Powered by Limits

Many of the most interesting things happen at the limits, which is just one of the reasons it’s so important to consider edge cases, as we explored in a previous post.  A system’s behavior, whether that system is a spacecraft, a culture, a friendship, or a magic system, can be predictable under normal conditions, only to exhibit radically different performance near the limits.  That’s why engineers are (or should be) so concerned with testing their designs to their limits, even if they will never see such conditions in the “real world.”  And it’s why authors should spend more of their time thinking about limitations than capabilities, because that’s where they’ll find the most interesting stories.

Imagine that you are in a kitchen with unlimited resources.  You have access to every imaginable ingredient and some that aren’t, every type and style of cookware and utensil is awaiting you, money is no object, and you have as much time as you could need to prepare whatever you want.  What do you make?  Will it be a masterpiece?  A revolution in cuisine?  All of the tools, the literal ingredients, are there, and an initial glance would suggest that these are the ideal conditions in which original creation will take place.  Scientifically, you could, with enough time, attempt every possible combination of ingredients and thereby, statistically, arrive at unique and delicious dishes.  That’s not really interesting, though.  It’s just statistics, the result of randomness, even if you happen to be exploring that randomness in a deliberate fashion.

You could certainly create something delicious with that setup, with those resources and under those conditions.  You might even make something new and different, but it would be variations, innovations, extrapolations from what you know, incremental changes from that with which you are familiar.  True inventiveness, drastic changes, come from limits.  A fantastic new food won’t come from having every ingredient and tool imaginable – it will come from only having a few things that wouldn’t ordinarily go together and the push that comes from that to try something completely different.  Limits spark discontinuity, and it is discontinuity that makes things interesting, in engineering or writing as much as in cooking.

Brandon Sanderson incorporated this concept into his laws of magic systems, stating that it is far more interesting, there is far more story to tell and excitement to explore, in what a magic system cannot do, its limitations, than in what it can.  By taking a magic system to its limits and operating there, you can see all of the creative and unexpected ways it can be employed, not just the obvious abilities and techniques you intended.  Sure, the ability to manipulate gravity might be neat, but isn’t it a lot more interesting to find out if you can use that ability to create micro-singularities?  Being able to manipulate the electromagnetic force to shoot lasers or attract metal is fine, but what about using the same ability to enhance the diamagnetic effect so that you can push off of the air, or the land, or a frog, and fly?  Even faster than light travel, which is sort of a magic system but is usually treated more like a convenience, gets really interesting and becomes an integral part of the story when you start to think about how travel at superluminal velocities affects your interaction with time.

Characters are the same way.  Think about how people who went through extremely stressful situations that pushed them to their limits or exceeded them talk about those times with a certain nostalgia, the way they treasure the relationships that formed even if there is no other substance to support those relationships.  War is the famous example, but it’s the same reasoning behind hazing rituals, extreme sports, and other deliberate means of creating such circumstances.  People can be quite different, accomplishing amazing things or the complete inverse, when their limits are probed, and that’s where the stories are.  We tell stories about the interesting things that happened to us, the things that pushed us in new ways, that challenged us, that were new, that helped redefine how we think of our own limits, not about the day-to-day, normal business of living.  Well, unless you’re a “literary” fiction author, in which case you probably do tell depressing stories about completely normal events in which nothing at all interesting happens the entire time.

Oftentimes, we frame limits as a negative, something that hampers us, and I guess that, in a sense, there’s truth to that, but I don’t think it’s the right way to think about them.  Limits are motivating.  They force us to adapt, to overcome, to innovate and invent, to change.  When there are no limits, when nothing is wrong, no impetus, no motivation, exists to push anyone to try.  It’s a recipe for stagnation, not innovation, whether that’s in scientific understanding or artistic expression.  There’s a reason that so many new developments came from World War II, both in technology and in culture.  And, arguably, it may be the reason the apparent pace of progress slows during periods of relative tranquility.

You can write a story without probing limits.  You can create characters who never encounter a situation that challenges them, you can create a magic system and use it only in the most obvious ways, you can include only “normal” cultures and unremarkable circumstances.  Maybe, you can even manage to still make a mildly engaging story…for a little while.  To make it interesting, though, to take it in unexpected directions and really take advantage of the explorative nature of writing, to tell a story that will be compelling, is to set limits, and then explore them.