Before My Second Cup: 5/13/26

Self-Inserts

Alright, where were we? Self-inserts in fiction, that’s right.

As I mentioned before, a certain degree of self-insertion in writing is, in my mind, unavoidable. The problem rests on those who insert themselves entirely whilst dutifully scrubbing themselves of faults—usually through heavy-handed storytelling tactics like lore- or trauma-dumping to explain the tragic backstory that justifies their conflict with others, having the world be uniquely against them without a scrap of nuance, and through being the only one capable of saving the day any time a problem arises.

The whole time I was typing, I was thinking of an infamous game in recent gaming history, Forspoken. Not only was it plagued by lazy, “trendy” writing, but it featured one of the most unlikable protagonists I’ve ever come across. Annoyingly “self-aware” (in an attempt to create a “quirky and relatable” protagonist; “I just moved shit with my mind!”), abrasive to all the other characters around her that “just don’t get it” (Don’t you know she’s traumatized?! That’s why she gets to be a dickwad to everyone!), has no character development throughout the progression of the story, and does not earn any ounce of power—before or after it has been granted to her.

This is all a little difficult to explain to those who have not been cursed with the experience of Forspoken. Anyone who’s morbidly curious should go to Charlie’s video on it because at least then you’ll be entertained.¹ It was also brought to mind recently as my husband and I replayed the base campaign of Diablo IV and were complaining about Neyrelle; we didn’t have a problem with the performance behind her character or the way she interacts with our characters, but we had a problem with the overwhelming sensation that the writers just expect you to love her. We don’t spend that much time with Neyrelle, and in that time she is more an archetype than a character with depth.

I know that if I were to voice these complaints to the writers that made her, I would likely be met first with arguments in favor of her depth: the loss of her mother, her will to face Lilith and avenge her mother, her youthful optimism blending with naivite, and so on. But these things are treated like bullet points in the execution of the story. Neyrelle makes most of the messes she helps clean up, and little evolution is seen from her because of this. We just finished Vessel of Hatred, the DLC following the main campaign, and while we praised the art of the new areas and the overall design choices, the writing took an even worse turn with new characters, such as Eru, introduced and left to fall flat.

At the end, Neyrelle visits her mother’s grave. Her struggle against Mephisto has damaged her memory. She claims anything before all that has just happened is distant and hazy. She tells us that all she can remember of her mother was that she loved her, and “that is enough.” This is following a mission that involved our characters facing down projections of allies from the main campaign, all of whom perished in their attempts to aid us. Neyrelle is the one to explain this to our new companion, Eru, as she recognizes several of the allies and even calls out to ghost-Vigo after he asks if he was too late.

Me at the grave scene: “What the hell? That doesn’t make any sense. She was recognizing all of our allies and responded to Vigo. But all she can remember of her mother is she loved her? The writing is all over the place. It feels like no one was on the same page. It just feels like they’re constantly saying, ‘Look, poor Neyrelle!’ and it’s not subtle.”

Gabe: “It’s just another cheap emotional beat. The self-insert never ends.”

It was an irritating experience for us both as we remarked many times that we liked Neyrelle in short cutscenes or in the grand cinematics that introduce each DLC. But the problem was exactly what my husband said: Neyrelle felt like someone we were expected to love right out the gate despite never being given a good reason to. This is one of the tell-tale signs of a full self-insert.

Anyone who’s spent any percentage of their pre-teen years (and on) browsing fanfiction sites can tell you what a self-insert is like. In fanfiction, they are as common as dandelions. In that context, it’s to be expected: budding writers go first to fanfiction sites to stretch their storytelling legs through a world they’re already well-versed in and don’t have to take the extra time to design from the studs up. The first protagonist we write is, most of the time, ourselves, because this is our imaginary getaway, our chance to play hero.²

So, though my examples may seem shallow to those unbaptized by the church of AO3, us clergy members, former and current, know the signs all too well. But that’s not to say that self-inserts are so wholly bad. It is only the undiluted self-insert that damages stories this way. In fact, having 0% of self-insertion into any story is, in my opinion, impossible.

Let’s take some recent and popular examples. Dungeon Crawler Carl is about a former Coast Guard living in Seattle. Matt Dinniman’s father was a retired Army colonel, and Dinniman lives in Gig Harbor, WA.³ Dinniman took pieces of his life that could relate to Carl and wove them through the story. This is self-insertion, but it’s the kind that works for the story: it makes it all more believable.

Pierce Brown wrote the Red Rising series, and while I don’t believe he has the stroke of insanity necessary to be Darrow O’Lykos, I do believe that he possesses that cold, strategic intellect and sense of purpose. There are times you read a character and you can tell how deeply the author connects with them—from the accolades to the faults. Pierce and Darrow have that dynamic. On top of that, Sevro, Darrow’s best friend, is based on Pierce’s own friend who is similarly insane. The love seeps through.

“Based” is the key word here because it takes pieces that are relevant to the function of the story and puts them to work. As I mentioned in Monday’s post, I often feel pieces of Margaret Locke that resonate deeply with me, but I would also go crazy existing the way that she does. I relate more to Theo with his paperback habits. Robin is a blended tribute of the female friendships in my life that have held me up in the worst of times. Declan, from The Inheritance, is based on my childhood best friend, one who is truly a brother to me. Declan is quieter than the real deal, but his tendencies, personal style, and quiet bond with Chloe are all taken from real-life inspiration.

Funnily enough, there are parts of Nate that are taken from my husband. They are not too similar in my eyes, but the key ingredient to both men is the charm. They can irritate you to the brink of insanity and keep you from teetering over the edge with a good-natured smile.

Speaking of Pierce Brown, I want to circle back to that genius. My favorite thing about him is that he truly understands the allure of myth and has reconstructed it in his stories. With self-inserts, there’s a lot of discussion about protagonists being made unlikable due to the unshakable feeling that we are being force-fed a character. I’ve seen many writing teams respond to criticism with claims that audiences don’t like the characters because they’re strong-willed and independent… when the reality is that they’ve written characters that are blatantly rude and self-centered. Pierce Brown writes maniacs, and in spite of this, you can’t help but love them to some degree. That’s not to say that you should genuinely root for Apollonius au Valii-Rath, the Minotaur, but it does mean you enjoy his time on the page and appreciate the role he plays in the story.

“Please don’t insult me by claiming you still labor under the notion that you alone in history are an innocent army. War summons the demons from angels. I’ve seen Gold scalps hanging from Obsidian battle armor. City blocks naught but powder and meat. Or would you have me forget the atrocities you wrought on Luna? On Earth and Mars? Hypocrisy is not becoming of either master or hound.” - Apollonius to Darrow, Iron Gold, Ch. 34

I mean, Apollonius just spits bars.

Pierce Brown tells you that this man is bad, that he is not aligned with our heroes, that he will betray them if it ever makes sense, and you get it. Apollonius knows his part and delivers his lines in a way that captivates all audiences, though they will not weep at his death.⁴

You don’t have to write the good guy or someone likable to write well; you have to write characters that make sense, that are worth focusing on, that are what the author tries to tell you they are. In Forspoken, the writers spend the game trying to tell you that Frey is a damaged, complicated character thrust into the role of unwilling hero, but Frey proceeds to be an illogically difficult and ruthlessly rude character. The choices she make are not the result of her responding to triggers (understood by the audience) but instead shallow, selfish decisions made with the energy of “fingers in my ears, lalala, I’m not listening, I do what I want.”

Undiluted self-inserts ultimately damage fiction because it inevitably supports a narcissistic perspective. They spend their time justifying every action (often through trauma dumps), they never make a “wrong” choice (at worst it’s just a choice that’s misunderstood in the moment), and everything about them is actually the makings of the quintessential hero, even if you can’t see it yet.

Why do readers love characters like Richie Tozier or Eddie Kaspbrak? Richie runs his mouth all the time, making characters and readers alike laugh, but it’s not a perfect trait. He runs his mouth when he shouldn’t, getting himself and friends into trouble or even getting into trouble with his friends.⁵ Eddie is a hypochondriac and a bit of a coward when we first meet him, though he is funny in a curmudgeonly way. His bickering with Richie is a welcome break to the horror of the story. With all the kids in IT, we are always eventually told the reasons for their idiosyncrasies. For Richie, he has big front teeth and big, thick glasses, making him a prime target for teasing from the first days of school. Though it’s never explicitly said, he learned to brandish his wit and talent for impressions as a weapon against bullies. Eddie was made into a hypochondriac by his obsessive mother⁶ which fed into his overall anxiety and cowardice. But we don’t just love these characters because they’re funny: we love them because they overcome their weaknesses. They do it for love. They reflect back the worst parts of ourselves in paperbound privacy and whisper that it’s okay, this, too, will pass. If Eddie and Richie can overcome their biggest fears for their friends, then we can overcome our biggest fears, too.⁷

And this is the kind of self-insert that does work. Taking bits and pieces of ourselves or those we know and using it to support the things we want most to say is the heart of fiction. Undiluted self-inserts often forcibly look away from any fault or criticism thrust upon them; what we want from characters is the truth of our shortcomings and the hope of rectifying them. All lies have some truth in them, and fiction is a giant lie endeavoring to tell us the truth.

Cheers,

S. Guild

1. The top comment on the video reads: “Writers these days must think that making a protagonist as unlikable as possible = depth and a bigger character arc.” That does seem to be a trend…

2. What we really needed was D&D: both as an outlet for our heroic fantasies and as a tempering to any main-character syndrome we possessed. D&D lets you be, as Matt Mercer puts it, “your most heroic self” while showing you that the path to heroism is wide enough for a full party. To succeed, we must recognize our own shortcomings and be willing to rely on others to help us see our quests through.

3. Less than an hour from Seattle, if the I-5 is feeling kind.

4. And for gender arguments about independent, strong-willed, and complicated women, see Victra au Julii, one of the most beloved side characters in modern spec-fic. “Share the load, darling. This one’s on me” is one of the most rewarding character moments I’ve ever experienced.

5. Beep beep, Richie.

6. There is implication of Munchausen syndrome by proxy. Eddie’s father passed away from cancer, and Eddie’s mother keeps Eddie on placebos. She believed “it was better for a child [...] to think he was sick than to really get sick.”

7. After all, they can’t be worse than facing down a literal child-eating clown haunting our town, right?