This article is adapted from a recent episode of the Script Reader Pro podcast, where Scott and Desiree dig into one of the most important questions in character development: what lie does your protagonist believe? In the episode, they explore how a character’s flaw is often only the visible behaviour, while the lie beneath it is what really drives the story. Listen to the full conversation below, then read on for a practical breakdown of how to use this idea to build stronger, deeper and more emotionally satisfying character arcs.
Every great character arc begins with a lie.
Not the kind of lie where your protagonist tells someone they were “just leaving” when they were definitely not just leaving.
A deeper lie.
A belief they have about themselves, other people or the world. A belief that shapes the way they behave. A belief that may once have protected them, but is now holding them back.
That lie might be:
The character probably doesn’t think of this as a lie. To them, it feels like the truth. It feels like experience. Wisdom. Survival.
But the story knows better.
And that’s where character arc begins.
Because a strong character arc is not just about making a character “change.” It’s about forcing them to confront the false belief that has been driving their choices all along.
In this post, we’ll look at how to find the lie your character believes, how that lie creates their flaw, how it drives the plot, and how to use it to build a richer, more emotionally satisfying character arc.
Writers often talk about character arcs as though every protagonist has to change.
But that isn’t quite true.
Some characters change dramatically. Some change for the worse. Some don’t really change at all, but they force the world around them to change.
So the better question is not:
How does my character change?
The better question is:
What does my character believe that isn’t true?
That question immediately gives you something more useful to work with.
Because “change” can be vague. But a lie is specific.
If your character believes they have to do everything alone, you can build a story that pressures that belief.
If they believe love always leads to pain, you can build a story that forces them to risk intimacy.
If they believe their worth comes from achievement, you can build a story that makes success feel empty unless they discover something deeper.
The lie gives the character somewhere to start.
The truth gives them somewhere to go.
A character lie is a deeply held false belief.
It might be about themselves:
I’m not good enough.
It might be about other people:
If I trust people, they’ll hurt me.
It might be about the world:
The world only rewards the ruthless.
It might be about love, power, success, family, ambition, safety, identity or belonging.
The important thing is that the lie affects behaviour.
A character lie is not just an abstract theme floating somewhere above the story. It should show up in what the character does.
If your protagonist believes they are not good enough, they may lie, perform, overachieve, self-sabotage or push away the very people who care about them.
If they believe people always leave, they may leave first.
If they believe showing weakness is dangerous, they may hide every soft part of themselves behind anger, jokes, competence or control.
If they believe success is the only thing that gives them value, they may sacrifice relationships, health or integrity in pursuit of it.
The lie is internal.
But the behaviour is visible.
That is where screenplay characterisation lives.
This is where a lot of writers get slightly tangled.
They give their character a flaw, but they don’t know what sits underneath it.
A flaw is what we see.
A lie is why we see it.
For example:
| Flaw | Lie underneath |
|---|---|
| Controlling | If I don’t control everything, everything will fall apart. |
| Emotionally distant | Getting close to people only leads to pain. |
| Workaholic | My value comes from what I achieve. |
| Cynical | Hope is dangerous. |
| Avoidant | My past defines me and I can’t escape my mistakes. |
| Arrogant | If I admit I don’t know something, I’ll be exposed. |
| People-pleasing | I have to be useful to be loved. |
The flaw is the visible behaviour.
The lie is the belief driving that behaviour.
This distinction matters because flaws on their own can feel thin.
“He’s arrogant.”
Fine. But why?
“She’s controlling.”
Okay. But what is she afraid will happen if she lets go?
“He’s emotionally distant.”
Yes, but what does closeness represent to him?
When you understand the lie beneath the flaw, the character becomes more dimensional. Their behaviour starts to make emotional sense, even when it’s frustrating, destructive or wrong.
And that’s vital.
Because the audience doesn’t have to agree with your character. But they do need to understand them.
It can be tempting to build a character by choosing a flaw first.
You decide your protagonist is selfish, guarded, arrogant, controlling, reckless or afraid of commitment.
That’s not a bad place to begin, but it probably isn’t deep enough.
Instead, try starting with the lie.
Ask:
What false belief has this person built their life around?
Then let the flaw grow from that.
For example, rather than saying:
My character is controlling.
Ask:
What would someone have to believe in order to become controlling?
Maybe they believe:
If I don’t control everything, everything will fall apart.
Now the flaw has roots.
Maybe they grew up in chaos. Maybe they had to parent a parent. Maybe the one time they trusted someone else, everything collapsed. Maybe control has become their way of feeling safe.
Suddenly, “controlling” is no longer just an annoying personality trait.
It’s a survival strategy.
That doesn’t make the behaviour right. But it makes it human.
And human characters are always more interesting than mechanical ones.
Here’s a useful way to think about it:
Plot often exists because the character believes the wrong thing.
That doesn’t mean every plot event is caused by the protagonist’s psychology. Obviously, stories can begin with external disruptions: a murder, a job offer, an alien invasion, a breakup, a war, a competition, a death, a disaster.
But the reason the story becomes emotionally compelling is because the external events start pressing on the internal lie.
The plot asks:
Can you keep believing this now?
A character who believes they don’t need anyone is forced into a team.
A character who believes love always leads to pain meets someone worth risking pain for.
A character who believes their past defines them is forced to return home.
A character who believes hope is dangerous is given one impossible reason to hope.
A character who believes ambition will corrupt them has to decide whether success and integrity can coexist.
That is where plot and character start working together.
The external conflict is not just a sequence of events. It becomes a machine designed to challenge the lie.
One of the quickest ways to find your character’s lie is to look at their relationships.
Ask:
How does this belief affect the way they treat other people?
If the lie is “people always leave,” maybe the character never fully invests. They keep one foot out the door. They test people. They sabotage closeness. They assume rejection before it happens.
If the lie is “I have to do everything myself,” maybe they reject help, resent dependence and mistake collaboration for weakness.
If the lie is “my worth comes from achievement,” maybe they turn every relationship into a performance. They need admiration more than intimacy.
If the lie is “showing weakness is dangerous,” maybe they never ask for help, never apologise properly, never let anyone see them scared.
Relationships are where internal beliefs become dramatic.
That’s why they’re so useful in screenwriting. A character can think one thing privately, but eventually the lie has to come out in behaviour. It has to damage, distort or define how they connect with others.
If your character’s lie doesn’t affect their relationships, it may not be active enough yet.
The lie should also interfere with what the character wants.
This is where story momentum comes from.
A protagonist may want love, but believe vulnerability is weakness.
They may want success, but believe ambition makes them a bad person.
They may want freedom, but believe safety only comes from control.
They may want justice, but believe hope is dangerous.
They may want belonging, but believe the real them will be rejected.
That tension is gold.
Because now the character’s own belief system is partly blocking the thing they want.
They are not just fighting the antagonist, the system, the ticking clock or the external obstacle.
They are fighting themselves.
That’s why a character arc can make even a familiar plot feel emotionally specific. The audience is not only watching whether the protagonist gets what they want. They are watching whether the protagonist can become the kind of person capable of receiving, surviving or choosing it.
Another good diagnostic question:
What opportunities does the lie cause them to miss?
A character who believes they must do everything alone may miss the chance to build a meaningful partnership.
A character who believes love always leads to pain may miss the person who actually sees them.
A character who believes their worth comes from achievement may miss joy, rest, family, friendship or a life beyond applause.
A character who believes hope is dangerous may miss the one possibility that could set them free.
This is useful because it gives the lie stakes.
The lie is not just a private issue. It has consequences.
It closes doors. It narrows the character’s life. It keeps them safe, maybe, but it also keeps them stuck.
That’s the trade-off.
And the story’s job is to make that trade-off impossible to ignore.
Most character lies create walls.
Those walls might look like sarcasm, competence, arrogance, charm, cynicism, control, avoidance, humour, aggression, perfectionism or emotional distance.
The wall is what the character uses to protect the lie.
For example, if a character believes “if people know the real me, they’ll reject me,” they may become funny, performative, intimidating or unavailable.
That is their armour.
But armour creates drama because it both protects and imprisons.
It keeps danger out, but it also keeps connection out.
A good screenplay finds ways to put pressure on that armour until the character has to decide whether to keep wearing it.
One of the best ways to understand character lies is to look at familiar movies.
The exact wording of the lie can always be debated, but the exercise is useful because it forces you to think about the belief underneath the behaviour.
Andy Sachs’ flaw could be described as passive, indecisive or reluctant to fully commit.
The lie might be:
If I become ambitious, I’ll become a bad person.
That belief makes sense because she sees ambition around her expressed in ways that seem ruthless, shallow or morally compromised.
The truth she has to discover is:
Success and integrity are not mutually exclusive.
The story works because Andy is not simply deciding whether she wants a job in fashion. She is deciding what ambition means and what kind of person she wants to become.
John Nash’s flaw might be emotional distance and obsession.
The lie:
Intellect is more valuable than human connection.
The truth:
Relationships are what ground him in reality.
That contrast gives the story emotional weight. It is not only about brilliance. It is about the limits of brilliance without love, trust and connection.
Jerry’s flaw is that he is self-centred and career-driven.
The lie:
Success and status will fulfil me.
The truth:
Real fulfilment comes through genuine relationships and connection.
The arc works because the external story strips away the things Jerry thought gave him value, forcing him to confront what actually matters.
Simba’s flaw is avoidance.
He runs from responsibility because he believes:
My past defines me and I can’t escape my mistakes.
The truth:
You can acknowledge your past without being controlled by it.
That’s why the story has such lasting emotional power. It is not just about a lion reclaiming a kingdom. It is about shame, responsibility and the courage to return.
Red’s flaw is cynicism.
The lie:
Hope is dangerous.
The truth:
Hope is worth the risk.
In a world designed to crush hope, that belief is not naïve. It is costly. Which is why the truth matters so much when Red finally chooses it.
Will’s lie is rooted in pain and self-protection.
He believes that the people who love him will eventually hurt him, leave him or expose him.
So he keeps control. He pushes people away. He hides behind intelligence, aggression and charm.
The famous “it’s not your fault” scene works because it speaks directly to the lie he has built around his own pain.
The truth is not just something he hears. It is something he has spent the whole story resisting.
Marlin’s lie is:
The world is too dangerous.
It makes perfect emotional sense. He has suffered terrible loss. His fear comes from love.
But the lie turns love into control.
The truth is that he cannot protect Nemo from life by preventing him from living it.
Shrek’s lie is:
If people know the real me, they’ll reject me.
So he isolates himself. He tells himself he prefers the swamp, the solitude, the distance.
But the story keeps pushing him toward connection.
His arc is not about becoming someone else. It is about discovering that being known does not have to mean being rejected.
Lightning McQueen’s lie is:
I don’t need anyone.
He believes success is individual. Fame is individual. Winning is individual.
The story forces him into a community where he has to discover the value of other people.
Elsa’s lie is:
Isolation keeps people safe.
Again, the lie is understandable. It comes from fear, love and shame.
But it is still a lie.
Because isolation does not heal the problem. It deepens it.
Characters resist change for the same reason people do.
The lie has been useful.
It has protected them from pain. It has helped them survive. It has given them a way to understand the world.
A character does not cling to a flaw because they love being flawed.
They cling to the belief underneath it.
They believe that if they let go of the lie, something worse will happen.
If I stop controlling everything, everything will fall apart.
If I let someone in, they’ll hurt me.
If I stop achieving, I’ll be worthless.
If I hope, I’ll be crushed.
If I show weakness, I’ll lose respect.
That is why change has to be hard.
You are not asking your protagonist to make a minor adjustment. You are asking them to surrender the belief that has helped them feel safe.
So don’t make them change too easily.
Let them resist.
Let them misunderstand the lesson.
Let them try to get what they want while still believing the lie.
Let the lie keep causing damage until they can no longer ignore it.
That is how you make change feel earned.
Not every protagonist needs a huge, obvious, transformational lie.
There are different kinds of stories and different kinds of arcs.
Some protagonists are agents of change. They enter a broken world carrying the truth already, and the world changes around them.
Some genre characters are built more around action, attitude, competence or mythic function than deep psychological transformation.
But even then, giving your protagonist a belief system will almost always make them more interesting.
A character without any internal tension can feel flat, wooden or purely functional.
A character with a lie, a wound, a belief, a fear or a worldview instantly has more dimension.
So no, every protagonist does not need the same kind of lie.
But most protagonists benefit from one.
And if your script feels emotionally thin, this is one of the first places to look.
Absolutely.
Villains often have some of the strongest lies in the story.
They may believe:
The difference is that villains often do not recognise the lie as a lie.
A hero may eventually confront the false belief and change.
A villain may double down.
That can make them dangerous, compelling and thematically useful, because the villain often represents what happens when the lie is taken to its extreme.
They force the protagonist to choose.
Will the hero believe the same lie?
Or will they find another way?
Here are some practical questions to ask when building or rewriting your protagonist.
Do they believe they are unlovable, weak, destined to fail, special, cursed, superior, broken, invisible, responsible for everything?
Do they believe people always leave, always betray, always disappoint, always need controlling, always want something?
Do they believe the world is unfair, dangerous, meaningless, transactional, rigged, cruel, chaotic?
What do we actually see on the page?
Do they avoid, attack, perform, control, lie, overwork, sabotage, isolate, manipulate, chase approval?
Who do they keep at a distance? Who do they hurt? Who sees through them? Who enables the lie?
What do they want, and how is their own belief system getting in the way?
What can’t they receive, risk, attempt or believe because the lie keeps narrowing their life?
How do they protect themselves from the thing they fear?
The truth should be the meaningful opposite of the lie.
Not a vague lesson. A specific, story-shaping truth.
What plot event, relationship, loss, failure or choice will make the lie impossible to keep believing?
A great story often begins when a character believes something that isn’t true — and reality starts pushing back.
That is the essence of character-driven storytelling.
Not a character with a random flaw.
Not a protagonist who changes because the structure says it’s time.
Not a final speech where they explain the lesson.
A person with a belief.
A world that challenges it.
A series of choices that reveal whether they will cling to the lie or move toward the truth.
So if your screenplay feels like it has a plot but not enough emotional depth, go back to the lie.
What does your protagonist believe that isn’t true?
Why do they believe it?
How does it shape their flaw?
How does it damage their relationships?
How does it sabotage their goals?
And what truth will the story force them to face?
Answer those questions, and you won’t just have a character who changes.
You’ll have a character arc that actually means something.
If your protagonist feels flat, your character arc feels forced, or your script notes keep circling the same issue without quite naming it, professional feedback can help you find the problem beneath the problem.
At Script Reader Pro, your script is read by working writers who understand story, structure and character from the inside out.
No automated notes. No generic guesswork. Just human-crafted feedback to help you make the script stronger, one page at a time.
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