh’s serve as mirrors. They let us explore questions about who we are and why we’re here by watching someone else’s journey unfold.
The epic speaks to a universal need to make sense of our personal experiences through a broader narrative.
However, these psychologists’ view also face pushback. Not all cultures prioritize structured, cause-and-effect storytelling. Many Indigenous oral traditions follow non-linear or cyclical narratives that resist our familiar plot arcs. This suggests that while humans do use narratives to make sense of the world, the specific form a plot takes is perhaps extremely adaptable.
To A Creative Writer
Where a psychologist may see plot as a cognitive framework, writers may view it as the emotional pulse. This is the rhythm that propels the story’s ebb and flow, offering moments of tension and release.
It needs to be kept alive, active, and constant to lead the audience toward catharsis.
While “studying” how to create a gripping plot, catharsis kept coming up over and over again. Aristotle explored this in his Poetics, suggesting that tragedy allows audiences to experience intense emotions within a safe, controlled space. This ultimately leads to a sense of relief and clarity. The tension of catharsis grips the audience, eagerly awaiting the emotional release by the end.
In Hemingway’s work, the plot is his rhythm through minimalism. In The Old Man and the Sea, each interaction between Santiago and the fish intensifies the reader’s immersion, with his “iceberg theory” emphasizing depth beneath simplicity. This method pulls readers into Santiago’s struggle, making them feel his resolve as he battles.
Michael Crichton, meanwhile, structures his plots with urgency. In Jurassic Park and The Andromeda Strain, his pacing and scientific intrigue build tension. In this case, the plot gains suspense from stakes and character errors. Crichton’s plots, while precise, thrive on complexity, keeping readers at the edge as they confront ethical dilemmas posed by his high-energy storytelling.
For both Hemingway and Crichton, plot isn’t just about moving the story forward as it is the momentum that builds the emotional release.
Hemingway’s catharsis lies in simplicity. In The Old Man and the Sea, Santiago’s quiet, isolated struggle becomes a space for readers to confront their own fears, doubts, and hopes. There’s a purity to his plot that allows for profound reflection. This is where readers don’t just witness Santiago’s fight, but feel their own resilience tested. This sense of shared endurance creates a cathartic release, inviting readers to find solace in Santiago’s ultimate triumph and his humanity.
Crichton’s catharsis, in contrast, emerges from the chaos and intensity of his plots. He constructs stories that not only entertain but also confront readers with the ethical and existential questions. In Jurassic Park, for example, the plot builds towards a release that is both thrilling and thought-provoking. The horror of the dinosaurs running loose serves as a warning about scientific hubris. This makes the reader’s emotional release deep with caution and introspection.
For the creative writer, catharsis isn’t an accidental byproduct; it’s an essential goal. A well-crafted plot nudges readers toward personal introspection.
This sense of rhythm — buildup, climax, and resolution — reflects the natural emotional highs and lows we encounter in life. Catharsis makes sense of it. Of note, the introspection also plays a key role in both catharsis and our lives too.
To A Linguist
From a linguistic standpoint, the structure of a plot isn’t solely a product of imagination. It may subtly guide the plot, depending on the language in which it is crafted. Linguists, particularly those who endorse the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, argue that language influences how we perceive reality. This is a concept known as linguistic relativity.
If language can shape thought, then it likely shapes storytelling, too.
In languages like English, which typically favor a linear, cause-and-effect structure, plot mirrors this directness. By this I mean it moves logically from event to consequence in ways that may feel almost intuitive to native speakers.
Jonathan Gottschall, in The Storytelling Animal, extends this line of thought by proposing that storytelling and language developed together to communicate shared human experiences. But this shared experience often comes at the cost of complexity. That complexity is arguably the plot. In such language-driven structures, plot becomes a tool for creating a coherent narrative thread, rather than allowing for ambiguity or open-endedness.
However, linguistic relativity doesn’t fully account for the diversity in storytelling structures around the world. For instance, Indigenous Australians Dreamtime stories present an alternative, where plot doesn’t follow the linear progression so common in Western storytelling. These narratives often incorporate cycles and layered symbolism.
Such traditions reveal how stories can operate outside linguistic constraints. It suggests that plot, rather than a rigid structure, is a flexible framework that adapts to cultural priorities and ways of sharing understanding.
Even though language contributes to framing stories, it is not the sole definer of the plot. Language may amplify plot’s linearity in written forms, but plot itself emerged to serve a deeper purpose: helping humans find coherence amid life’s inherent unpredictability.
Instead of viewing the plot merely as a linguistic byproduct, we might consider it an developed strategy for making sense of experiences and forging emotional connections.
To Me
If there’s one thing my writing journey has shown me, it’s that plot is more than a formula or a series of events.
It’s a mirror.
It reflects our deepest need to make sense of chaos, to carve out meaning from the unpredictable flow of life.
Psychologists, writers, and linguists each see plot from unique perspectives: a survival tool, a cathartic release, a linguistic structure.
Yet each one circles back to the same fundamental truth: we turn to stories not just to escape reality but to better navigate it.
In a sense, plot is as much an instinct as it is a craft. Even as I struggled to shape the plot of my book, I came to realize that I was creating something more than a story.
I had to.
The threads of cause and effect are a scaffold we all cling to, guiding us through the world’s unpredictability.
And perhaps that’s the ultimate purpose of plot: to reveal the quiet, stubborn order within our shared human experience.
Whether structured linearly or spun out in cyclical layers, plot endures as an undeniable nature to storytelling. And in that mess, we find not just the stories we tell but the lives we live and, sometimes, a sense of purpose within both.
