"There is no reason why the simple shapes of stories can't be fed into computers, they are beautiful shapes."
— Kurt Vonnegut
For centuries, storytellers have sought to define the mechanics of narrative. Christopher Booker’s The Seven Basic Plots, George Polti’s The Thirty-Six Dramatic Situations, or Robert McKee’s legendary frameworks all attempt to map the contours of stories that resonate. While their conclusions vary, they all agree on one thing: these fundamental building blocks of story can be rearranged, remixed, and retold in infinite ways, offering endless opportunities to captivate audiences.
But why? Why does the same combination of elements feel fresh when told in the hands of Hayao Miyazaki, or take us somewhere entirely new when Philip K. Dick adds his brand of chaotic genius? To answer this, we have to journey into the worlds of mathematics, randomness, and the very nature of creativity itself.
At their core, stories are about patterns—conflicts that resolve, heroes who fall and rise again, and journeys that transform characters and audiences alike. Vonnegut famously plotted story arcs as simple shapes: from “Boy Meets Girl” (a steady rise and fall) to “From Bad to Worse” (a straight downward slope). These shapes are not just academic exercises; they are the bones of stories that connect with us emotionally, even if we don’t consciously recognise the patterns.
Why do they resonate so deeply? Because as humans, we are hard-wired to seek patterns and correlations in everything we encounter. From the shapes we see in clouds to the synchronicities in our daily lives, to the recurring structures found in nature and the universe, pattern recognition is at the core of how we understand the world. Stories mirror this instinct, offering us a way to make sense of chaos and find meaning in complexity.
So how does this translate into “infinite” possibilities? Enter the mathematics of recombination. Consider this: with only a handful of basic building blocks—say, five distinct story beats—and the freedom to rearrange them, we unlock over 100 potential combinations. Add more beats, characters, or layers of meaning, and the number skyrockets. With just 68 building blocks, the number of potential sequences exceeds the total atoms in the observable universe. In short, the combinatorial possibilities of storytelling are infinite.
But here’s the catch: not all combinations are equally compelling. Just because a pattern exists doesn’t mean it works. This is where creativity, context, and—yes—chaos come into play.
The role of randomness in storytelling has fascinated creators for generations. Philip K. Dick famously turned to the I Ching—an ancient Chinese divination system using hexagrams—to guide key plot decisions in The Man in the High Castle. Luke Rhinehart’s The Dice Man took this further, weaving the chaos of dice rolls into the fabric of its narrative. These approaches didn’t abandon storytelling structure; they introduced moments of randomness to spark innovation within those structures.
But randomness alone doesn’t create brilliance. Chaos theory offers a useful lens here: small, seemingly random changes in inputs can produce vast, unpredictable differences in outcomes. The weather may start with a butterfly flapping its wings, but the storm it creates follows an intricate, recognisable pattern. Similarly, introducing an element of randomness to storytelling can yield unexpected results, but it’s the human touch—the creator’s ability to identify meaningful patterns—that makes it art.
In this context, Studio Ghibli’s Spirited Away is a masterclass. Its archetypal foundation—a girl lost in a strange world, facing trials to return home—is a story we’ve heard countless times. But Miyazaki’s unique layering of Japanese folklore, personal memories, and visual wonder creates something entirely fresh. It’s not just the beats of the story but the texture of its details—the hand-painted worlds, the unknowable yet familiar spirits—that make it unforgettable.
For centuries, this process of recombination and randomness has been slow and intuitive, relying on the quirks of individual creators. But now, with the rise of AI and computational tools, we can explore these creative possibilities at scale. AI thrives in recombination. Feed it Vonnegut’s story shapes, Booker’s plots, or Polti’s dramatic situations, and it can generate thousands of potential narratives in seconds. It can even introduce deliberate randomness, prompting unexpected juxtapositions or fresh perspectives.
Yet, like the I Ching or the dice rolls, AI is a tool—it provides suggestions, not optimal outcomes. The creator remains essential. It’s the human who decides which combinations resonate, which patterns to nurture, and which to discard. AI offers a mirror, reflecting possibilities back to us at a speed and scale that would have been unimaginable even a decade ago.
Even when stories draw on the same archetypes, they feel new because they are experienced through fresh lenses. Every story carries the fingerprints of its creator, shaped by their lived experiences, cultural influences, and artistic choices. For businesses, this lens is magnified by their culture, their history, and the people who make up their story. These inputs—both human and organisational—are the heart of creativity’s infinite potential. AI doesn’t erase them; it amplifies them, making it easier to uncover unexpected connections and expand what’s possible.
The next frontier of storytelling isn’t about abandoning tradition or fearing the role of technology. It’s about embracing the tools that let us scale creativity while honouring the human spirit behind every story. Whether it’s the randomness of dice, the calculated probabilities of algorithms, or the beautiful shapes Vonnegut admired, the goal remains the same: to create something that moves us, challenges us, and feels, somehow, entirely new.
But as powerful as these tools are, there’s a danger in letting them do all the thinking for us. If we accept AI’s outputs at face value—if we stop questioning, refining, and layering our own insights into the mix—then we risk something far greater than creative mediocrity. We risk losing the very essence of what makes storytelling meaningful: the connection, the humanity, and the messy brilliance that only we can provide.
As we stand on the cusp of this new era, we’re reminded of an essential truth: creativity is not a finite resource. The shapes of stories are infinite—just like the storytellers, locations, and cultures they inhabit. AI makes accessing that creative infinite easier, and if we harness this potential thoughtfully, the possibilities are as endless as our willingness to explore them.
If you’d like to transform your unique content, culture, and experiences into stories that resonate, contact us today. Let’s create something extraordinary together.
