How do you make a character interesting if they can never lose?
There’s a bunch of ways!
Let’s go over some quick examples, then vote on an overpowered character to write about together.
During the last stream, a subscriber requested that we write about an overpowered character.
Watch a short version of the stream here or scroll down for what we wrote.
Let’s Write an Overpowered Main Character
- There are lots of overpowered main characters in stories: Superman, Saitama from One Punch Man, even Sherlock Holmes to some extent
- But how do you write a story with an overpowered main character and make it interesting? The key is in the conflict
- Even if your main character is a god, there still needs to be some sort of conflict, and it can come from different places
- Let’s take a look at five of them!
1. An Achilles heel. Something like kryptonite for Superman, or cocaine for Sherlock Holmes. A weakness that turns them mortal/normal so they can be hurt.
2. A conflict outside their expertise. Something like Hercules being punished for a murder and forced to do women’s work, or Kvothe in the Name of the Wind who is an expert at one kind of magic (sympathy) but knows nothing about another (naming). They learn about something new along with the reader.
3. Someone/thing even more powerful than them. Not necessarily strength-wise, but perhaps controlling/manipulating them in some emotional way. Something like Homelander in The Boys, who has Superman’s powers but is emotionally manipulated by others to do their bidding due to his desire to be loved. This can potentially turn their own powers against them.
4. Using their powers in a new, satisfying way. Something like Sherlock Holmes solving a case by putting together clues no one else could, or Saitama from One Punch Man destroying an asteroid on a collision course with Earth. They have to use their powers in a way they never quite have before.
5. Just win lol. Something like most Japanese isekai stories, where the protagonist never loses and is always badass, serving to be an escapist adventure for the reader, not a story which rises and falls along the way. The conflict escalates, and they just get stronger each time without trying. Kinda lame!
After going over that, chat voted that we write this story about an overpowered character:
The archwizard has reached the highest peak. There is peace in the land and no evil shall arise while he lives… But now what? He’s already learned everything and has the most powerful objects. No one would dare oppose him. Whatever will he do with his life now that there’s no purpose?
Here’s what we came up with:
I defeated the evil tyrant, thrusting through his impenetrable armor of dark magic with my sharpened staff, imbued with the hope of the people. As he sat atop his throne, skewered and bleeding, the crown fell off his head with a clang to the floor, and he laughed and spoke two weakened words.
“Thank you.”
Then keeled over, dead. I didn’t understand his last words, but I didn’t care. My comrades cheered behind me in the throne room, and the tyrant’s soldiers surrendered — not a single one of them had raised their swords in his defense. Now, there could be peace in the land.
But peace does not come easily. My followers wanted to make me the new king, to take charge of rebuilding, but I refused to wear any crown, sit on any throne. We would work together to fix what had been broken, none of us more important than the other.
The armories and weapons factories that the tyrant had commissioned were deconstructed, transformed into food stores and schools and libraries. The former soldiers were given new tasks: guarding the trade routes with the nations the tyrant had alienated, teaching their healing magic to doctors, and elemental magic to farmers. In the new nation, no one would stay sick, go hungry, or be for want of anything.
Unfortunately there were still a few dissenters among the populace. Even though I was not king, my comrades brought a thief before me, accused of siphoning grain from a storehouse. They thought me the most just and right of us all, and asked me to decide his fate.
I did not believe myself to be worthy of such judgment, and suggested the man be tried by a jury of his peers, but my comrades insisted — I had defeated the tyrant, they took this as a sign that the gods and justice looked favorably upon me.
There was much work to do, and I did not want to spend wasteful time with this poor soul, so I asked for him to be set free, and to apologize in person to the farmer who had cultivated the grain that he had stolen. And with that, I returned to my duties.
Far harder than slaying the tyrant was dealing with the rich families, the aristocrats. I refused to call them nobles. Our storehouses and schools needed funding, and the aristocrats in their castles were more than happy to help. With skin like milk, and honey in their throats, I felt they did not share our plan for the future, though I did not argue with the gold they offered from their vault.
It was when I was helping construct a stone bridge over a river that the terrible news came. My trusted advisor told me the thief had murdered the farmer I’d sent him to apologize to, an argument between them turning deadly. Now the thief stood before me again, his mouth gagged and his killing hands tied behind his back.
Once again, my comrades asked for my judgment, and again I was reluctant. I wanted to sentence him to a life of farming, to learn exactly what he had taken, but the farmer’s wife, through pained shrieks and tears, pleaded for me to allow the gods to judge his soul.
My decree was swift. The thief was to be put to death, quickly and humanely, away from the eyes of the populace. Even in a world where all needs are met, there are still some rotten seeds. Not many, but they must be extracted from the rest lest they poison them.
The wife thanked me, my comrades thought my verdict just, and they were not alone. The aristocrats heard of my decision and praised it well, warning me that not all would be willing to submit to my vision of peace. I disagreed and told them one rotten seed does not spoil a garden.
“Unless that seed is allowed to sprout and grow,” they said.
As much as I hated it, they had a point. I commissioned some of the old soldiers as city guards, to stand watch over the granaries and farms, so no more harm would come to them.
But to the soldiers, I was an equal. They were enjoying their time as teachers and tradesmen and didn’t care to go back to their old stations. When I consulted with my comrades, they once again offered me the crown, to officially give me the power to command. It felt heavier than the gold it was crafted from.
The crown made all the difference to the soldiers who easily fell into their old command patterns and eagerly obeyed my orders. Everyone was now protected, and no one was happier about it than the aristocrats. Their vaults needed guarding, to benefit the greatest possible good, and not any petty thief who decided to come pilfering. I agreed and gave two guards to each household.
Months passed and I went to pay my respects to the farmer’s widow, only to find that she had a new husband, a new reputation, and a newly estranged son. According to the boy, she had murdered her husband and blamed it on the thief, all to marry the local lord and join his wealthy plantation. He had been kicked aside, a miserable reminder of her previous life.
Two innocent lives taken. One by my hand. And two rotten seeds allowed to sprout. They needed to be extracted before they poisoned more of the garden!
This time, I made it clear to the populace that evil was being eradicated. The widow, lord, and my lying adviser, executed in the public square, their sins proclaimed forth before their heads rolled. My people cheered. I would never let this happen again.
The throne was cold and hard beneath me, but it was a perfect place to enact my orders, and speak easily with my subjects and former comrades now counselors. Our nation would work smoothly like a waterwheel, and I would be the river propelling it forward.
All citizens were only allowed to perform the tasks they had been born into. Farmers would stay farmers, teachers as teachers, guards as guards. No more murders to move around.
There was honor and dignity in every profession. Who were they to be unhappy with their lot? I never asked for mine, and mine was the worst of them all.
Not everyone was pleased with my decision, but they simply didn’t know it was best for them. Those who attempted to flee, my soldiers stopped them and brought them before me. I told them that just as the gods blessed me to be in this position, so did the gods bless them to be in theirs. If they didn’t like it, then one of our soldiers would gladly send them to the gods to ask for another life!
Such selfishness. Arrogance. The people needed to learn how blessed they were. Compared to what I had before the tyrant was slain, they lived in cushy comfort. Perhaps they needed a little more incentive to appreciate all they had.
I erected walls around the city, to keep eyes inward and focused, not longing for other lands. I built monuments of my physique, one in every village square, to inspire all to work as hard as I. They were imbued with my own magic, watching over the sheep when they strayed from their pens, so I could alert my soldiers to crush any rotten seeds beneath their metal boots, preventing any weeds from reaching the sunlight.
My most trusted advisors, the nobles, urged me to protect myself, wary of betrayals among my counselors. Thus I cast my final spell, an impenetrable shield on my armor, one indestructible to any weapon, allowing me to rule and protect my people as long as I lived.
But why stop at my own people? There were other kingdoms nations, in need of my guidance. I proclaimed my grand plan to the populace, wearing my shining armor, illuminating the heads on pikes next to me on stage — counselors who wrongly advised against me making this exact speech.
Every man of age would be drafted into my holy army! Every woman charged with the patriotic task of producing more soldiers! Children to begin their training as soon as they could speak! Glory would be ours! Glory would be mine!
The gods looked favorably upon me, and this time I didn’t need the people to tell it to me.
I marched to my throne, no more voices behind my back, eager to set the machinations in motion. This was the only seat worthy of my presence. I looked over my sea of subjects bowing before me, as one of my hooded wizard-generals stepped up to discuss our war plans.
He thrust a sharpened staff through my impenetrable armor, piercing my front and popping out my back. Inside me, something writhed and warmed, faintly familiar, from another lifetime ago.
The hope of the people.
Blood dribbling between my teeth, I raised my head to look at the assassin. He pulled back his hood, revealing the old son of the widow and farmer, only a frown of pity on his face.
The crown fell off my head with a clang to the floor, and I laughed and spoke two weakened words.
“Thank you.”
Don’tcha just hate it when you become the thing you swore to destroy?
#JustTyrantThings
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Hope to see you next time, friend!
Top images: Pakutaso