Writing Tips & Memes

Kishotenketsu also has some similarities to our jokes. A knock-knock joke is like kishotenketsu, but usually the ten and ketsu are combined.

Knock-knock

Who's there?

Boo

Boo who?

Everything is fine--no need to cry!

There is a turn with the boo-who and crying that immediately makes sense to us.

Interestingly, when researching, I found Youtuber The CynicClinic, who had looked up Japanese sources, which mentioned Little Red Riding Hood and The Tortoise and The Hare as kishotenketsu examples. I likewise found a Japanese website that used Little Red Riding Hood and Cinderella as kishotenketsu examples. In Little Red Riding Hood, the ten would be the wolf turning out to be the grandmother. In The Tortoise and The Hare, it would be the hare sleeping while the tortoise wins the race (quite an unexpected turn indeed). And in Cinderella, it would be when her spell wears off at the ball, and she rushes home.

And I want to acknowledge that I've heard kishotenketsu can vary from country to country, as it gets interpreted differently and filled in differently by each culture. Giseungjeongyeol is the name for the Korean version, and it is often used in Korean dramas. The jeon is the Korean version of the ten. 

Author Kim Yoonmi writes about the jeon and ten here and here, mentioning they are often handled slightly differently, because of cultural differences. Rather than a "twist" at the ten, Korea's jeon tends to focus more on discovery or self-realization, or a "return" to what happened previously, while having a sudden emotional change. (I would explain it by saying it's usually centered on the internal plotline, while acknowledging that some, like Parasite, are not.)

Because I'm most familiar with Japanese storytelling (and "kishotenketsu" is Japanese), most of my research has been based on their perspective, but I did look at Korean and Chinese sources as well.

Kishotenketsu Long-form Narratives

As mentioned, kishotenketsu influenced many other societal aspects, and it was applied to long-form narratives. Most manga and anime follow kishotenketsu, and so do most of the Studio Ghibli films (and, as I just said, Korean dramas). So let's cover how kishotenketsu can show up on a larger scale, because if you are creating something longer than four lines of poetry, flash fiction, a short fable, or an urban legend, you may need a bit more guidance on how these parts break down. (With that said, though, many East Asian sources keep it rather simple and minimal (and you can see some Japanese ones here and here, and a Korean one here.)

So, let's build on what we've covered.

Ki = Introduction

This is the setup of the story. Relay when and where the story takes place. Introduce key characters and relationships, and probably any special skills or attributes. 

Establish what's normal, or perhaps (I would argue) more accurately said, what's to be expected.

Convey the tone and genre. Some sources I looked at (Western and Eastern) mentioned conveying the atmosphere of the "world" or story in here. A few mentioned the importance of grabbing the audience's attention.

Osamu Tezuka states that the who-what-when-where-how questions should be answered and suggests including a sense of mystery or arousing curiosity, so that the audience will want to read or watch more.

Sho = Development

In his booklet, Kishotenketsu: The Narrative Structure from Manga and Anime, Aldo Terminiello points out that other words that could be used here are "foundation," "construction," "progress," and "expansion." 

As stated above, in sho you build and develop what was introduced in the ki section. The audience learns more about the "world" and how things work in it. Their understanding of the characters and relationships deepens. And new characters and relationships may appear. Complications arise as the plot thickens. Subtle foreshadowing may come into play. There may not be a huge contrast between ki and sho (at least on the surface level), but the story continues, and the audience gets a stronger sense of how this narrative is going to go.

Ten = Twist / Turn

The word ten means "to turn," "to change," or "switch directions." It also gets translated into "twist," which I feel can be misleading for us in the West, because most of us probably think of big plot twists when we hear that word in this context. The ten can be a plot twist (big or small), but it's more broadly speaking, a turn, a change. It also gets translated into "turning point," which I think is more accurate. 

From my Western perspective, all twists are turning points (well, almost all anyway), but not all turning points are twists. Simplistically speaking, a turning point changes the direction of the story. A twist also changes the context of what happened previously, giving us a new understanding or interpretation. A ten can do that. But it doesn't have to. A ten may also simply be a reveal, where important information gets dropped.

Additionally, the ten can show up through a change in time, location, viewpoint, or focus. It often brings a more contrasting or chaotic element into the story.

However it shows up, something significantly changes the story here.

The ten is considered the most important part of the structure. It is usually what the previous parts of the story have been building up to, or at least preparing the audience for . . . though this is not strictly a necessity, as sometimes the ten can come out of nowhere (something Westerners don't always appreciate). 

Interestingly, the "ten" in kishotenketsu also gets translated into "climax"--it's the "peak" moment of the story.

Ketsu = Conclusion

Another word that might fit here is "reconciliation." The story may or may not have a full resolution. Traditionally, the ketsu phase is about reconciling the ki and sho parts with the ten part (think of my short narrative examples above)--perhaps showing how they all link together, or explaining how they make sense. Or, maybe just showing what happens after the ten. 

Like ten, ketsu can show up in a lot of different ways. It may, in fact, look like the denouement of most Western stories: conflicts resolved and loose ends tied up. Or, it may be very different. In kishotenketsu, it's perfectly acceptable for this part to be ambiguous, open-ended, and lack closure. It may also be more reflective, and/or contain moral or philosophical commentary. And it may sometimes even introduce new upheavals. This can make the story feel "off" to Westerners.

Kishotenketsu Example: My Neighbor Totoro

Let's look at Studio Ghibli's My Neighbor Totoro as an example of kishotenketsu.

Ki = Introduction

The story opens with sisters, Satsuki and Mei, and their father moving into a new house that is rumored to be haunted. We get a sense of the "world" (one that is inhabited by sprites and spirits), as well as the tone of the story.

Sho = Development

The next part builds on what was introduced. We learn that they moved here because their mom is sick and in the hospital. The girls encounter other forest spirits, including Totoro. We get a sense of their day-to-day life, as they plant acorns and seeds, interact with Totoro, and spend time at school or with their dad.

Ten = Turn

After learning that their mom won't be coming home this weekend, Mei, heartbroken, runs off. She plans to go to the hospital and deliver the corn she picked to her mom, but tells no one. Satsuki can't find her, and she and the village panic. They create a search party for Mei.

Ketsu = Conclusion

Satsuki realizes she can turn to Totoro for help. He helps her find Mei, and with a ride from the cat bus, they go to the hospital and deliver the corn. Their mom is still sick, but we get the sense that things are going to be okay.

In this example, the ten is not really foreshadowed much, if at all, leading some viewers to feel like the sudden change "comes out of nowhere." It almost feels like a different story. And although the ten comes 82% into the story, to some Westerners, it almost feels like this is when the real story starts, because it's when the tension, conflict, and stakes (which have been low until this moment) get high.

Kishotenketsu Example: Your Name

(Warning: spoilers!)

In my research, Your Name came up repeatedly as an example. The ten is a big twist, yet it feels fitting because of the previous parts of the story, as well as the foreshadowing.

Ki = Introduction

We are introduced to high schoolers Taki and Mitsuha. Their lifestyles contrast with each other: Taki lives in a big, modern city (Tokyo), working part-time as a waiter, while Mitsuha lives in a rural town (Itomori), where she participates in traditions at a shrine.

At the beginning of the story, they wake up in swapped bodies. Taki must get through the day as a girl in Itomori, and Mitsuha must get through the day as a boy in Tokyo. They cause problems for each other, but believe it is all a dream.

Sho = Development

The characters wake up as themselves, and soon realize it wasn't a dream, as they deal with problems the other created for them. They continue to switch bodies 2 - 3 times a week, and begin to lay out ground rules and take notes for each other, so they can keep functioning in their day-to-day lives. 

Taki also learns more about the shrine and how God has power over people's connections and over time. In Itomori, the autumn festival is coming up, and a comet is expected to pass really close during it.

After going on a date Mitsuha set up for him, Taki realizes he has feelings for Mitsuha instead. He tries to call her, but it seems the number is disconnected.

The body-switching inexplicably stops.

Ten = Turn

Taki finds he misses the swapping (or rather, Mitsuha), and wants to meet her, but no texts or calls go through. Using what he knows about the rural town, he tries to locate her. He sketches what the place looks like, and a ramen shop owner recognizes it, and takes him there. It has been completely destroyed.

Taki learns that a comet hit the town three years ago. Hundreds died, including Mitsuha.

Not only were they swapping bodies, but they were swapping timelines.

Ketsu = Conclusion

Taki finds a way to swap bodies once more, and wakes as Mitsuha on the day of the autumn festival. Taki enlists Mitsuha's friends to help with a mass evacuation. At twilight, he returns to his rightful body, his timeline intersecting with Mitsuha's, allowing them to communicate and properly meet (I'm simplifying).

Mitsuha finds that her father, the mayor, has instructed residents to stay put, despite her friends' attempts. But she eventually convinces him to evacuate everyone instead.

Both Mitsuha and Taki begin to lose memories of each other and the experience, but Taki feels inexplicably drawn to the story of a town evacuating just before a comet hits.

Years later, they run into each other in Tokyo and feel drawn together.

In this example, the ten is a big twist that was foreshadowed prior. It also hits right in the middle of the story.

[Stay tuned for Part 2 on Monday, which will cover the following:

Kishotenketsu Visuals, Timing, and Variations

Kishotenketsu Fractals

Cultural Differences

Myth: Kishotenketsu has No Conflict

The answer is no. Your character does not have to have an internal plotline.

Most characters who "don't arc" are steadfast characters.

In a steadfast arc (also known as a "flat arc"), the character ultimately doesn't change at the end of the story. He grows in his resolve. He becomes more of what he was previously.

This is true even if there isn't an internal plotline (read: a journey of the arc.)

Although the internal plotline is well . . . internal . . . its pieces are often expressed in external ways.

The abstract want shows up as concrete plot goals: Luke rescuing Leia to help the Rebel Alliance, Katniss winning the Games by outsmarting the Gamemakers, Barbie righting things with her "owner" so she can go back to her normal, perfect life.

A character who doesn't have an internal plotline will arguably still have an abstract want, because it theoretically always exists behind the plot goal. It's whatever abstract thing motivates the character to pursue that external goal--whether or not that want is communicated through the story.

For example, in Knives Out, we don't know why Detective Blanc wants to solve cases; we only know his plot goal is to solve a (possible) murder. But that doesn't mean his motive doesn't exist, just that we don't know what it is.

When there is no internal plotline, the character is only tested by external antagonistic forces. Antagonistic forces oppose the objective, the concrete plot goal (. . . which is a manifestation of the abstract want). That is what an antagonist is.

This opposition alone--which creates external conflict--is still testing and challenging the protagonist. Will he give up? Will he change? Will he remain the same?

Even if there is no internal plotline expressed in the story, the obstacles of the external journey are simply putting pressure on him.

If he just pushes through, but has no internal plotline, then he's still having a steadfast arc (and most commonly, a positive one). It's just not showing up as an internal journey.

Detective Blanc is still a positive steadfast character--he still has a character arc--even though he doesn't change or have an internal plotline. He still fits within that category. 007 is the same way. 

Just the act of taking on an external challenge increases one's resolve, simply through the continued decision to pursue the plot goal. Anyone will still grow in resolve, by simply staying true to their course.

If your character "doesn't have an arc," then your character likely has a steadfast arc, without an internal plotline.

While uncommon, there is technically nothing "wrong" with that; it just usually means a different plotline will be emphasized in its place.

Managing Your 3 Major Plotlines

Usually, for a story to be satisfying, it needs at least three different types of plotlines. This gives the story more dimension and depth. And while there are different combinations you can choose, by far the most popular plotlines to weave together are the external, internal, and relationship plotlines.

External--this is the character's outer journey. The character has a concrete goal, encounters an external antagonist, and struggles with the conflict to get the goal.

Internal--see above

Relationship--this is a relationship journey. The character either aims to draw close to or increase distance from another person (or maintain the relationship as is). The antagonistic force is what is upsetting that.

If your protagonist does not have an internal plotline, then there are a few ways to handle this.

Giving the Internal Plotline to Another Character

If your protagonist does not have an internal plotline, then that plotline may be given to someone else.

In Knives Out, this is given to Marta, who is such a prominent character, she's practically a protagonist herself. She's the one suffering internal antagonism and conflict over what to do. She's the one whose internal journey best expresses a belief system, which is about how, when we are self-made, we are kinder, decent people. Blanc helps her navigate this.

A similar thing happens in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005), where Charlie does not have an internal plotline really, so instead, it is given to Willy Wonka. Wonka has unresolved trauma from his father, and Charlie helps him address that. Charlie helps Wonka see the value of family.

And in Finding Neverland, Barrie doesn't have much of an internal plotline either, and instead, that is given to Peter, who comes to believe in the power of playfulness, because of Barrie's influence.

So it's possible to give the plotline to another key character. Often in this situation, the protagonist is then the one guiding that character on their internal journey, but that is not necessarily a requirement.

Swapping the Internal Plotline for Another Type

If your protagonist does not have an internal plotline, then another type of plotline can be emphasized in its place.

For example, in Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indiana Jones has little to no internal plotline . . . and neither do any of the other main characters. Instead, a societal plotline with the Nazis is showcased as one of the three dominating plotlines. Its plotline combination is external, relationship, and societal.

If there is no internal plotline, then it's most common for a societal plotline to take its place.

You can learn more about societal plotlines in "Writing the Societal Plotline."

And you can learn more about writing multiple plotlines in "Writing & Structuring Multiple Plotlines (with Visuals)"

Does a Change-arc Character Always Have an Internal Plotline?

Most commonly characters who don't have internal plotlines are steadfast characters, but it's arguably possible for a change character to change without one.

Indiana Jones is often noted for not having an internal plotline, with people considering him a steadfast character.

But actually . . . when I went back and watched Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy does change, even in a thematic way. He just doesn't suffer through internal antagonism and conflict to get there. He doesn't have an internal journey.

At the start of the story, Indy clearly expresses he doesn't believe in the supernatural: "I don't believe in magic, superstitious hocus pocus--we are going after something of historical significance." Yet at the climax, he chooses not to look at the ark when it is being opened and begs Marion to close her eyes, which conveys he now believes, to some extent, in the supernatural. This relates to the theme, which questions whether or not man is meant to disturb the power of God (and that power is supernatural).

Watching the film again, I actually think Indy is a change-arc character, but I don't think he has an internal plotline.

Rather, it's simply the external adventure alone that leads him to flip.

In the end, though, all of these categories and terms are just there to help us as writers, so we can better discern how stories work, and then create great ones. The truth is, there is adequate room for variation and nuance and rule breaks.

A "Flat Arc" Does Not Mean a "Flat Character"

Before ending this article, I want to briefly address a misconception. Some in the writing community argue that all round, complex characters have change arcs. But they don't. Just because a steadfast arc is also known as a "flat arc" does not mean the character herself is flat. Contrary to what some believe, roundness and flatness . . . aren't determined by character arcs. After all, there are plenty of steadfast characters who are round, like Fox Mulder, Wonder Woman, Elle Woods, Clark Griswold, Detective Blanc, and more.

While a change arc, or internal plotline, can help round out a character, they aren't a requirement. There are other ways to do that.

An abrupt rainstorm putting out a life-threatening fire at the climax (read: solving the major problem), doesn't work in part because the audience didn't know about it. The storm came out of nowhere.

However, an abrupt rainstorm pouring down on an already sinking ship (read: adding to the problem) near the climax can work.

With that said, though, it's still usually best to not largely rely on coincidences, or rely on them exclusively, at the climax.

A coincidental inciting incident can often work, because it's typically introducing problems. It often is a problem the protagonist has to (eventually) address. Or, if the inciting incident is an opportunity, it often leads to problems (it might be an opportunity, with strings attached).

It's also worth observing, that the inciting incident is near the beginning of a structural unit, where coincidence is more tolerated, usually because it somehow leads to problems (read: conflict), while the climax (aka major turning point) happens near the end of the unit, and is used to resolve problems (conflict)).

3. Strong Plots Foreshadow Major Turns

A significant issue with the deus ex machina is that it is unforeseen. Even if it's "possible," the audience isn't prepared for the outcome, so it feels cheap. The plot device lacks proper foreshadowing.

I love K.M. Weiland's explanation of foreshadowing. She writes, "If we sift foreshadowing down to its simplest form, we could say it prepares readers for what will happen later."

Foreshadow = preparation.

It prepares the audience for what is possible.

It's "improbable" that Frodo will make it to Mount Doom, but foreshadowing helps prepare the audience for it as a possible outcome (with Sam's help).

Great foreshadowing doesn't blatantly give away the major turning point, it simply prepares the audience for it by letting them know an outcome is possible. It's not too predictable, but it's not too unforeseen.

A random, freak rainstorm that comes out of nowhere to put out a fire, isn't foreshadowed. So, it is less tolerated. It will feel more like the writer is just making it up on the spot to solve problems. It won't feel integrated. Even if a writer does come up with an idea on the spot while writing, they usually need to go back and add in foreshadowing. This will make the plot more satisfying and cohesive.

4. Strong Plots Utilize the Protagonist's Agency

Another major sin of the deus ex machina, is that it often steals the protagonist's agency. In my recent post on what a protagonist actually is, I mentioned that a true protagonist influences the direction, the outcome of the story. A true protagonist is a "problem-solver" (or I may even say "re-solves" problems, for better or worse).

What the protagonist says and does should turn the direction of the story.

In other words, almost always, the protagonist's choice should be contributing to the major turning points. 

At the Council of Elrond, Frodo chooses to volunteer himself as the Ring-bearer, turning the direction of not only the scene, but the whole story itself.

In Star Wars, Luke chooses to rely on the Force and shut off technology to successfully shoot the Death Star, likewise turning the story.

And in The Hunger Games, Katniss chooses to risk suicide in an effort to save Peeta--again turning the story (and series).

The protagonist's choices should be contributing to every major turning point, and even many of the minor turning points, in the story. Their choices should lead to particular outcomes.

This is often critical to showcase at the climax, because this moment often completes the character arc and argues the theme.

Frodo chooses to keep the Ring, illustrating he has become corrupted by power. This speaks to his character arc and the theme (though of course, Lord of the Rings does have some variation, and Gollum choosing to attack Frodo and get the Ring, and Gollum dying in the lava, also cements his arc and contributes to theme).

Luke chooses to shut down tech and rely on the Force, illustrating he has put his trust in faith. This speaks to his character arc and the theme.

Katniss chooses to risk herself to save someone, illustrating she'll ultimately hold steadfast to her initial worldview--she won't sacrifice someone else to save herself. This speaks to her arc and the theme.

Often when a deus ex machina swoops in, it robs the protagonist and the story of this critical moment.

If someone from the Empire suddenly decided to go rogue and destroy the Death Star, Luke does not get to make his choice--the most crucial one that contributes to character arc, theme, and plot simultaneously. His agency at the climax doesn't really matter. This clearly weakens the story.

Fixing a Deus ex Machina

If you've written a deus ex machina, there is still hope. You can use these principles to help you fix it.

A deus ex machina is used to reach a desired outcome. So, work backward. You know the "effect," the outcome, you want, now think about what could "cause" it. What needs to be in place to get you there? Cause and effect > coincidence. And ideally, one of the "causes" will be what the protagonist chooses to do.

So, instead of having a pack of hungry wolves take out the antagonist coincidentally, consider what could cause the pack of wolves to find and target the antagonist. Perhaps the protagonist knows they are in the area, and she can do something to draw their attention. Or maybe she knows where they go, and finds a way to lure the antagonist there. Maybe she can find a place to hide, so they target him. Maybe she finds a way to put the scent of prey on the antagonist. The idea may need more work, depending on the story, but we've now created a sense of cause and effect and shown the protagonist exercising meaningful agency to bring it about.

We could also foreshadow the event by mentioning a wolf attack in the area earlier in the story, and by mentioning the wolves' resources are scarce, so they're starving. Maybe the protagonist knows and understands wolf packs (so by extension, so does the audience), so she knows just what to do with them.

By using these principles, we've already largely fixed a deus ex machina.

Let's look at some of my other examples.

The deus ex machina: A powerful, skilled minor character abruptly shows up to save the protagonist by defeating the antagonist at the end.

Possible fixes: The protagonist causes this situation, making the encounter happen--perhaps by arranging it beforehand, or realizing he can lead the antagonist toward that person, or by doing something else that indirectly (but clearly) leads to the event. Depending on the story, this may need to happen a bit earlier, so the audience forgets about it in the moment, but it nonetheless still has a clear bridge of cause and effect.

And ideally, this isn't a minor character that shows up out of nowhere, but a side or main character the audience has met before, and her skills were foreshadowed.

And it's best if the protagonist somehow deals the "deathblow" or paves the way to make that happen at the climactic moment. It's even better if the protagonist could somehow have this skill himself, but . . . that may not always work out. (And please keep in mind I'm talking about these things in general--obviously what you can do specifically, will depend on the framework of that story).

The deus ex machina: The protagonist suddenly finds a magical object that defeats the antagonist.

Possible fixes: Rather than having the surprise be the character suddenly discovering this object, have the protagonist actively searching for it, and have the fact it can defeat the antagonist be the surprise. Foreshadow that reveal, by indirectly alluding to the idea earlier. Have the protagonist put it together, and use the object against the antagonist. She knows how the magic works, so she realizes she can use it to defeat him. She connects the dots, given her background.

The deus ex machina: An unexpected rainstorm puts out a fire surrounding the heroes' homes.

Possible fixes: Foreshadow the rainstorm, early enough that the audience may forget about it. Don't use it to resolve all the problems. Have the characters' choices and efforts contribute more to the resolution. Perhaps, at minimum, they are able to slow the fire with hoses and buckets of water, so that it doesn't do severe damage, before the storm hits. They are able to hold it off (but it's becoming an increasing struggle). There is still tension and uncertainty, because we don't know if it will actually rain. But if they hadn't done what they did, certainly everything would have burned, before the storm ever arrived.

Or, you could change it, so that the storm doesn't save the day. The characters find a way to. 😉

Admittedly, some deus ex machinas are easier to fix than others. In some cases, you may just need to change the story more. Whatever the situation, though, let these principles be your guide:

- Put in more causes that lead to the effect

- Resolve problems based on knowledge and understanding

- Foreshadow the outcome

- Utilize the protagonist's agency

And as a note, the "knowledge" one and the "foreshadowing" one can often overlap.

Can a Deus ex Machina Ever Work?

Every rule in writing can be broken, but it should be broken for a good reason. It should typically be broken to make the story better, not worse. It shouldn't be broken out of ignorance or laziness. Almost always, a deus ex machina is not going to make a story better. However, that doesn't mean they don't ever show up in successful stories.

I will say, though, that when they do (arguably) show up in successful stories, the writers lessen the negative effects by trying to implement at least some of these principles (which is why I say "arguably").

For example, at the end of Jurassic Park, the T. rex suddenly shows up and takes out the raptors. Deus ex machina? Yes? Sort of? It is sudden and unexpected and resolves the major problem at the climax. But it lands . . . okay because we know there is a T. rex on the loose (and how and why it got loose), we already saw Alan and the kids deal with the T. rex, and we've been watching the characters actively deal with the raptors (exercising agency).

But if we never saw the T. rex prior and did not know about it, it would have landed horribly.

Does this deus ex machina make the story better?

The sudden appearance of the T. rex is a great callback, so I give it points for that. But theoretically, it would have been better if, after the initial surprise, Alan used what we'd learned about the T. rex to cause the rex and raptor encounter. He could have intentionally caused a great commotion to draw its attention, since rexes see based on movement.

However, as is, the story also gets away with it, because it's thematic. The main theme of Jurassic Park is that we can't control nature, and therefore need to respect it. The T. rex is one example of that (though it still would have been better if Alan had done more).

Indiana Jones: Raiders of the Lost Ark ends similarly. The villains open up the ark and die, while Indy is tied up. It resolves the major conflict, and it happens without Indy's contribution. While minor, Indy does still exercise a little bit of agency, by closing his eyes, and telling Marion to do the same. This also relates to the theme, which argues man shouldn't disturb the power of God, and Indy's (minor) character arc, which shows he's come to believe in the supernatural/God's power (to some degree), and respects it.

In contrast to these examples, we have Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, which has a sort of deus ex machina, as well. Out of almost nowhere, Harry is able to burn Quirrell with his hands. The contrast is that Harry is exercising strong agency in the moment--as he is the one making this happen and chooses to burn Quirrell and defeat him--but the concept was not foreshadowed nor was the knowledge obtained, unlike those other examples.

We do get a clear explanation of it all in the falling action, which connects to Harry's backstory--and that is something we did learn about. But theoretically, the story would have been better, if this possibility had at least been subtly foreshadowed. It would also be more effective if it were related to something Harry did. Perhaps he could have further "unlocked" this love-driven magic during the school year, as he learned to love his friends.

Yet like the other examples, this one is still very thematic and, like Indy's, relates to Harry's character arc. Harry learns in the story that love is the most powerful force (i.e. magic) in the world (the theme).

You're more likely to get away with a deus ex machina, if it at least relates to the theme and/or character arc, in addition to minimizing its negative effects, like these examples did.

And I want to point out that all of these characters were very active and exercised a lot of meaningful agency, prior to these exact moments.

Finally, I want to note that you are more likely to get away with a deus ex machina in the falling action. However, this arguably means it's not solving the main conflict, but rather, tying up smaller, remaining ones--tying up loose ends. After the protagonist has defeated the antagonist, then he discovers a magical object to fix a remaining issue. This still isn't ideal, and I don't recommend aiming for it, but you are more likely to get away with it after the climax has happened.

In the end, while a deus ex machina is certainly not what anyone should be aspiring to, we see that if the rest of the story is great, and its negative effects are minimized, the audience is willing to overlook it.

Though it probably rarely makes a story better.

As another example, perhaps the goal is to return a magical artifact to its home at the other end of the region. At Plot Point 1, the character is given the artifact and sets off on his quest. He decides he and his company will travel around the mountain, but a group of bandits has taken over that area and attacks them (midpoint). So instead, the protagonist decides they will climb the mountain, but when a snowstorm becomes dangerous, they have to retreat (Plot Point 2). Finally, the protagonist decides they will attempt the questionable cave system. He succeeds, returning the artifact to its rightful place (climax).

Ideally, we want to organize the story so that it becomes increasingly difficult to get the goal and the protagonist has to try harder with each attempt. Logically, the protagonist tries the simplest way forward first (going around the mountain / asking a neighbor for a bike), then the next simplest (over the mountain / having a bake sale), until he or she has to take a more dangerous or costly path (going through the caves, where perhaps people have gotten lost and died / entering and winning a contest). What exactly this looks like may depend on what's set up in the story.

By following this method, it's not too difficult to brainstorm a plot. This is what can make the try/fail cycle great.

*As a note, some people refer to each of these attempts as a try/fail cycle. So the attempt to go around the mountain, would be try/fail cycle #1, and the attempt to go over the mountain would be try/fail cycle #2, and the journey through the caves would be "try/fail" (or rather "try/success") cycle #3.

Weaknesses of the Try/Fail Cycle

One of my issues with the try/fail cycle is that it can really limit the types of plots you write. So while it's great for teaching new writers how to plot, it can also put a ceiling on their potential.

The biggest limitation is that it inherently forces the writer to stick to one overarching goal through the plot. While you can absolutely write a fantastic story where the protagonist pursues one main goal (like in The Lord of the Rings (returning the Ring) or The Hunger Games (win the Games) or Jaws (kill the shark)), it's not a requirement. 

Yes, the plot needs a goal, but the goal can change. It can be abandoned or even completed before the story is over. Star Wars is usually my go-to example of this. A New Hope wouldn't exist as it does, if George Lucas was using the try/fail cycle. Luke's main goal changes every quarter. First, it's to go to Academy, then it's to go with Obi-Wan to deliver the message and become a Jedi, then it's to rescue Leia, and then it's to destroy the Death Star. Luke also doesn't fail through the entire middle; rescuing Leia is a success, not a failure.

It's completely possible to write a story where the character succeeds in getting the main goal at the midpoint. In Into the Woods, all of the characters get exactly what they set out for right at the 50% mark.

Creating such plots is more complex, but you'll never create them if you only follow the try/fail cycle. This doesn't mean the try/fail cycle is bad, of course. It may be exactly what you need for the story you are writing. But it is limiting if you think you need to use it for every story.

The try/fail cycle can also be damaging if you adhere to it "religiously." The truth is, no one wants a long-form story where the protagonist is constantly failing through the beginning and middle. If your character is literally failing at every turn, in every scene, and never having any success, then he's not making any progress. And the audience wants to experience a sense of progress, otherwise the plot feels stagnant. Imagine a version of Lord of the Rings where Frodo wasn't able to leave the Shire until the last act. He kept trying, and he kept failing. No one would like that. It'd be boring. It'd be repetitious. We would likely be "circling" the conflict, which we usually don't want to do. Instead, the audience wants to see him making progress. They want to see him get away from the Ringwraiths and make it to the Prancing Pony.

One of the problems here is that this hypothetical writer misunderstands how the try/fail cycle is meant to be used. It's not literal failure scene after scene, but that, within a structural unit, there should be at least two failures. So, within an act, or a scene, there should be at least two different try/fail cycles before the final one. There should be at least two attempts before solid success. Frodo should try to go this direction and get blocked, then try to go that direction and run into a problem, then try the last path and succeed, for example. He should run into obstacles that create setbacks at least twice, before succeeding (theoretically speaking). 

It's also not a requirement that the character ultimately succeeds. A character may fail to get the goal, and it could still be a great story.

Sometimes the try/fail cycle just seems too simplistic; not every moment in every story is easily labeled a success or failure. Stories may get more complex than that. A character may succeed in one aspect while simultaneously failing at another.

I think it's because of these weaknesses, that more recent authors have started evolving the try/fail cycle, incorporating other elements (like the "No, and" vs. "Yes, but" rule). Because while it's useful, it's often not enough.

Some approaches, like Save the Cat, even want you to put a success at the midpoint (or at least what seems to be a success at first glance), and to stagger failures and successes. So, you may have a success at the midpoint, a failure at Plot Point 2, and a success at the climax. 

So basically . . . there are really so many other ways to write a story.