"What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun." —Ecclesiastes 1:9 (ESV)

It's hard coming up with ideas. It's even harder to put them to use, to develop them all the way into a finished product of some sort. Everyone wants their work to be impactful, but that's such a subjective thing. What makes a creative work "good?"

Earlier this month, my brother introduced me to the obscure anime film ANGEL'S EGG, originally released in 1985 and freshly remastered last year. A mere 71 minutes long, it's haunting, austerely beautiful, rich with symbolism...and essentially incomprehensible. A small, lonely girl protects a mysterious egg that is somehow linked to the death and rebirth of a ruined world. She is joined by a young man (a soldier?) whose actions reveal him to be no ally. The film features only a bare minimum of dialogue, and other than a central, heavily distorted allusion to Noah's Ark and the Biblical flood, it makes no attempt whatsoever to explain its arcane themes. Superficially, I enjoyed watching it, but without the ability to actually engage with the story, I was ultimately disappointed.

Many people define "good art" as something that challenges its audience, and generally I think I'd agree with that. However, when taken too far, the elements that were intended to mount that challenge instead form a dissociative barrier. Mysterious symbolism blends together into meaningless gibberish, endless violence desensitizes us to the shock, and so on. One must be deliberate. For the scope of this essay, I'll offer the benefit of the doubt and assume there is in fact a purposeful intent behind all such creative choices.

Why rules exist

We understand our entire world in context, making sense of new experiences in light of what has come before. It's an unavoidable aspect of our existence. That body of experience, much of it formalized, much still unwritten, forms the set of rules against which all new works are measured. Some people can evaluate rubrics such as the convention of a style or genre, others can only judge a thing based on its vibe, but we all recognize nothing exists in a vacuum.

In writing, there are time-honored patterns such as the "hero's journey" and the overall three-act structure of a story. In music, the mathematical basis behind scales, chords, and harmony. In photography, rules of thumb for composition, exposure, and so on.

As a creative, you should know the rules of the space in which you work. It's tempting to want to ignore all that and simply "do your own thing," but that comes with the risk of making something incoherent and/or accidentally reinventing the wheel. Instead, understanding the purpose and function of the rules is what gives you the power to truly master your craft. Make those rules work for you instead of against you, and bend or break them when it makes sense. In the words of the inimitable Hector Barbossa, they tend to be more guidelines than actual rules.

Should you break the rules?

In most cases, no. The rules persist because they work, because they are shaped by expectations and fulfilling expectations is fundamentally satisfying. The catharsis of a hero defeating the villain, musical tension resolving into beautiful harmony, and so on. If you compose a photograph according to the rule of thirds (placing your subject one-third of the way in from an edge) and do nothing else, the shot might not amaze, but it'll probably capture at least some interest.

Many rules serve a mechanical function that may seem arbitrary but quickly becomes apparent if ignored. Sticking with the camera for a moment, in cinematography there exists a concept called the "180-degree rule." When planning to shoot a scene with two actors or two focal points, draw an imaginary line between them. You can (and usually should) film from multiple angles, but keep the camera in the 180-degree region on one side of that line. The purpose of this is to preserve the left/right spatial continuity when you later cut and edit the footage together. Cross the line, and you'll confuse your viewer as to who or what is where. There's usually no creative value in that.

The time to break the rules is when you see an opportunity to think outside the box, to reach beyond the limitations of what people expect and add something new to the world. Jimi Hendrix pointed a microphone directly at his electric guitar amp, creating a feedback loop that would normally be considered a grave error. But he harnessed that chaos, turning it into some of the most powerful sound anyone had ever experienced.

If you choose instead to take something away, be very careful. ANGEL'S EGG foregoes nearly all of the traditional elements of a story in favor of its atmosphere. Conflict and character development are only implied, never overt. We're not shown or told the history of this now-lifeless place. No single element seems to share context with any other, depriving this setting of worldbuilding's most critical feature. With all of these things removed, nothing is left to tell us what that precious atmosphere actually means. I feel like calling this film a "creative failure" would be unjustifiably harsh (after all, art is subjective), but if the message of a work is too "deep" to understand, then what was the point of trying to say something? There is still an interesting story to be told here, but I think it would be remembered far better if told in a slightly less experimental manner.

Above all, you should strive to be unique. Sometimes that requires that you break from the vernacular creative rules. Over the last fifteen years or so, an entire generation of CalArts animation students were apparently taught only the art style from STEVEN UNIVERSE, and somehow most of them thought it appropriate to carry that exact style unchanged into their professional work. As a result, Western animation has become utterly infected with "bean mouth" syndrome, even in other media such as Pixar's recent 3D-animated films. Other times, you must recognize when breaking certain rules has become too trendy, and deliberately selecting something timeless is counterintuitively the fresher option. In a world where everyone writes subversive, quippy dialogue like Joss Whedon, characters who are simply honest and sincere are a breath of fresh air.

It will be a while still before I'm ready to properly reveal and begin marketing my anthropomorphic sci-fi project, but these concepts were very important to me as I developed and wrote the story. Underpinning its action scenes is a tale of failed leadership and the slow death of organizations, a poor fit for the classic archetype of opposing armies. The most common subversion of this pattern, a small group of scrappy rebels fighting against a massive organized force, has also been copied to exhaustion. Instead, I have chosen to challenge assumptions by heavily blurring the lines between the "good guys" and the "bad guys." Now, many variations of this have also been performed lately, typically as a vehicle for postmodern ideas about morality, but instead of that I'm more interested in exploring how well-intentioned plans become corrupted over time. Through the eyes of my protagonist, we'll dive into the stalemate between a crumbling military force and a disillusioned, secretive industrial clan, where figures on both sides are content with the situation and there are both friends and enemies in uniform. Many stories have characters attack these problems from the outside. But how can you save your world from within?

All creative work falls on a scale between pure "art" and pure "entertainment." Breaking nearly every rule creates something esoteric and unapproachable. Defying a fundamental assumption sets you apart from the world. Targeted manipulation of expectations yields fresh and innovative work, resting on the rules makes a thing merely "safe," and at worst, you have algorithmic slop from the global content meat grinder (including, but not limited to, generative AI). In my opinion, the sweet spot is somewhere in the middle. Find ways to push the bounds while keeping your work within reach.

Be bold, but understand the cost

This stuff is controversial. Audiences en masse are reluctant to step out of their comfort zone, frequently content with things an ambitious creator would consider boring. You will have to fight to demonstrate the merit of unique ideas, and there is no guarantee of success. Even THE LORD OF THE RINGS, though today it forms the foundation of the entire modern fantasy genre, was not initially reviewed with unanimous praise. Remember that the present is not always kind to the type of creative work that lasts.

Although it's true that every "new" thing is a remix of what came before, there's still plenty of room to create something fresh. This landscape of rules and subversions, of convention and expectations and tropes and their abuse, may feel like a minefield, but don't let that discourage you. Making anything worthwhile is a struggle, but knowledge of your craft, its history and trajectory, will empower you to do your best work.