There’s a legend about the 14th century king of Scotland, Robert Bruce, that is told to every child in Scotland to this day. In his first year as king, Bruce’s army suffered a terrible defeat against the British at the Battle of Methven. The remnants of his fleeing army were scattered, and King Bruce, barely escaping with his life, hid alone in a cave. His soul sank under the weight of failure, snuffing his dream of freeing his countrymen from their English overlords. 

And then, as some versions go, at the mouth of the cave the Bruce spotted a little spider attempting to build a web. The spider swung on a thread from its perch, only to miss its mark and drop to the floor. Up it climbed and swung again, only to miss and drop. Up it climbed, down it dropped, over and over again. But the spider never gave up. At last, it secured a line and strung its web, turning defeat into triumph. And in the hollow of that cave, that little spider’s resolute determination inspired Robert Bruce, moving him to say, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.” He sent word to his followers that he would rise once again against the English. They regrouped and routed the superior forces of the English at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314.

The battle was real— I’ve been to the visitor center at Bannockburn and studied artifacts from that engagement. As for the various spider legends, it makes for a good story about their national hero, teaching Scottish children to keep trying and never give up. In fact, the principle of the legend is so strong, it spread beyond Scotland to the rest of the world. Who of us has not been told at some point in our lives, “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

The struggle against adversity even in the face of defeat is hardwired into our humanity. If we didn’t have this strength burning within us, we would not be alive today. Our ancestors would have dropped to their knees before the saber-toothed tigers and said, “Eat me. You are obviously stronger than I am. I know I don’t stand a chance.” 

Instead of running in fear, some crafted weapons and stood their ground. They gathered in clans to defend themselves. And when those weapons turned man upon man, they designed ring forts and stockades and castles and fortresses. Defeat only made survivors more determined to rise again, to build it better, to secure a brighter future for themselves, their families, their people, their nations. 

We value those that try again after they’ve fallen because to overcome defeat with success can mean our very survival. Our ancestors lived or died by this principle. And when they succeeded, they passed lessons learned on to their children. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Speak softly but carry a big stick. You get knocked down, you get back up. Horse throws you off, get back in the saddle. Good things come to those that wait, but only the things left behind by those that hustle. You see? We respect the struggle, the Try, because the try means survival.

Does this mean every story must be a tale of do-or-die, a battle to the death where only the virtuous triumph? No, because life doesn’t always work that way, and fiction is a reflection of the real world and our human experience. Maybe a funhouse mirror reflection, but a reflection nevertheless. Also, there are multitudes of things desired that might appear quite frivolous to others, yet are important to an individual. But it’s good to remember what drives us deep in our core, and why determined struggle against all odds underpins mankind’s cultures and therefore should underpin our stories. 

Most of us don’t believe things of precious value should be handed to just anyone, and especially on their first try. We know the more precious a thing is, the harder a person will have to work for it. Because that’s how the world works. Unless we were born with a silver spoon in our mouths or won the lottery, if we want something precious, we’re going to have to work for it and earn it. And when people know we’ve worked hard to earn something precious, even rising up through disadvantage or adversity to do so, we gain their respect. They know it didn’t come easy. We’ve all heard someone say, “Well-deserved. She worked hard for that.” Things of value require struggle. 

This quote from a speech by Theodore Roosevelt to the Iowa State Teacher’s Association in 1910 sums it up: “Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty .… I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life. I have envied a great many people who led difficult lives and led them well.”

If that’s how it works in real life, shouldn’t it work like that in fiction— if we’re to write believable characters reflecting life’s struggles? Indeed. If our hero can walk through every obstacle in her path like it’s a rice-paper wall in a Japanese minka, how does she earn the right to obtain her precious heart’s desire? She did nothing to prove she deserved it. And if there’s no struggle, if our hero comes prepackaged with every ability to defeat her adversary in the blink of an eye, it grinds against reader sensibilities. Because readers know the struggle, and while it may be fiction, for readers to buy into your story, it must feel real. 

In fact, this is a well-known trope. The moniker for it comes from Star Trek fan fiction. It’s called a Mary Sue story*. Mary Sue represents a character that is charming, powerful, intelligent, and comes up with an instant solution to any trial she faces. Such stories can be funny, but unless we’re intentionally writing comedy, do we really want people laughing at the naivete of our story? How will the protagonist learn anything from their journey if they already know it all? How can we have a story if our protagonist is superior in every way to the force opposing them? Without the struggle, there is no story. 

What methods exist to create Escalating Tension in our stories?

When the protagonist leaves their Normal World and enters the Quest World, it’s to make an attempt to solve their problem, to push back at the opposing force so they can bring normalcy back to their world and get what they desire that’s being kept from them. They usually leave with a plan, but it’s a rushed plan because they haven’t learned anything yet, they start out with the same weaknesses that allowed their opponent to beat them or hold them back in the first place. But heroes give it their best shot. They may have shrunk back at first, but they’re going to try and do something about this problem now. 

Why must they try?

Because we long to read about heroes, not wimps that give up without a fight. We admire people that are willing to take on the struggle and fight the good fight. Never give up! Never surrender! I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating. The perfect answer was given by the character Thor in the movie Thor Ragnarok. “But me, I choose to run toward my problems, and not away from them. Because that’s what heroes do.” 

So give your readers a hero, but with flaws and weaknesses just like us. Make them proactive, not reactive, so that they choose to run toward the problem. If they’re forced to run toward it or are just swept along by circumstance, there’s not much to respect. But to choose to put themselves at risk to save the day, to get back the one they love, to fight for their people’s freedom and way of life against all odds? That’s something we respect. That’s a hero we can follow on their adventure … as long as it’s from the comfort of our armchair.

And now the bad news. This attempt to confront the first obstacle must fail if you’re using a Try/Fail cycle— an attempt by the protagonist to push back against the opposing force that fails. Let’s face it. If your hero beat their opponent on their first try, there wouldn’t be much of a story. Nor would the challenge have been great enough to make your reader feel the hero was worthy of any reward— they didn’t try very hard, why do they deserve the princess? Again, for your story to be believable and for the hero to obtain their heart’s desire, the reader must see them struggle to get it. They need to face obstacles, and they need to try to overcome them.

There’s another reason for the Fail. Tension drives plot. When someone the reader cares about fails, they feel sorry for them. They themselves know the sting of failure, and it hurts to see someone you care about stumble and fall. Even a fictional character. If the writer did a good job of making you care about the hero, you want the hero to succeed, you hope they get their heart’s desire. To increase the tension, the Fail should put them even farther from their goal. It should make the reader question whether this hope of the hero’s will be possible to achieve. Uncertainty builds tension, and tension drives plot.

Here's another aspect of the Fail. It should make THINGS. GET. WORSE. I used to have those words in all caps taped below my monitor. My friends Dean Wesley Smith and Kris Rusch often spoke them when we lived in Eugene, Oregon, and they’re an excellent reminder to keep ratcheting up the struggle. Every attempt to confront the opposing force or try to fix the problem should make matters worse. 

For example. You decide you’ll fix the leaking faucet that’s driving you crazy with its drip, drip, drip by replacing the washer. You’re not a plumber, but how hard can it be? So you unscrew the faucet and water sprays everywhere. Duh! You go under the sink and turn the water valve off, but it’s old and rusty and breaks off in your hand. Now water is gushing from under your sink and across the kitchen floor. There’s a main water valve on this house, right? Do you remember where? Did anyone show you when you bought it? Oh, no! The water is flowing across your new oak floor in the living room. You just paid a fortune to have that put in!

And on it goes, just like in every Laurel and Hardy movie. Things. Get. Worse. With every try there is a fail. Each failure makes matters worse, increasing the stakes, setting the protagonist farther from their goal. The worse it gets, the harder it is to see light at the end of the tunnel, the more your reader will wonder if your hero is ever going to make it. 

When they finally do succeed against all the raised stakes that seemed impossible to beat, the reader is going to breathe a sigh of relief at the end and feel satisfied. Not because the hero got what they wanted, but because the hero had to work for it, even had to make sacrifices to get it. That’s what makes achieving the thing they desired satisfying. They earned it. 

How many times do you play these Try/Fail cycles? Once is too easy. There’s not enough challenge. But you can overdo it as well. If you tease a cat with a toy on a string and never let them catch the toy, the cat will get frustrated and give up. The same is true for your reader. So how many Try/Fails are necessary before the reader will view the attempts as worthy of the hero receiving the reward?

In short stories, the rule is three. There’s an innate psychological reason for this. It’s called the Rule of Three. The human mind likes thinking in patterns, and actively watches for them and seeks to create them in our everyday lives. The minimum number to form a pattern is three. This is because when we first see something occur, it’s singular and can be attributed to chance. The second time we see something occur is notable, but we recognize it could still be a coincidence. But the third time? Our minds will see this as a pattern.

When we apply this to a short story, one try is considered hardly a try at all when it’s a thing of value being sought. “What, you only tried once? Get back in there and try again!” Two tries, better, but it still seems half-hearted. “If you really wanted it, why didn’t you try harder?” But three tries? Ah, there’s the pattern of attempts that showed initiative. We even have a saying for that. “Third time’s a charm.” In baseball, we give the batter three attempts to hit the ball before they’re out. If they couldn’t do it in three tries, let the next batter have their turn. 

Is this an absolute rule? No, all rules can be broken or twisted, but it’s good to know how the mind assesses the pattern of events in a story. The underlying principle is there. We expect to see multiple attempts before a result is achieved or something precious is gained. Deep down inside, we weigh whether or not the recipient of a special thing is worthy. Especially if we’re deciding whether to consider your character a role model or hero. 

So give your protagonist enough Try/Fail cycles so that if and when they finally succeed, your reader can analyze enough trials to make a good estimation of worthiness. If you hope they’ll believe in your hero at the end and feel emotionally satisfied with their accomplishment, they’ll need a pattern of events to weigh how well they overcame adversity.

Of course, novels require many more conflicts and trials as the protagonist pursues their goal over larger story terrain. But the results are the same. The hero must be tested to prove worthy of obtaining their heart’s desire. Hopefully, they learn a few things about themselves and others as they face their trials in the crucible of fire. When they make it through the fire in the end, in a positive ending story we expect the fire of trials to have refined them. In a tragedy, we do not.  

But for short stories, let’s review the attempts to beat the opposing force. Once is too easy— your problem was not challenging enough; your protagonist did not prove worthy. Twice falls short of satisfying. You leave the reader wondering, Did they really give it their all? Four is overkill. Third time is the charm. They gave it the old college try. RESPECT.

Here’s a lesson I’ve never seen other instructors teach. Try/Succeed is another way to increase tension and drive the plot of your story. Stakes can go up and things can get worse without a failure after a Try. Consider Jake, an insurance salesman in a company whose heart’s desire is to become an executive. No more traveling on the road! Each time he hits top sales figures for the month, the manager commends Jake in their sales meeting. Try/Succeed. Jake has a straight flush of six months in a row as top producer. Try/Succeed. And then the boss announces an all-expense paid trip to the Bahamas including a suite at The Royal at Atlantis. Jake works like a circus monkey for his boss for the rest of the year and wins the prize! Try/Succeed. 

But what Jake is oblivious to is that all those smiling faces of his fellow sales associates at the sales meetings are not sincere. In fact, Bruce has been working for the company longer than Jake, and he resents this young upstart getting all the glory. Each time Jake gets his name on the sales board as top producer, Bruce moves from jealousy, to envy, to hatred. When Jake wins the trip to the Bahamas, Bruce’s hatred seethes within him. If Jake had not been around, Bruce would have earned that award— he was in second place! Instead, he got the hundred-dollar gift card to Applebee’s, and no number of boneless buffalo wings in that tangy sauce will sate his need for revenge.

You can see Try/Succeed work effectively in crime stories, especially bank robbery stories. Each time the bank robbers effectively pull off a heist, it’s seen as a success from their point of view. What they may not realize is that as they move up from smaller banks to bigger ones, they’re calling down more federal resources to catch them. Tension escalates because the reader knows this can’t go on indefinitely, and they’ll anticipate a major showdown at the end. If the robbers have sympathetic qualities, they may even worry for them, wondering if there’s any way out, or if it’s possible to redeem themselves. Try/Succeed can have plenty of tension with the right environment, plot, and proper characters. 

This is why I prefer the term Escalating Tension. Whether your protagonist tries and fails or tries and succeeds, the result must be the same. Tension must escalate. The stakes in the story must ratchet up. Without escalating tension —the ever-increasing risk to the hero obtaining their heart's desire— the story will be as flat as an open soda left overnight on the counter.

Embrace the struggle. Make it hard on your characters. Put them into the crucible of trial and expose their flaws. Refine their noble qualities and bring forth the gold! Reveal who they are and guide who they will become by the tough choices they have to make. Let them fall flat on their face a few times. This is how we learn, this is how they should learn. When a reader cares about your hero and sees them facing a tough test, they’re going to be engaged, wondering how they’ll get through it, hoping they will triumph. When they fall, the reader will cry out, Get up! Get up! Every. Single. Time. 

That struggle against the opposing force is how we create tension, and tension is what makes readers stay up all night turning pages. Put your protagonist at increasing risk, whether they succeed in a trial or fail.

As they say, The struggle is real. Escalating Tension is a fundamental story principle. For heart-pounding fiction, make sure you progressively ratchet it up in your stories. The plot shouldn’t be loosey-goosey. It should twang when plucked like a taut bowstring. And if yours doesn’t?

Editor’s Note: The term “Mary Sue Story” was coined by Paula Smith in 1973 in a Star Trek fan fiction parody titled "A Trekkie's Tale," published in the fanzine "Menagerie." The story humorously poked fun at the prevalence of idealized original characters in Star Trek fan fiction at the time.

"A Trekkie's Tale" featured a character named Lieutenant Mary Sue, who was a young and talented Starfleet officer. She was described as exceedingly beautiful, possessing multiple advanced degrees, and capable of captivating everyone she encountered. The story presented Mary Sue as an omnipotent character who effortlessly resolved all conflicts and won the hearts of the original Star Trek characters.