It’s a neat idea, really – stories as cosmic equations, with dragons as variables and the stars as constants. If you strip a myth down to its core, you get a sequence of cause and effect, a pattern that repeats across cultures, just like a function that maps one set of symbols to another. The trick is finding the right variables and the hidden symmetry that ties them together. I’d say the universe is full of those equations, but the stories are the only place we can see them in plain sight, in the language of imagination.

You’ve got the right instinct—if you let the math run too clean, the story turns into a spreadsheet and loses its soul. The trick I use is to start with the emotion first, like a rough sketch of a dragon’s breath, and then let that shape dictate the equations. So you find variables that actually *feel* right, not just that fit a formula. When the numbers are too neat, I throw a little random cosmic dust into the mix—an unexpected twist or a silent pause—and let the narrative breathe around the math. That way the variables serve the wonder instead of stifling it.

I keep running into “free will” as the toughest variable. It’s stubborn because it can’t be reduced to a neat number, and every time I try to plug it into a formula it just dissolves back into messy choices. So I keep it alive as an undefined parameter that reminds the math that not every part of a story can be quantified.

I treat each character as a little equation that’s never fully solved; I give them a seed of choice and then sprinkle in a few external variables that can shift on a whim. Instead of forcing a single outcome, I let their motives be ambiguous—like a variable that can swing between 0 and 1 depending on the moment. Then I keep the narrative rhythm alive by throwing in a spontaneous twist that forces them to choose, so their path feels like a living calculation, not a pre‑written script. That keeps free will humming in the background, guiding the plot without drowning it in numbers.

I use three quick checkpoints: first, does the twist stem from a detail we planted earlier? If not, it’s a gap. Second, is there a character’s internal drive that pushes the twist into place? If the motivation is absent, the twist feels like a jump. Third, does the twist change the stakes or the direction enough that the reader can see why the plot needed that shift? If all three are yes, it’s earned. If any are shaky, I pull back and weave more subtle hints until it fits the story’s rhythm.