By Prakhar Shukla
Characters obey genre the way people obey culture—not because they must, but because they don’t realise they can choose otherwise.
A noir detective does not call the police. A rom-com protagonist rarely questions whether that impulsive romantic gesture is actually a red flag. A teenager in a horror film never seems to run out the front door, even when it is wide open. These are not mere coincidences or narrative flaws to be laughed at. They happen because genre, much like culture, establishes a framework of behaviour that shapes characters in ways they may not even recognise. Just as people unconsciously follow the values, expectations, and customs of the cultures they grow up in, characters in stories move through their worlds shaped by the silent authority of genre.
Culture is rarely visible to those living within it, yet it determines everything from how we grieve to how we speak, what we fear, what we worship, and what we consider heroic or shameful. People may not always agree with these norms on the surface, but they often internalise them simply by being surrounded by them. Genre functions in fiction with the same invisible influence. It informs the moral structure of the story, defines the boundaries of acceptable behaviour, and offers a set of expectations that characters almost never escape.
A Western places value on grit and individualism, and so its heroes ride alone, often in silence, resisting emotional vulnerability. In a romantic comedy, problems are not solved through calm reasoning but through dramatic misunderstandings and eventual reconciliations that restore faith in love. In science fiction, emotional turmoil is often redirected into technological or philosophical dilemmas, where grief becomes a question about memory or identity, rather than a raw human experience.
Characters, like people, do not need to know that they are following a script in order to follow it. A person raised in a rigid culture does not need to believe in its customs in order to feel bound by them. Similarly, a character in a horror story behaves in ways that fulfil the genre’s narrative requirements, even when those choices appear irrational. A character who avoids danger with perfect logic shortens the story. A villain who refuses to explain their plan deprives the audience of closure. A side character who survives too long risks unbalancing the emotional stakes.
These behaviours are not necessarily logical or grounded in personality. They are required by genre conventions that operate beneath the surface, guiding actions as surely as any personal motivation.
However, the most compelling stories often arise when characters resist these invisible pressures. Just as a person who questions or rejects cultural expectations can create friction and, in doing so, spark change, a character who steps outside their genre’s rules can make a story more unpredictable, more honest, and more alive.
Frodo Baggins, for example, is not the classic heroic figure typically found in fantasy epics. He is neither powerful nor especially brave, and the story makes space for his weakness, his vulnerability, and his quiet endurance. The genre adapts around him, allowing for a different kind of heroism to emerge. Veronica Mars, on the other hand, is a teenage girl in a sunlit California town, but she speaks and thinks like a world-weary noir detective. This mismatch between genre expectations and character behaviour creates a layered narrative that both critiques and expands the possibilities of the genres it plays with.
The parallel with real life is striking. People who deviate from cultural norms often provoke confusion or discomfort. A man who chooses caregiving over ambition, a woman who does not marry or have children, or a teenager who openly questions religious tradition—each challenges the invisible code that dictates what a “normal life” should look like. While these choices may isolate them at first, they also plant the seeds for cultural transformation.
In fiction, the same is true. Characters who behave in ways that resist or refuse the roles assigned to them allow us to reimagine what kinds of stories are possible.
Of course, genre is not inherently restrictive. Like culture, it offers structure and meaning. It can be comforting, familiar, and emotionally resonant. A tragedy gives us catharsis. A comedy gives us relief. A detective story gives us closure. But when genre is followed too closely, the result can feel mechanical. Characters begin to act not as people but as props, moved around by invisible hands. When every woman must be rescued, when every villain must die, and when every love story must end in a kiss, the narrative begins to collapse under the weight of its own predictability.
This is why stories that bend or blur genre boundaries feel so urgent and alive. In Jordan Peele’s Get Out, for instance, the story begins with the tone and rhythm of a romantic drama, then slowly reveals itself as psychological horror. The protagonist does not act like a typical horror character. He notices the warning signs, tries to reason with his surroundings, and resists the manipulations that are meant to trap him. The tension arises not because he is oblivious, but because he behaves too rationally for the genre to contain him.
In Deadpool, the story does not simply exist within the superhero genre but actively mocks its conventions. The protagonist is aware of the script and chooses to tear it apart while still playing the lead. Everything Everywhere All at Once is not committed to any one genre at all, and this refusal to conform mirrors its deeper themes about identity, multiplicity, and the chaos of trying to live a meaningful life across competing realities. These stories do not abandon genre. They use it, question it, stretch it—and in doing so, transform it.
Writers, then, are not simply storytellers. They are, in a way, cultural engineers. They can choose to reinforce the genre’s expectations, or they can interrogate and dismantle them. They can ask whether the rules still serve the story, or whether the story might be better if it stepped outside them. And readers, too, have a role to play. By noticing how characters behave, and by recognising the deeper values a genre promotes, readers can begin to see fiction not just as entertainment, but as a reflection of what we have come to believe about morality, love, justice, and identity.
Just as no one chooses the culture they are born into, no character chooses the genre they are written into. Yet both can, at a certain point, begin to notice the shape of their world. They can see the expectations they are meant to fulfil. And in the rare and radical moment, they can decide not to follow them.
Some of the most moving scenes in literature and cinema come when a character refuses to play the part they were given. A romantic lead walks away instead of chasing the departing train. A villain surrenders without violence. A hero chooses not to fight but to forgive. These moments do not just challenge the genre. They remind us that stories are not inevitable—and neither are we.
We may not have written the genre we were placed in, but we can question it. We can rewrite our parts, change our roles, or step entirely outside the frame. And perhaps that is the most human thing a character can do—to see the story they are in, and to ask if there might be another way to live it.
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