Let me tell you a story: 17-year-old-me is on the couch, rapt, hugging my knees in tension, eyes glued to the first season finale of HBO’s immersive historical drama, Rome. My dad pauses as he walks by, asking casually, “Oh, have they killed Caesar yet?”
Aghast, I reply, “Shhhhhh, Dad, don’t spoil the ending!!”
…This is a regularly visited entry in my family’s lexicon of inside jokes, especially when it’s my turn to be teased. This is also, I hope, a clear example as to why “spoilers” don’t exist. Because at 17, I had already covered the fall of the Roman Republic at least twice in high school history classes. I certainly knew Julius Caesar was assassinated on the ides of March and less-certainly said, “Et tu, Brutae?”1 Caesar’s death on the senate floor is perhaps the most well-known moment in Roman history (though I’m partial to Cleopatra winning a bet for the most-expensive-banquet-ever-thrown).
The question becomes: if I knew how the story would end… then how could someone possibly spoil it for me?
We don’t indulge in stories to see the ending. We indulge in stories to journey with the characters and see them (d/)evolve. Stories enable us to remain in our comfortable vantage point of today while living vicariously through adventuring heroes elsewhere. We get the highs and lows, the lessons and loves, and the grief and regret, all without putting ourselves in the same dangers the characters experience. Think of it like a roller-coaster: stories are the OG thrill-ride. Is it possible to spoil the fun of a roller-coaster to someone who’s never ridden one? You might map out every twist and turn, explain the principle of conservation of momentum, and draw diagrams of potential energy converting to kinetic energy. And good luck to you, because when the drop comes, absolutely no one will care: they’re all too busy screaming in terror and joy.
The story of Julius Caesar and the downfall of the Roman Republic is timeless. Democracy has come so far since the first patrician senators sniffed at the rowdy plebeian markets on their way to the Roman Forum, and yet, and yet — these classic voices from history call out to us in warning, reminding us how little has changed in the same stretch of time. This (hi)story is just as relevant today as it was when Rome aired in the mid-aughts, just as it was when Shakespeare penned his play, Julius Caesar. (It was most relevant I suppose for all the Romans 2,000 years ago who had no idea what to expect when Augustus showed up like, “my turn, b*tches, this month is mine.”)
Like the story of Julius and his troublesome nephew, there are many other stories told over and over again: I’m referring of course to folktales and myths. Have you ever really wondered how one such myth survived countless retellings to reach your ears? These stories are older than the concept of authorship; how many thousands of iterations did it have before it was written down, and then re-written, then published in the book you pulled out as a child at bedtime?
If the plot — that is, the sequence of events in a story — is all that mattered, oral histories would not have reached beyond the first generation of bored young ears. I might argue that the very existence of old, old stories proves that spoiling the plot of a story does not diminish its narrative impact.2
And in this publication, we know that the narrative impact is where it’s at.
I “spoil” stories for myself all the time. All. The. Time. I’ll look up whether a beloved side character survives or which love interest the hero/ine chooses in the end. Sometimes, I read the last line of a novel before deciding to buy it, or watch hours of playthroughs before loading up the game myself. Because this doesn’t “spoil” the story for me; it’s no different than calculating the velocity of roller-coaster. Sure, measure the height all you want, because when you drop to the bottom all you know is that velocity is terrifying and oh-so-fast. “Spoiling” plot-points for myself is how I check the creator knows what they’re doing. It’s like I do a safety inspection on the roller-coaster before getting on… or deciding it’s not worth the risk.
So if plot doesn’t spoil the story, what does?
I hereby give a new definition of “spoiler.” There are only two ways I have encountered that can ruin a story. The first is revealing a separate arc within a non-linear narrative. (However, non-linear narratives are relatively uncommon in the realm Western media. We tend to like our Hero’s Journeys to progress one step forward at a time.) The second and more common is the case of the participatory narrative. Such stories only exist when someone experiences them. These might include films that break the fourth wall, or novels that reveal they are written specifically for you, the reader, in the end. Perhaps a game makes you question which experience is the virtual one, or a play relies on input from the audience. Perhaps an actor is revealed to be sitting among them at a key moment! Media such as this delivers its narrative impact in a way that requires the readers’/gamers’/theatergoers’ present reaction. To reveal that moment before its time would ruin the experience. That is a spoiler. I would never reveal that moment for someone, but I have and will throw around plot points like nobody’s business.
“But what about twists? Cliffhangers? Isn’t the element of surprise important?”, I hear many of you ask.
The short answer: not really, no.
The longer answer is something that those of us who rewatch our favorite shows know to be true. Like spending an afternoon with a work of art, rewatching shows and rereading books opens the space for a deeper connection to the story. Let’s take a widely beloved/bemoaned example - the Red Wedding.
While I do take issue with the author’s meandering plot in the Game of Thrones series, I remain in awe of what George R.R. Martin does so, incredibly well: subvert expectations. The Red Wedding is not a surprise. Instead it is the last thing we, the audience, want to happen. Despite all the clues and previous twists, we still believe Robb Stark and our band of heroes can vanquish the vile occupants of King’s Landing. When, I ask, in all 2.5 seasons and 900 pages of the story up until that point, did a character succeed because they “should”? Robb brings his pregnant wife to his jilted fiance’s home and expects…. a warm welcome? In the warring world of Westeros?! Not likely. I don’t bring this up to diminish the twist (…when I read the scene, I ran around my room screaming into a pillow in a most dignified manner) but more to illustrate that the writing was on the wall, and the surprise only emerges for those who could not — or refused — to see it.
The Red Wedding a great twist because it makes sense within the stakes of story, and elevates these stakes even further (Arya was so close!). If the wedding party got hit with a comet, sure, that yields the same result, but it wouldn’t mean anything, narratively-speaking. It might even make the audience angry, because the comet was not “deserved.” Poorly executed twists are confusing at best and maddening at worst (Think of the cop out reveal in some titles that shall remain nameless, that “it was all a dream”). Great twists are the developments that you don’t want to happen but of course, should have seen coming.
It’s the author playing with your suspension of disbelief. It’s marvelous, when done well. But not surprising. Going back to reread/rewatch that narrative arc can enrich the whole experience. We can learn from it, so the next time we won’t be surprised. Now that the secret of the Red Wedding is out, does that ruin GoT for future viewers? No! The hot mess of a finale will do that, but that’s another essay.
But first… I lied. The Red Wedding was such a great twist that I kept it a secret from everyone I knew who only watched Game of Thrones on TV… because I didn’t want to spoil it for them.
I recognize not everyone approaches media with a magnifying glass and notepad in hand. So to understand what spoils a story for someone, we first have to understand why they’re engaging with the story at all.
Indeed, why watch a show about warring families, ice zombies and dragon-riders? We suspend our disbelief to better immerse ourselves in the story on the faith that the payoff will be worth it. Whether or not the story was worth your time depends on, well, you.
Several years ago I picked up a book entitled “They Both Die At The End.” Marvelous title. Can you guess what happened? I literally can’t spoil it for you. Knowing what will befall the protagonists made the drama that much more impactful, precisely because I didn’t want the title to come true. I smile-sobbed through that book, and it’s an experience I absolutely recommend.
Like a good prequel, knowledge of the end in fact adds suspense to a story. Because how does the character get from here to there? The stand-alone Star Wars film, Rogue One, elevates this suspense to superb effect, managing to deepen the narratives that follow as well its own place in the universe.
We all know that satisfying high after a film or book delivers a brilliant cliffhanger. “I didn’t see that coming!” you might say. Or, “This changes everything!” A well-executed twist lies on the knife-edge between perfect and impossible, and this is ultimately why we suspended our disbelief for the storyteller to begin with: for the thrill of it.
And on the complete other side of the spectrum, scores of romance readers and mystery fans require that their protagonists follow a well-trodden and genre-defined path, yet still find joy in discovering the “how” of their heroes’ success. In other words, they’re just getting aboard their favorite roller-coaster again, and again, and again.
Like genre-readers, those of us who rewatch and reread our favorites do this as way to appreciate a story and its craft on a more meaningful level. Plot spoilers are fundamentally unimportant. If the “surprise twist” was all a story had going for it, then the spoiler isn’t ruining much craft or meaning. So the question becomes…why spend your precious time with a poorly crafted and meaningless story?
I sincerely hope you agree that life is too short to waste on a boring roller-coaster. Go on. See that twisty one with the big drop and the loop-de-loops? I’ve done the calculations; it’ll be fun, I promise. Join me. I’ve ridden it countless times.
So in the end, then, which is it: can a story be spoiled or not? As far as this publication goes, I will attach the following tags:
spoiler-not-spoiler, for any plot reference or related discussion. Readers sensitive to plot should skip posts with this tag. (not recommended)
spoiler-indeed, for any discussion of non-linear arcs, participatory plot reveals, or epic GoT-level twists. Readers should skip to enjoy the content on their own first. (recommended)
After writing this, I kind of want HBO to remake Rome. Heh, maybe it’s time to watch it again.
I knew of the quote without having read the play. Crazy how many Shakespeare quotes are still in regular use, isn’t it?
But I’m no longer a geometry student and I find if/then proofs somehow… unsatisfying, so I will continue my argument.