1. Their True Motivation is a War Between What They Want and What They Need

The core of any powerful character is their motivation. It is the engine that drives them through the narrative, the very point of collision between who they are and the events they must face.

"Motivation is where the character meets the plot."

This motivation is best understood as an internal war. On one side is the External Motivation (The Want), a conscious, tangible goal the character actively pursues. This is the story goal they believe will bring them happiness: Thor wants to be crowned King, Elle Woods wants to get her boyfriend back, and Woody from Toy Story wants to remain Andy’s favorite toy. These are clear, actionable objectives that propel the plot forward.

On the other side is the Internal Motivation (The Need), an intangible, often subconscious requirement for their personal fulfillment. This is what they truly require to become whole, like learning humility, realizing their self-worth, or accepting that love isn't a zero-sum game. Crucially, this need is almost always inextricably linked to their core flaw—the very thing preventing them from finding true contentment.

The most compelling stories place these two motivations in direct conflict. This internal battle is so psychologically resonant because it mirrors the universal human struggle between immediate gratification (the Want) and long-term fulfillment (the Need). The character believes achieving their "want" will solve everything, but the reader understands that their true character arc is the journey of overcoming their flaw to satisfy their "need." Often, when this internal need is finally met, their external "want" shifts, evolves, or becomes entirely irrelevant.

Character agency is a character's capacity to act, make meaningful decisions, and affect the story. It is what separates an active participant from a passive prop. But here is the counter-intuitive truth: agency has nothing to do with success.

"Agency isn’t about being successful – it’s about doing, or even just about making the decision to do something. It’s not about winning; it’s about playing the game."

Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark is the masterclass example of this principle. From a macro-plot perspective, his actions have zero impact on the final outcome; the Nazis find the Ark, open it, and are destroyed by its power, which would have happened whether he was there or not. However, his agency—his constant trying, his relentless decision-making, his desperate attempts to achieve his goal—is what drives the entire course of the story and makes it profoundly entertaining.

More importantly, his agency is essential for resolving the story’s subtext: the fractured relationship between him and Marion. While the main plot concerns the Ark, the emotional core of the film hinges on whether these two can repair their bond. Indy’s choices and actions, even in failure, are what force this emotional conflict to a resolution. His agency makes the primary plot thrilling, but it makes the subplot meaningful. Ask yourself: what is the subtextual story my character's agency is truly serving?

Contrast this with a character like Forrest Gump, who has very little agency and primarily follows the orders of others. While this can be a deliberate and effective choice for a specific narrative, it highlights that agency is what makes a character feel alive and in control of their destiny. They play the game, win or lose.

This distinction leads to the critical question every writer must ask about their protagonist:

"Does my character steer the story, or does the story steer my character?"

Character agency is a character's capacity to act, make meaningful decisions, and affect the story. It is what separates an active participant from a passive prop. But here is the counter-intuitive truth: agency has nothing to do with success.

"Agency isn’t about being successful – it’s about doing, or even just about making the decision to do something. It’s not about winning; it’s about playing the game."

Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark is the masterclass example of this principle. From a macro-plot perspective, his actions have zero impact on the final outcome; the Nazis find the Ark, open it, and are destroyed by its power, which would have happened whether he was there or not. However, his agency—his constant trying, his relentless decision-making, his desperate attempts to achieve his goal—is what drives the entire course of the story and makes it profoundly entertaining.

More importantly, his agency is essential for resolving the story’s subtext: the fractured relationship between him and Marion. While the main plot concerns the Ark, the emotional core of the film hinges on whether these two can repair their bond. Indy’s choices and actions, even in failure, are what force this emotional conflict to a resolution. His agency makes the primary plot thrilling, but it makes the subplot meaningful. Ask yourself: what is the subtextual story my character's agency is truly serving?

Contrast this with a character like Forrest Gump, who has very little agency and primarily follows the orders of others. While this can be a deliberate and effective choice for a specific narrative, it highlights that agency is what makes a character feel alive and in control of their destiny. They play the game, win or lose.

This distinction leads to the critical question every writer must ask about their protagonist:

"Does my character steer the story, or does the story steer my character?"

Perfect characters are forgettable. It is their flaws, quirks, and imperfections that make them human, authentic, and relatable. Readers connect with struggle, not with flawlessness.

Many writers, in an attempt to create this relatability, fall into the trap of using "fake bad traits"—flaws that are actually virtues in disguise, like being "a bit of a perfectionist" or "too generous." This is a misstep. Real people have real flaws, and your characters should too. These genuine flaws generally fall into two categories: the forgivable and the formidable.

Likable Weaknesses are mild, often forgivable traits like being impulsive, overconfident, or overly blunt. They add flavor and create minor conflicts without making the character fundamentally unsympathetic.

Unlikable Flaws, on the other hand, are genuinely negative traits like racism, severe selfishness, or kleptomania. The key to wielding these is not the flaw itself, but its narrative function. To be effective, these flaws must be framed negatively by the story, often acting as obstacles that the character must overcome to gain sympathy. A character with a racist worldview isn't compelling on their own; they become compelling when the narrative treats that racism as a poison they must purge to achieve their "need" and complete their character arc.

At the end of the day, the goal is not to assemble a collection of traits on a character sheet. It is to breathe life into a complex human being.

"When writing a novel, a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature."

This quote from Hemingway captures the essential shift in mindset required for deep characterization. In practice, this means embracing contradiction as the primary engine of psychological depth. A "character" can be summarized easily. A "person," however, is a vessel of conflicting beliefs, surprising histories, and behaviors that are not always consistent on the surface.

This is what sustains a reader's interest, especially in a longer work.

"When you are facing the long haul of a novel or the longer haul of a series, it is psychological depth that carries the day."

A living person can be both brave and terrified, generous and selfish, cynical and hopeful—often in the same scene. This psychological complexity makes them feel unpredictable yet authentic, keeping the reader invested in figuring them out, just as we do with the real people in our lives. It is the move from a flat caricature to a rounded, contradictory person that truly makes a character live.

Creating characters who live and breathe is an act of building from the inside out. It starts not with the color of their eyes, but with the fundamental war between what they want and what they need. It is animated by their agency—their capacity to try, even when they fail. It is made real by their authentic, unvarnished flaws. And it is sustained by a deep, contradictory psychology that makes them feel less like a character and more like a person.

As you move forward with your own writing, take a moment to look past the surface. Look at the protagonist you're writing right now—what do they truly need, and what are they willing to do to avoid facing it?