Setup and Payoff in Dramatic Tension

I've already illustrated the reasons why I don't like using tropes as a metric of literary quality. Tropes don't tell us why a particular work succeeds or fails, because a trope is merely a pattern, not an indicator of quality. For example, one might notice that most blankets are approximately rectangular; this doesn't mean that rectangular blankets are overdone, or that any particular rectangular blanket is warm enough for your climate, or if the style of fabric will match your décor.

In order to fully examine why certain tropes frequently fail, we need another analytic method. We need something more robust than merely naming the superficial pattern.

I propose, as one method, the setup-and-payoff method of dramatic tension.

Consider Chekhov's Gun, the oft-rephrased statement of Russian playwright Anton Chekhov that goes roughly thus: if you hang a rifle on the wall in Act One, the audience will expect it to be fired by Act Three. One might also find the corollary statement that unnecessary elements are distracting and should be removed from a story.

It is a general statement of setup and payoff: that any given element bears with it an expectation of importance, of cathartic release. In every statement of exposition, we hang a rifle on the wall; in every chapter, we discharge some of them and hang others, until by the climax, the important ones have been discharged in its own way. Lest you deem this formulaic or predictable, remember that each rifle may be fired at any number of targets. We know the rifle will be fired, but not the direction of the bullet.

At its most basic level, storytelling is an act of setup and payoff. If I began a story with the basic sentence I pick up the ball and throw it to Joe, there are a number of potential outcomes. I might throw the ball badly; Joe might fail to catch it. The ball might be intercepted by another. If you consider the statement as a mathematical function, we might describe the set of potential solutions as a domain, or a possibility space.

I could enhance the story by adding context. We are playing baseball. Joe is the second baseman, and I am the catcher. It's the bottom of the eighth inning, and the game is tied. The runner on first takes off, his cleats throwing up clouds of infield dirt. At the same moment, the batter bunts the ball right in front of home plate. I pick up the ball and throw it to Joe . . . 

This expansion hangs a few more rifles on the wall. Now we have some expectation of the stakes that are riding on the outcome. However, the same possibility space still pertains: either I throw the ball badly, or I throw it well; and in the latter case, either Joe fields the throw in time, or he doesn't. Someone may intercept the ball, such as the pitcher or the shortstop. The reader (or the listener) keeps the possibility space open in his or her mind, awaiting the resolution — in other words, waiting for the payoff that aligns with the setup.

If each setup has multiple payoffs, then multiple setups begin to interact in combinatorial ways. The sum is greater than the whole of the parts. A novel becomes a very large possibility space, with hundreds of setups, each of which has multiple potential payoffs. The reader is asked to maintain this very large set of potential outcomes, and as the novel moves along, some possibilities close and further possibilities open up. As the novel approaches the end, the author forecloses on some possibilities and entertains others, diminishing the possibility space until only the novel's outcome remains.

If dramatic tension can be reduced to an examination of setups and payoffs, then we should next ask ourselves: what is a setup?

It's easy. A setup can be anything. It could be characterization or backstory; it can be something in the setting, or a piece of scenery in your world. It could be a prophecy given by the venerable wizard, or the declaration of impending victory by the gloating villain. Anything that makes the reader ask and then what happened? can be a setup. If you declare a character is a sexist, then the reader will expect a scene in which this trait pays off — the character's sexism causes something to happen, or prohibits another thing from happening. If you declare that only the Chosen One (ugh) can defeat the Dark Lord (double ugh, but okay), the reader will expect this will eventually happen.

Getting back to where we started: why do some tropes often fail, but sometimes work? It might be because the author didn't pay enough attention to setup and payoff. In my next entry, I discuss this further.