Empathy is about stepping into someone else’s shoes.
Inversion is about reversing the whole damn frame.
Not just, “What is this character feeling?”
But:
“What if they’re right, and my protagonist is wrong?”
“What if this story goes the other way?”
It’s a question I ask myself all the time.
Inversion is one of the sharpest tools I have in my writer’s toolkit—especially when I’m stuck, or when something about the story feels flat.
You flip the premise.
You turn the mirror.
You ask: What if the opposite were true?
Sometimes it’s just a thought exercise. A nudge to help me see what I’ve been ignoring. But sometimes… sometimes it cracks the story wide open.
I’ve written scenes that only came alive after I asked myself what the other person in the room wanted. Not in support of the protagonist—but instead of them. Against them. In defiance or disagreement. Maybe even in quiet heartbreak.
Because nobody thinks of themselves as the villain in their own story.
Even the ones who do terrible things.
Especially those ones.
Inversion can be small.
It can live in a single moment of doubt or contradiction.
Or it can be big.
You can invert a trope.
Invert the structure.
Invert the power dynamic between two characters and suddenly the whole scene takes on a new shape.
Sometimes the strongest tension doesn’t come from your hero being tested—it comes from realising they’re testing others without even knowing it.
I’ve played with this in one of my own projects. There’s a moment when the reader sees the story’s events unfolding from the antagonist’s perspective—not to justify them, but to show what they believe they’re fighting for. And in that moment, things get a lot murkier.
Not every story needs this. But every writer can benefit from it.
Here’s a trick:
When you’re stuck, when a scene isn’t landing—stop.
Ask: What if the opposite is true?
What if the brave moment is actually foolish?
What if the lie is partly justified?
What if the sacrifice isn’t noble, but selfish?
You don’t have to make the story go that way.
But you should at least know what it would mean if it did.
The reader might never see the inverted version.
But you, as the writer, should carry it like a shadow in your back pocket.
Because that shadow brings depth. Complexity. Humanity.
Inversion doesn’t break your story.
It pressure-tests it.
It lets you write from a position of awareness, not assumption.
And stories written with awareness tend to hit a little harder.
Here are a few of my favourite inversions, just to get your mind working.
- What if, instead of becoming a romantic couple, they open a taco truck together?
- What if, instead of fighting the villain, they find a different way to give him what he wants—and it works?
- What if the chosen one isn’t up to the task, and the story is about the side character rising instead?
- What if the betrayal isn’t personal—it’s strategic, and the person who did it still loves them?
- What if the prophecy is real… but misinterpreted—and they’ve been fighting for the wrong side all along?
You don’t have to invert anything—in fact, most of the time, you probably shouldn’t.
Thinking about it, questioning your assumptions, asking yourself some “What if…” questions. That can be hugely valuable, can deepen your understanding of your own story.