The Problem with Character Development
Great stories are driven by great characters.
For a long time, I didn’t believe that. I used to think character development was overrated. In my view, the story itself—the plot, the structure, the events—was what really mattered. You can build rich worlds and craft complex characters, but at some point, something has to actually happen.
Take Battlestar Galactica (2004), for example—one of my favorite shows. And yet, I don’t like a single character in it. Some start out promising, but by the end, I genuinely can’t stand any of them. Still, that never stopped me from loving the show. I was so hooked by the story, the setting, and the action that I watched it all the way through multiple times—despite knowing I’d end up hating every character.
Eventually, I realized that this reaction—the frustration, the dislike—meant the characters were actually working. My strong feelings toward them made the story more powerful, not less.
A character with no character is a bad character. A character you hate is a great character.
Take Zack Snyder’s Justice League—a film that is, without question, a vast improvement over the 2017 version by an extraordinary margin. There are plenty of reasons for this, but the most significant one is the characters.
We’re given a much deeper look into Cyborg’s backstory, his abilities, and the relationships that shape him. Barry Allen is no longer comic relief or background noise; we see him wrestle with the burden of his powers and the toll they take on his desire for a normal life. And unlike the original, where he contributes little by the end, here he literally saves everyone. Even Steppenwolf gets an upgrade. In the original, his motivation boiled down to nothing more than self-entitlement, he even says the line, “This world is my right” during the film’s climax.
Motivation affects perception.
In Snyder’s cut, however, he’s driven by desperation and the need to redeem himself in the eyes of a higher power, making him far more compelling. That added motivation gives weight to his actions and turns him into a more credible threat. Sure, this glosses over a lot of the nuance in the Snyder Cut—but you get the point. It’s hard to care about what a character is doing if we don’t understand why they’re doing it.
Now, I know this detour into film and television has nothing to do with what I’m going to talk about, but I felt it was necessary to establish just how important character development is. When done right, it can make a world of a difference… but you probably already knew that.
Likable vs. Relatable
As mentioned in my review of The Betrothed, it’s more important to make characters likable than relatable. Likable characters feel like real people—they have distinct personalities, quirks, and depth that make them stand out. Unfortunately, many authors fall into the trap of trying to make their characters relatable to as broad an audience as possible.
The problem with this approach is that it often results in characters who are vague shades of gray, emotionally muted, and lacking any real identity. They're crafted as blank slates so readers can project themselves onto them. But that’s not character development—that’s a shortcut. It may fool some readers into thinking, “This character is just like me,” but in truth, it’s just lazy writing.
Show & Tell
My biggest issue with character development in books is that it's often more tell than show. Too many authors rely on exposition or narration to explain who a character is, rather than letting the character reveal themselves through their actions or dialogue. We’re told what to believe, but we’re rarely shown anything to prove—or even challenge—those claims. As a result, character development becomes less about discovery and more about blind acceptance.
Don’t just tell me a character is an alcoholic—show me them wasting their time and money at the bar.
Don’t just say a character has a strained relationship with their child—show me their attempts to connect falling apart because their job keeps getting in the way.
Don’t tell me someone’s witty or sarcastic—show it in how they interact with others, how they use humor to deflect or disarm.
Don’t tell me they’re a war hero—show me their bravery through action, through sacrifice.
Don’t just tell me. Show me. Prove it to me.
I touched on this in my review of Ignite the Stars and its sequel, Eclipse the Skies, where the main character is repeatedly described as a badass—yet never actually does anything to earn that title.
No matter how much of a reputation your characters may have in their world, it needs to be remembered that the reader is just now meeting them for the first time. Their reputation means nothing to us—we need to see who they are.
That’s the difference between a narrator trying to sell a character, and letting the character speak for themself. When readers are allowed to form their own opinions—rather than being told what to think—it makes the character more memorable, more impactful. It also leaves room for multiple interpretations. One reader might see confidence, another might see arrogance. One might see recklessness, another might see boldness. Quiet to some may be stoic to others. But many books nowadays don’t give us that opportunity, we’re simply told who they are and how it is, and that’s it.
It’s ironic—we’re constantly told that actions speak louder than words, yet so many writers fail to apply that wisdom to their own characters.
All that said, I still stand by the idea that calling a story “character-driven” doesn’t actually mean anything. It’s a phrase people throw around to sound like they know what they’re talking about. The fact is, every story is character-driven. Without characters, there is no story—nothing happens.
If what you mean is that the characters are more compelling than the plot, then say that. Phrases like “read it for the characters, not the story” are far more useful and descriptive. But labeling something as “character-driven” is vague, overused, and ultimately meaningless. It doesn’t clarify anything—and in storytelling, clarity matters.
