Breaking the Rules Won’t Make Your Story Original — Here’s What Will

Transforming the familiar—not breaking rules—is the secret to writing original, powerful, and unforgettable stories.

Breaking the Rules Does Not Equal Originality

Don’t let your brain fool you into thinking that breaking the rules makes your story more original. It’ll trap you in one of the most dangerous writing myths.

If you’re a sci-fi or fantasy author, it’s easy to see why this happens. These inventive genres seem to demand pure creativity—and that’s part of what you love about them. You don’t want your story to feel tired or like it’s rehashing all the usual settings and equivalent time periods.

You want it to feel fresh, innovative, and uniquely yours. And that’s a good instinct.

Here’s the problem: writers start to convince themselves they can’t be original if they don’t break the rules. But in the end, that doesn’t deliver the extraordinary world and ingenious plot they were aiming for.

Originality doesn’t come from rejecting the mold. It comes from how you transform it: through execution, depth, and resonance.

By the end of this article, you’ll see:

• Why breaking the rules won’t make your story original
• What actually creates freshness and uniqueness in your sci-fi or fantasy story

Originality vs. Rule Breaking

A lot of writers assume originality means throwing out the mold—breaking structure, ignoring tropes, and swerving away from anything that feels familiar. But here’s the truth: originality doesn’t come from breaking the mold. It comes from how you transform it.

Every story you love—even the ones that felt groundbreaking when you first read them—still used familiar structures, tropes, and archetypes. What made them unforgettable wasn’t that they broke all the rules; it was how they built on the familiar patterns with something meaningful.

Neuroscience backs this up. Studies show that when readers follow a story, their brains light up in prediction mode, recognizing patterns: they’re simulating intentions, tracking cause-and-effect, and building mental models of what might happen next.

That’s why universal structures and arcs feel so satisfying — they align with how our brains naturally process experience.

When you strip those patterns away in an effort to be original, you’re not really innovating—you’re cutting readers off from the very cognitive process that makes stories immersive.

The Cultural Myth of the Rule-Breaking Artist

So why do so many writers equate originality with rule-breaking rebellion? Part of it is cultural. We’re fed this image of the artist as a subversive rule-breaker — the tortured genius who creates by rejecting conventions and inventing something wholly “new.”

And there’s an identity investment for artists of any kind in that desire: you want autonomy. You do want to subvert toxic ideas and share a different possibility. You want your story to feel uniquely yours.

That instinct isn’t wrong. It can actually fuel powerful creativity with its intrinsic motivation. But while flouting all the so-called “rules” may give you freedom, it’s not going to land the same way for your readers.

The Key Shift: Writing for Readers

If you’re fighting your own rebellion through story—against some harmful message or because you need your truth to be heard—that means you aren’t just writing for yourself.

The moment you want readers to come with you, you’re not just creating art for art’s sake — you’re creating something marketable.

And marketable doesn’t mean “commercial fluff.” It means a story that actually reaches people. Paradoxically, you can take readers further into the unknown—further into your rebellion, your truth, your unique subversion—when you give them something familiar to hold onto.

Why Universals Work

All art works this way. In music, if every note is random, it sounds like noise. But when a melody plays with core patterns and then veers slightly into the unexpected, the surprise feels delightful.

Story works the same:

• Break every pattern and it’s chaos
• Follow only the familiar and it’s dull
• Respect the universal and reimagine it with purpose and you give readers both innovation and resonance

That’s what rules—or better said, conventions—are: shortcuts to those universal expectations. Following them and meaningfully transforming them through skillful execution keeps your story from chaos while still delivering the originality you hoped for.

Because originality isn’t rebellion. It isn’t ignoring what works.

Originality is about transforming the familiar—layering your perspective, your themes, your voice onto structures that already tap into how readers are wired.

That’s what gives you both freedom and impact. Readers don’t remember a story because it threw out the mold; they remember it because it resonated with their own fears, hopes, and truths.

Marketability vs. Art

And on that note, let’s tackle this idea next: that if your story is marketable, it can’t also be art. That belief keeps so many writers stuck. But the truth is, the most resonant stories often do both.

Wow, do I see this pushback all the time—often right in the comments here. Some writers tell me marketability makes books soulless, that it destroys the magic of writing or turns stories into formula. Others equate it with popcorn flicks or cash grabs, pointing to sequels and franchises as proof that hype always wins out over quality. And some feel that thinking about marketability at all makes them hate the very idea of writing.

I get it—if marketability only means following trends or writing to a marketing plan, it does feel like the enemy of art.

But that’s not what marketability actually means. Marketability simply means your story is able to reach a market—to reach readers. It’s where your vision and their experience can meet.

If you have no intention of that happening, that’s valid and still good for your brain, and you don’t have to write to reach anyone but yourself. But that’s not what the writers I work with ultimately want—because they do have something to say. They want to reach the readers who need their story as much as they did, or they’ll never be able to inspire them with their words.

When stories feel the most marketable, it’s often because they hit deep emotional notes readers are already wired to respond to.

What Brain Science Shows About Marketability

Here’s some brain science to help us explore this effect—even on the “empty, commercial fluff” side—so we can reconcile it with what I teach here.

Commercially successful but critically viewed “low-quality” novels often exploit psychological principles such as:

• Cognitive ease
• Emotional immediacy
• Social influence

They fulfill reader expectations in clear, reliable ways.

When readers consume fiction, they encode emotional experiences tied to the story into long-term memory. These memories can later be reactivated by related stimuli—including derivative or similar stories.

That means enjoyment is partly based on recalling the emotional impact of the original story—not just the properties of the new text itself.

In other words, when you read a book that’s a lot like novels you’ve loved before (even if only crucial pieces overlap with stories you enjoyed), you can still get another hit of that prior enjoyment, even if the new book is less innovative or rich.

That’s one reason nostalgia can drive the commercial success of a “low-quality” novel.

The Role of Familiarity and Accessibility

Another factor is that stories fitting familiar cognitive schemas or narrative scripts reduce processing load and enhance enjoyment because they’re broadly accessible.

• Stereotypical characters or situations act as a quick proxy for more complex narratives
• Readers can access the emotional escape faster without deep effort
• Familiarity creates cognitive fluency, making derivative works more likeable on a subconscious level

Add nostalgic elements, and you’ve got a powerful cocktail of accessibility and emotional immediacy.

Familiarity also taps into shared cultural memories and collective identities—or hits current market trends, amplifying that social influence piece. Social contagion adds to the effect as more people buy or talk about such an accessible book.

Derivative or shallow works that evoke the aesthetics, themes, or emotions of a culturally significant original create a shortcut to valued group identity or history. This can lead to sentimental attachment and a forgiving perception of shortcomings in originality or skill.

Familiarity, Nostalgia, and Emotional Resonance

I am absolutely thinking The Sword of Shannara, Eragon, and yes, I suppose Twilight too. I’m not saying everyone likes them. Far from it. Especially if you didn’t read them at the right moment in time or pushed against them due to their popularity or—like me—you actually ended up frustrated by how much they lacked in comparison with the source material you loved because the memory recall was a little too exact.

In my case, I had been reading Lord of the Rings, Wheel of Time, and a lot of Anne Rice vampires before I got to these. But… I remember Twilight definitely hitting that emotional immediacy for a level of entertaining enjoyment anyway, because at the time, it was doing more of its own thing to a degree, and not making me constantly compare it to its vampy or werewolf predecessors.

Anyway—

For better or worse, those built-in psychological shortcuts can “fill in” the gaps for readers by reactivating positive emotional memories associated with beloved originals, identity, or universal desires or fears, tapping into the brain’s familiarity and nostalgia pathways to create emotional resonance that isn’t necessarily there.

So sure, you might have a lightning-flash success even with a fluffier novel. But here’s the catch: banking only on familiarity and these shortcuts for commercial success is like betting on the lottery. You might strike it big if your book lands at the exact right cultural moment—but that’s not a strategy you can count on to build a career or a readership.

It’s not predictable—and it rarely endures. Lasting impact comes from layering those same familiar, resonant elements with deeper truths: strong character arcs, meaningful transformation, and thematic weight.

That’s why the best writing blends both sides. It gives readers:

• The immersive, page-turning experience they crave
• The depth that makes them think about the story long after they finish it

Marketable familiarity with surprise. Formula with innovation. Emotional accessibility with philosophical resonance.

Examples of Marketable and Meaningful Stories

Think about N.K. Jemisin’s Broken Earth trilogy. Absolutely marketable—high-concept, apocalyptic fantasy—but it also won the Hugo three years in a row because of its complexity and emotional depth.

Or Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows: undeniably commercial, but unforgettable because of the complex trauma, backstories, and moral ambiguity of its characters.

And then there’s The Hunger Games, which is not only a phenomenon all its own, but also a structural analysis favorite among educators of story craft due to how efficient and tight it is.

These books didn’t have to choose between selling well and being considered art. They did both.

The False Divide Between Literary and Genre Fiction

And here’s where I get on my soapbox for a second. There’s this ongoing divide between “literary” and “genre” fiction—as if literary is for art and genre is just for fun. Honestly, I never bought it. Why shouldn’t we have both?

I want the escapist, immersive worlds and emotions of science fiction and fantasy and the layered character arcs and thematic depth usually associated with literary. That’s the kind of marketability I care about—not empty trend-chasing, but stories that entertain readers and have a real impact.

That’s exactly what I teach my authors inside Enchant Your Readers. Because I want the books I read—and the ones I help authors write—to give us it all: transportive worlds, page-turning immersion, and deeper truths that matter.

So the next time you find yourself thinking that marketability means selling out, remember this: marketability isn’t the enemy of art. It’s how your art actually gets read.

How to Balance Marketability and Depth

If you’re wondering how to balance the commercial page-turning power and the deeper character transformation and theme in your own book, that’s exactly what my Spellbook Outline was designed for.

It’s more than just a beat sheet. It’s a story framework that helps you map your novel’s major turning points so every moment builds toward both marketable structure and meaningful impact. That way, your book isn’t just readable in the moment—it can also have that enduring quality.

And speaking of structure… It sounds backwards, but the limits in your story—the rules, the market expectations, the constraints—are often what spark your most original ideas.

Flipping the Script on Rules

Try thinking about rules in the opposite way of constraints. What would happen if you embraced the rule—went all in on it—instead of trying to avoid it? What if you made it a strength instead of a weakness? Instead of grudgingly following it with half-hearted intent, you use it with masterful purpose? What if it was a feature and not a bug?

That’s when a convention stops diluting your story with mediocrity. How much stronger might your story be when you transform that rule with intention?

You already see this at work in novels with high commercial success or genres that thrive on playing with rules while still following them.

Romantasy, for example, prospers from specific conventions:

• The enemies-to-lovers arc
• The dual POV
• The third-act breakup
• A happily ever after

Readers seek out those rules—they want the familiarity. And even when the prose or worldbuilding isn’t the strongest, readers still devour the books because those conventions deliver the emotional beats they came for.

Other genres may not be as codified, but the principle is the same: certain patterns and expectations, when followed, create reader satisfaction.

Why Rules Work

The point isn’t to lower your standards—it’s to recognize that rules work because they align with how readers are wired. And that’s something you can use in your favor to write higher-quality stories that still sell.

Constraints don’t limit originality—they actually define it.

Science repeatedly shows that random deviation from existing norms alone does not produce genuine originality or resonance. Works completely divorced from structure or context tend to be ignored or dismissed.

Instead, real creativity and originality arise when novelty is purposefully combined with meaning, utility, and context.

How Originality Actually Works

Originality doesn’t come from creating in a vacuum or rejecting everything familiar. Originality comes from unique recombination: taking known elements and transforming them into something meaningful, layered, and fresh. Every celebrated work of art—whether literature, music, or film—is built on this process of transformation.

Your brain’s imagination network (the default mode network) generates new associations, while your executive control network keeps them in check when it evaluates and reshapes them. The salience network acts as the “switchboard,” moving you between the two when an element seems promising.

When you’ve got constraints, those boundaries give your brain something to work with and force it to find less obvious combinations of elements. Those unlikely combinations are where the inventive leaps happen.

That’s why familiar conventions can still feel fresh when executed with depth and resonance. Readers don’t get hooked because every note is new—they get hooked because you play the expected notes with your own variations, and then land the unexpected in a way that delights them. That’s what creates both immersion and surprise.

Constraints as Scaffolding

So instead of asking, “How do I get around this rule?” the better question is: “What happens if I really lean into it? What original angle opens up when I embrace it fully?”

That’s when you free up your creativity and where innovation actually comes from. Instead of spinning in every direction, you can dig deeper into theme, voice, or character nuance.

That’s exactly why I created the DAC Method for scene-writing. Every strong scene has a Decision, an Action, and a Consequence that’s both internal and external. Each of those two sides needs to further the other.

That constraint might feel limiting at first—but when you write within it, your scenes naturally gain momentum, tension, and clarity. And it’s often within those constraints that authors discover their most original, surprising moments.

So instead of balking at constraints, try seeing them as the scaffolding that lets you build higher. When you embrace the rule and transform it, you gain both creative freedom and reader connection.

But there’s another side to originality—and how readers actually connect.

Familiarity vs. Originality

OK, last one. There’s this myth that originality means inventing something completely new. I hear authors worry that if their story is inspired by another, or if they use familiar tropes, recognizable structures, or echoes of other stories, they’ll just be writing clichés. But the truth is, familiarity is part of what makes a story powerful.

Neuroscience shows us why. When readers encounter familiar patterns, their brains process the story with greater ease—the cognitive fluency mentioned earlier. That fluency activates emotional templates already stored in memory, which is why certain themes or story beats can feel instantly resonant.

In fact, this resonance can even compensate for gaps in depth or innovation. It’s the reason some derivative novels sell extremely well despite critical pushback—they tap into strong emotions, universal desires, or fears in ways that are immediately accessible.

Why Familiarity Alone Isn’t Enough

But as we discussed, familiarity on its own can only get you so far. Stories that rely solely on emotional immediacy often fade quickly because readers don’t take anything lasting away from them.

True originality—the kind that resonates and endures—comes when you layer surprise, theme, and depth onto the familiar.

Readers don’t connect because every element is brand new; they connect because the familiar is transformed into something fresh and meaningful.

That’s why retellings, remixing tropes, or reshaping archetypes can be so effective. Think of Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles or Marissa Meyer’s Cinder. Both use recognizable frameworks—Greek myth, Cinderella fairy tale—but elevate them with:

• Unique execution
• Layered character arcs
• Thematic weight

It’s the balance of cognitive ease and emotional novelty that hooks readers and keeps them coming back.

How to Use the Familiar in Your Story

So instead of fearing the familiar, use it. People are drawn to stories that evoke strong emotions, tap into universal desires or fears, and offer satisfying resolutions. But you can still add nuance, complexity, or ambiguity for readers to chew over long afterward by experimenting within the constraints of what’s more familiar.

Ground your story in patterns that resonate with how readers’ brains are wired, and then transform those patterns with your own perspective, theme, and voice. That’s what moves a story from forgettable to unforgettable.

Originality doesn’t come from breaking rules. It doesn’t come from rejecting structure or avoiding market expectations. And it doesn’t come from inventing something so untethered that no one can recognize.

Originality comes from how you transform the familiar—how you take structure, marketability, and even constraints, and layer them with skillful execution, your own depth, and your own resonance.

That’s what creates stories that sell and stories that matter.

When Breaking Rules Actually Works

While using the familiar and innovating on it, sometimes breaking a rule does make your story stronger—but only when it’s intentional, when you understand what that rule protects for readers, and when you’ve found a better way to deliver the same effect.

So I’ll walk you through times I’ve actually told my clients to break the rules. You’ll see why it worked, how it paid off for their stories, and when you might need to do the same in the next article.

Selected Bibliography

• https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC6428025/
• https://www.apa.org/monitor/2022/04/cover-science-creativity
• https://lpsonline.sas.upenn.edu/features/science-creativity-how-train-your-brain-innovative-thinking
• https://www.frontiersin.org/journals/psychology/articles/10.3389/fpsyg.2017.01729/full
• https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC8217818/
• https://www.bps.org.uk/research-digest/more-evidence-literary-not-pop-fiction-boosts-readers-emotional-skills
• https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0969698924001334
• https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC11881525/
• https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC4733342/
• https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0142694X20300764
• https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC12112869/

This field is quite theoretical. I'm extrapolating for authors what I can based on the findings we do have (and I'm certainly not a neuroscientist!). To explore a fuller background, you can see this article about a breadth of brain science sources (and their abstracts/descriptions) in my site's private resource library. Note: You'll need to register a free student account to access it: https://www.inkybookwyrm.com/blog/sources-on-the-science-of-story-craft-and-creativity

Categories: : creativity, novel drafting, novel planning, self-editing