How to manage Scale in Writting?

Ever feel like stories these days are on a mission to save not just the world but the entire cosmic smorgasbord? From solar systems to universes, multiverses, and even the multiverse of multiverses — it seems the scale of storytelling has expanded to the point where characters might as well be duking it out in the Halls of the Palace of the Universe or some remote village hidden deep in an obscure forest. Scale, my friend, is the result of two factors: external forces, anything within or beyond a character’s grasp and influence, and what truly matters to the characters based on their characteristics and motivations. Let’s dive into this concept.

Greetings, neophyte! Today, we’re tackling another crucial question you need to answer before embarking on your writing journey. No, it’s not prewriting, and no, I’m not procrastinating! Pay attention because this might just save you from feeling lost when you finally sit down to write. How large is your story going to be? Or, to put it more precisely, what is its scale?

This question often lingers unanswered in many stories. Why? Because we writers are frequently dazzled by the allure of a “shiny new story” and, secondly, haunted by the fear of “I’ll never finish this thing.” As a result, we fail to notice that an unnecessarily large scale might be contaminating our work.

When I say unnecessarily large, I mean in every conceivable way—whether it’s the scale of the conflict, the number of character relationships, conflicts, plot threads, or just about everything else. One of my great foibles, Neophyte, is overestimating my own skills and time management capacity. It becomes easy to feel overwhelmed with tasks and things to do.

Then there’s the fear of finding yourself short of what to do. In my experience, that’s one of the things that held me back the most—trying to make everything perfect before even penning the first words, knowing full well that I’ll have to stop and evaluate what I’m doing. But I’m getting off-topic.

Let’s talk about scale. Do you want to write about an interstellar war? Technobabble or hard science? Fantastic! You’re facing a blank page—now go right ahead. But here’s the catch: How are your readers going to care about what you’re writing? Sure, you might have a niche within a niche of people obsessed with that aspect of science fiction. But guess what? That particular group is often served by content creators who specialize in that craft. So, back to the empty piece of paper. Now what? You’ve got all the technical details, all the bells and whistles—what’s stopping you? Oh, it’s empty?

Ah, yes, Neophyte, it’s empty. You need characters to fill that world, and not just mere props to push the plot forward. No, you need people—or at least a damn good simulation of people. Characters that feel like individuals touched and influenced by the larger conflict.

You want an aspect that covers the very conflict? Take the point of view of a high-ranking general within one of the forces—a person with a conscience, but who faces death and destruction regularly, along with the cold and detached reality of high command. How will that person cope? What inner conflicts will they grapple with? How will their past influence them? Will they manage to retain their humanity amidst the chaos? This person will act within your story, and you’ll know that a character, something that was once just a thought, is actively shaping your narrative. Your story will morph and change as your characters act.

Yes, Neophyte, it might feel like some dark magic, but that’s just the way it is. Before we move on, let’s revisit another example. Now, let’s shrink the scale to a survivor on some peripheral planet—maybe one of the armies sacked that planet for quick resources, or perhaps it was an interstellar band of bandits. For now, it doesn’t matter. Let’s focus on a single survivor, a rough and tough individual who has done everything in their power to survive. What has this person done? Based on their past, how will they react to their actions? How has the conflict changed them so far? Do they despise the person they’ve become? Is there still a war? Yes. Does the survivor care? Maybe. It depends on who sacked the world, how it fits into the larger picture, and whether the survivor even cares about it all. So, we’ve shrunk the scale from a galactic-spanning picture to a single human being challenged with the harshness of survival.

Here is the crux: you can easily have both storylines within the same book, using them for parallelism, but the protagonists may never cross paths. They probably will never know of each other’s existence. Or have them in two separate books. But if you’ve managed the scale right, then the readers will care. From the general’s point of view, the conflicts matter. The very scale might be desensitizing, but the reader will care about the fate of the conflict and the armies in battle. But from the survivor’s point of view, that is irrelevant. If you waste time explaining the fine details of a faraway conflict, you will lose the reader. Why, Neophyte?

Because, while the large scale is relevant for the general, for the survivor, it is not. But for both of them, their world is of the utmost relevance, and that is the scale you should stick to.

I know enough about the corporate types; they care for maximum profitability, so they default to saving the world as the biggest umbrella to fit as many customers under. But stories don’t work like that, Neophyte, not at all. The scale is limited by what the characters care about, limited by their motivations, and what agency do they have with the world.

Do you have to write a story about saving the world? Only if you want to. But a more important note is, do your characters? And I don’t mean just because “they live in it.” That is cheap writing. No, I mean it. Do your characters want to save the world? Is that their kind of story?

Until next time.