Story Structure: Part 9 – A Guide to Ross Hartmann’s Approach

Have you ever stared at a blank page and wondered why some stories grab you by the throat while others make you check your mobile after three pages, you’re not alone. I’ve been there, many times! Ross Hartmann’s book The Structure of Story (2020) changed how I think about what makes fiction work, not by handing me another rigid beat sheet to follow, but by giving me something far more useful: a toolbox!

What this book actually is (and where it came from)

Hartmann didn’t wake up one morning and decide to write The Structure of Story. His path was winding – songwriting first, then virtual reality work that pulled him into filmmaking and screenwriting, and eventually fiction. That background matters. He’s what he calls an “analytical creative,” which sounds like an oxymoron until you read the book and realise he’s mapped out storytelling the way an engineer might map a bridge, but with a writer’s heart.

The book grew out of Kiingo, the storytelling school Hartmann founded to teach writers practical techniques rather than abstract theory. His frustration was simple: the internet is overflowing with fragmented writing advice, half of it contradictory, all of it using different terms for the same thing. Is it an “inciting incident” or a “catalyst”? A “plot point one” or a “lock-in moment”? Depends who you ask. Hartmann wanted to cut through that noise and give writers a shared language and a coherent framework built on first principles rather than symptoms.

Published in 2020 and running for 434 pages, The Structure of Story has become a bestseller in the writing craft space, and for good reason. It doesn’t tell you there’s one right way to structure a story. Instead, it asks: what does a story actually need to accomplish? And from there, what tools help you accomplish it?

The Core Idea: Two jobs, two buckets

Here’s the heart of Hartmann’s approach, and it’s deceptively simple. Every story has two primary tasks:

1.  Be interesting (keep the audience engaged)
2.  Be meaningful (leave the audience changed)

These map to two “buckets” of tools: dramatic tools (for engagement) and thematic tools (for meaning). Drama is the journey; themeTheme is the unifying idea of a story, tying everything together. It gives larger meaning to the events and people in the novel. An idea or point at the heart of a story. A theme can be exemplified by the actions, utterances, or thoughts of a character in a novel. is the destination. You can’t change someone without first engaging them, which is why the book spends considerable time on the mechanics of keeping readers hooked before diving into how to make them care.

Hartmann’s motto throughout is “tools, not rules.” There are no storytelling laws that must be followed – only effects you might want to create, and specific tools that create those effects. You can write a story with a passive protagonist (think The Graduate), but you’ll need to generate forward momentum using a different tool, like dramatic irony, rather than dramatic tension. It’s all trade-offs.

The four dramatic tools

The book identifies four primary dramatic tools that generate what Hartmann calls “narrative drive” – the reader’s desire to know what happens next.

•  Dramatic tension: is the big one. It arises when a character has a goal (a desire) and that goal meets opposition, creating conflictConflict is the struggle a character goes through in pursuit of a goal. It's what makes it harder for her to accomplish a task or make a decision in the novel. It's at the core of every scene and what has to be overcome for the character to achieve her goal. It can be both external (a plot conflict) or internal (a character arc conflict). Basically, conflict is what makes things emotionally harder for the protagonist to make choices that affect the plot of the novel. The opposition driving the entire plot of a story and presenting obstacles to the protagonist on a macro and micro level.. The dramatic question becomes: “Will the protagonist get what they want?” This is the engine behind most stories – Marlin trying to rescue Nemo, Woody trying to get back to Andy. But the goal must be concretely measurable for tension to work. “To be successful” won’t cut it; “to win the competition” will.
•  Dramatic irony: happens when the audience knows something one or more characters don’t. This creates a different kind of pull – we stick around to see when or how the secret will be revealed. Crime shows and antihero stories lean heavily on this: will the protagonist be found out?
•  Mystery: withholds information from both audience and characters, creating a question we want answered.
•  Convergence: brings separate story threads together, creating anticipation about how they’ll intersect.

Each tool generates a different emotional effect, and Hartmann’s point is that you choose based on what you’re trying to make the reader feel, not because some rule says Act Two needs a “midpoint reversal.”

The house-building analogy

One of the book’s most helpful frameworks is its house-building metaphor. Just as you wouldn’t hang wallpaper before laying foundations, you shouldn’t write scenes before ensuring your story has a sturdy structural base. The book is organised into seven parts that mirror this process:

•  Part I: The Blueprints – Starting with an idea (whether from character, plot, themeTheme is the unifying idea of a story, tying everything together. It gives larger meaning to the events and people in the novel. An idea or point at the heart of a story. A theme can be exemplified by the actions, utterances, or thoughts of a character in a novel., or story world) and vetting it.
•  Parts II–VI – Building the foundation with character engines, plotting from the four dramatic tools, developing themeTheme is the unifying idea of a story, tying everything together. It gives larger meaning to the events and people in the novel. An idea or point at the heart of a story. A theme can be exemplified by the actions, utterances, or thoughts of a character in a novel. through character arcs.
•  Part VII: Seeing and Writing – Scene-level craft, including how to dramatise information rather than summarise it.

For discovery writers (pantsers), Hartmann emphasises creating “story engines” that make plot inevitable without requiring a beat-by-beat outlineAn outline is a map of all the events that make up your story. An outline is usually done before the first draft so the writer can map out all the structure points and identify any weak spots. If you give your character a concrete goal, antagonistic forces, urgency, stakes, and a plan, the story will unfold naturally through what he calls the “disruption cycle”: character pursues plan, something unexpected happens (problem, opportunity, or revelation), character reacts and forms a new plan. Repeat until the end.

What beats actually are

Let’s clear something up, because Hartmann does this well. A “beat” just means something significant happens. That’s it! The confusion comes because people use “beat” at different levels – a dialogue beat (a shift in tactic), a scene beat (a turning point within a scene), or a story beat (inciting incident, midpoint, crisis, etc.). Hartmann prefers to think in terms of “disruptions” when plotting: problems, opportunities, or revelations that force the character to change direction.

Examples Hartmann uses

The book is stuffed with examples, mostly from film and popular fiction because they’re shared cultural touchstones. Finding Nemo, Toy Story, and Monsters, Inc. illustrate desire-opposition-stakes. The Silence of the Lambs demonstrates how to convey information through character reactions and comparisons (Clarice’s first meeting with Lecter, where everyone else’s fear tells us how dangerous he is before he even speaks). The Graduate shows a passive protagonist driven by dramatic irony. Breaking Bad, The Godfather, and Darth Vader’s arc exemplify the corruption arc pattern.

Hartmann also uses a brilliant elevator scene example: a husband and wife who clearly hate each other are in an elevator; a beautiful woman enters; the husband perks up, smiles, and takes off his hat. No dialogue needed – we instantly understand the relationship, the man’s character, and the wife’s scowl says everything. That’s dramatisation through comparison and objects (the hat becomes a symbol).

Guidelines for using this structure

If you’re going to apply Hartmann’s approach, here’s how to start:

1.  Decide what effect you want: on the reader at any given moment (suspense, surprise, dread, hope, etc.), then choose the tool that creates it.
2.  Build your foundation first: character engine (obsession, void, or ghost), clear desire, structural opposition, stakes that matter to the character.
3.  Make goals concretely measurable: so tension is trackable.
4.  Use disruptions, not just beats: ask what problem, opportunity, or revelation forces the character to revise their plan.
5.  Dramatise, don’t summarise: use comparison, objects, reactions, and moral dialogue to convey information in scenes.
6.  Allow for both scenes and sequels: proper scenes have turning points; sequels let characters (and readers) digest what happened.
7.  Remember stakes are relative: “end of the character’s world” matters more than “end of the world.”
8.  Start from wherever your idea comes from: character, plot, themeTheme is the unifying idea of a story, tying everything together. It gives larger meaning to the events and people in the novel. An idea or point at the heart of a story. A theme can be exemplified by the actions, utterances, or thoughts of a character in a novel., or story world. Not all stories start the same way, and that’s okay.
9.  Use character engines to generate momentum: give your character an obsession, void, or ghost, then threaten or offer what they value. The plot will generate itself.
10.  Understand the difference between protagonist and hero: the protagonist is whoever desires; they don’t have to be morally good, and the antagonist doesn’t have to be evil. Mixing up dramatic and thematic roles leads to muddy character motivation.

Common mistakes to avoid

Based on Hartmann’s framework (and the patterns he warns against):

1.  Confusing protagonist with hero: The protagonist is whoever desires; they don’t have to be morally good, and the antagonist doesn’t have to be evil. Mixing up dramatic and thematic roles leads to muddy character motivation.
2.  Vague or immeasurable goals: “To be happy” or “to find yourself” won’t generate tension because there’s no clear moment of success or failure. Make it concrete.
3.  Stakes that don’t matter to the character: Putting the world at risk means nothing if the character doesn’t care. Stakes must be things of deep value to them, whether that’s a relationship, identity, moral code, or yes, survival.
4.  All disruption, no digestion: Constant action without sequel moments makes turning points feel weightless because characters (and readers) never process what just happened. Hartmann specifically calls out the later Star Wars sequels for this.
5.  Following patterns without understanding their effect: Using a “hero’s journey” beat because you’re supposed to, not because it serves the emotional experience you’re trying to create, leads to mechanical, lifeless stories.

Patterns are descriptive, not prescriptive.

Key takeaways

1.  Tools, not rules: There are no mandatory story laws, only effects you’re trying to create and tools that create them. This frees you to tell unconventional stories (passive protagonists, non-linear structures) as long as you understand the trade-offs.
2.  Two jobs: engage and change: Every story must be interesting and meaningful; drama handles the first, themeTheme is the unifying idea of a story, tying everything together. It gives larger meaning to the events and people in the novel. An idea or point at the heart of a story. A theme can be exemplified by the actions, utterances, or thoughts of a character in a novel. handles the second. You can’t change someone who isn’t paying attention.
3.  Desire + opposition = conflictConflict is the struggle a character goes through in pursuit of a goal. It's what makes it harder for her to accomplish a task or make a decision in the novel. It's at the core of every scene and what has to be overcome for the character to achieve her goal. It can be both external (a plot conflict) or internal (a character arc conflict). Basically, conflict is what makes things emotionally harder for the protagonist to make choices that affect the plot of the novel. The opposition driving the entire plot of a story and presenting obstacles to the protagonist on a macro and micro level.: Drama requires both a forward force (what the character wants) and an opposing force; conflictConflict is the struggle a character goes through in pursuit of a goal. It's what makes it harder for her to accomplish a task or make a decision in the novel. It's at the core of every scene and what has to be overcome for the character to achieve her goal. It can be both external (a plot conflict) or internal (a character arc conflict). Basically, conflict is what makes things emotionally harder for the protagonist to make choices that affect the plot of the novel. The opposition driving the entire plot of a story and presenting obstacles to the protagonist on a macro and micro level. can’t exist without both. If your story feels flat, check whether desire or opposition is weak.
4.  Story engines make plot inevitable: Give your character an obsession, void, or ghost, then threaten or offer what they value. The plot will generate itself through the disruption cycle.
5.  Show through dramatisation, not summary: Use comparison, objects, reactions, and moral dialogue to convey information in scenes. The elevator-hat example proves you can say volumes without a word of exposition.

Why this matters for writers like us

If you’re anything like me – someone who’s read a dozen structure books, tried a dozen beat sheets, and still felt like something was missing – Hartmann’s approach is liberating. He’s not asking you to shoehorn your story into someone else’s template. He’s asking: what do you want the reader to feel here, and what tool creates that feeling?

That shift from “am I doing this right?” to “what effect am I creating?” changes everything. It means you can write a quiet literary novel with a passive protagonist and still keep readers engaged – just use dramatic irony instead of dramatic tension. It means your middle doesn’t sag because you’ve built a story engine that generates its own momentum. It means your ending feels both surprising and inevitable because you’ve honoured the thematic tools that make change meaningful.

A final thought

Hartmann’s background in songwriting shows through in the best way. He understands that stories, like songs, work on an emotional level first, intellectual second. Structure isn’t a cage; it’s the scaffolding that lets emotion land with precision. When you know why a scene works – not just that it does – you can replicate that effect intentionally, again and again.

The Structure of Story won’t write your novel for you. But it will give you the language and the tools to understand why some stories soar and others stall, and more importantly, how to make yours soar. That’s worth far more than another beat sheet.

If you’re working through your own novel (and let’s be honest, if you’re reading this, you probably are), Hartmann’s https://medium.com/@kiingo offers writing tips (although it doesn’t seem to have been updated since 2019). The book itself is available in print and ebook, and at 434 pages, it’s comprehensive without being overwhelming. Whether you’re a plotter, a pantser, or somewhere in between, the “tools, not rules” mindset might be exactly what you need to finally finish that draft.