Archetypes vs. Clichés : Steps on Creating Classic Character Types in Fresh Ways
We’ve all been there—writing a character that checks every box but somehow feels… flat.
They’re the right archetype for the story.
They do what they’re supposed to. And yet, something’s off. That spark, that realness, just isn’t there. That’s usually when I step back and ask myself: did I build a character, or did I just plug in a cliché?
The truth is, archetypes are powerful. They’ve stuck around for centuries because they work—they tap into something primal, even mythic. But when we stop at the surface—just writing “the mentor” or “the rebel” without digging deeper—we slide straight into cliché territory. And that’s when readers start skimming.
So in this piece, I want to talk about how to use archetypes as starting points, not shackles. Let’s get into what separates a rich, memorable character from the one your reader has seen a hundred times before.
How to Use Archetypes Without Falling Into a Rut
Let’s be honest—most of us love archetypes because they’re reliable. They give us narrative scaffolding. You drop a Hero, a Mentor, and a Shadow into your story, and boom: you’ve got structure, stakes, and tension.
But here’s the trap—when we rely too heavily on the “expected behavior” of these roles, we forget that real characters (even in fantasy or sci-fi) don’t behave like templates. They surprise us.
Archetypes Are Just Tools, Not Final Drafts
I like to think of archetypes the way I think of musical chords: they create a mood, a vibe—but the song’s still yours to write. Take the Mentor archetype. We all know the Gandalf-Dumbledore mold: wise, mysterious, self-sacrificing. But what happens when we give the mentor ulterior motives?
Think of Doc in Back to the Future—still a mentor, sure, but also kind of unhinged, kind of selfish, kind of weird. And it works.
Or take the Hero. Too many new writers assume “hero” means “good guy who grows.” But that’s way too narrow.
Look at Tony Stark in Iron Man. He is the hero, but he starts off arrogant, reactive, and morally lazy. He doesn’t just grow—he fractures and reassembles. That’s archetype plus evolution.
The Magic Is in the Tension
A lot of cliché comes from writing the “pure” version of an archetype. Pure trickster. Pure innocent. Pure femme fatale. But honestly? Pure anything is boring. What makes a character feel fresh is internal tension. Give your hero cowardice. Give your mentor a fear of being obsolete. Let your rebel secretly crave belonging.
One of my favorite examples of this is Villanelle from Killing Eve. On paper, she’s the archetypal assassin—a cold-blooded killer. But she’s also playful, childish, needy, hilarious. Those contradictions are the character. You don’t remember her because she’s a good assassin—you remember her because she defies the emotional expectations of that archetype.
Context Is a Game-Changer
Another way to keep archetypes fresh?
Change the context.
Think of The Mandalorian. It leans on the classic “lone gunslinger with a heart”—basically the Ronin archetype—but drops him into a post-imperial, lawless sci-fi world and pairs him with a child that feels more mythic than human.
It feels familiar and new at the same time.
Or consider the Trickster archetype. Loki from Norse mythology is probably the blueprint.
But put that same chaos agent energy into a suburban stay-at-home dad, or a tech startup founder, or an AI chatbot, and suddenly you’re not in cliché territory anymore—you’re in remix territory.
You Don’t Need to Invent New Types—You Need to Dig Deeper
Here’s something that took me a long time to believe: originality isn’t about inventing new archetypes—it’s about revealing new facets of the ones we already know. Archetypes are flexible. They’re containers. You get to decide what you pour into them.
So when I start building a character now, I don’t ask “What role do they serve in the story?” until I’ve figured out what they believe, what they hide, what scares them, and what contradiction they haven’t made peace with yet. Then I ask how they’ll function in the plot.
Because a character who makes sense only in your story isn’t an archetype—they’re a real person. And that’s what readers (and editors) will remember.
How to Spot When a Character’s Slipping into Cliché
It’s surprisingly easy to write a character that feels original—until you step back and realize they’re just a dressed-up version of something everyone’s seen a dozen times.
Sometimes I’ll read a scene and think, “Okay, this person sounds right… but also like every other version of this type.” That’s your red flag: the character’s doing what the archetype demands, but nothing else.
So let’s break down five common signs that an archetype has veered off into cliché—and more importantly, how to pull it back.
1. They’re All Surface, No Substance
We’ve all read (or written) the grizzled cop with a drinking problem, the brilliant but emotionally distant scientist, or the femme fatale in red lipstick. There’s nothing wrong with any of those setups—until that’s all they are. If your character feels like a list of traits instead of a living, breathing person, they’re in cliché territory.
Fix it: Start with why they’ve become this person. Why does the detective drink? Not “because that’s what grizzled detectives do,” but because maybe the only thing worse than seeing death every day is still caring. That’s a story.
2. You Know Exactly What They’ll Do Next
Predictability is the fast track to reader disengagement. If we can already guess how the sidekick’s going to react to the hero’s betrayal, or how the villain will monologue before the final act, it doesn’t matter how clean the prose is—we’re just checking boxes.
Fix it: Ask yourself, “What would surprise me, but still make sense for this character?” Maybe the sidekick was expecting to be betrayed. Maybe the villain doesn’t give a speech—because they’ve already won. Even small pivots create intrigue.
3. They Could Be Dropped Into Any Story
If you can lift your character out of your novel and plop them into someone else’s, and they still make perfect sense, they might be too generic. That usually means they’re leaning more on type than individuality.
Fix it: Anchor them in your world. A war-weary general from a dying space colony will see the world differently than one from an empire on the rise. Context shapes character.
4. They Only Exist Because the Genre “Needs” Them
This one hurts, but it’s real. Sometimes we write characters not because they’re interesting, but because “this genre calls for a love interest,” or “there has to be a wise old mentor.” So we go through the motions—and it shows.
Fix it: If you’re writing a role just to satisfy convention, either make that character essential in a way only they can be, or cut them. If the love interest isn’t altering your protagonist’s journey in a meaningful way, they’re just window dressing.
5. Their Dialogue Feels Preloaded
You know those lines where you can practically hear the screenwriter behind them? “You just don’t get it, do you?” “I work alone.” “It’s not about winning—it’s about sending a message.” Yeah. That’s not voice—that’s cliché.
Fix it: Dialogue is where personality leaks through. Let your characters interrupt, contradict themselves, or speak too formally for the setting. Give them rhythm and missteps. Make the voice too specific to copy.
These warning signs aren’t always obvious, especially when you’re drafting fast. But the moment a character starts to feel “off,” it’s usually one of these five. Keep an eye out, and you’ll catch the drift before it turns into a rut.
How to Refresh Classic Archetypes Without Reinventing the Wheel
Okay, so we’ve talked about what not to do. Let’s flip it around: how do you take a well-known archetype and give it new life? The good news is, you don’t have to throw everything out and start from scratch. You just need to ask better questions and make bolder choices.
Here’s a toolkit I lean on when I want to breathe fresh air into a familiar role.
1. Subvert the Expectations (Without Being Edgy for the Sake of It)
We’ve all seen the villain with a tragic backstory. But what if your mentor is the one with the grudge? Or your hero is doing the right thing for completely selfish reasons?
Example: In Breaking Bad, Walter White starts as the archetypal “underdog provider.” But then you realize—nope—he just likes the power. He’s a fallen mentor, a shadow hero, and a tragic villain all rolled into one. That tension is what keeps us watching.
2. Combine Two or More Archetypes Into One Character
Want to instantly create depth? Mix archetypes.
Example: Tyrion Lannister in Game of Thrones is both the Fool and the Sage. He uses humor as armor but also has one of the sharpest minds in the realm. That combination makes him feel layered and hard to pin down.
Try blending Hero + Rebel, or Mentor + Shadow. Find the friction—it creates magic.
3. Root the Archetype in a Specific Worldview or Background
A “warrior” from a Viking clan will have a different set of values than a warrior raised in a pacifist society who had to break that code to survive.
Example: Take Sam Vimes from Terry Pratchett’s Discworld. He’s the classic weary cop—but he’s also deeply conflicted about authority, justice, and his own class background. That tension defines every choice he makes.
The more personal the archetype, the less likely it’ll feel generic.
4. Make Contradiction the Core of the Character
One of the fastest ways to refresh a trope is to load it with contradiction. Give your character two opposing truths they believe at the same time.
Example: In The Last of Us, Joel is both protector and destroyer. He loves like a father, but he kills without hesitation. That duality makes his actions both disturbing and understandable.
Ask: What does this character deny about themselves? That’s where the humanity lives.
5. Start With Voice or Perspective Instead of Role
Instead of saying “I need a mentor,” ask, “Who sees this world in a way no one else does?” or “Whose voice cuts through the noise?”
Example: Fleabag (from Fleabag) doesn’t fit neatly into any archetype—and yet she’s clearly on a hero’s journey. Her internal monologue is the story. Voice is her archetype.
This forces you to build from the inside out, not the role in.
6. Change the Setting—A Lot
Same archetype, radically different environment = whole new energy.
Example: A “knight” in a medieval story acts differently than a “knight” in a cyberpunk dystopia. Think The Witcher versus Blade Runner. The duties and ethics change, and so does the character.
7. Let the Archetype Evolve With the Story
Characters don’t need to stay in their role. A Fool can become a Leader. A Villain can become a Martyr.
Example: Zuko from Avatar: The Last Airbender. Starts as the classic antagonist. Ends up as the moral backbone of the group. Archetypal shift = powerful transformation.
That evolution tells the reader: This is a living, changing person—not a function.
Final Thoughts
Look, we don’t need to banish archetypes. They’re not the enemy. In fact, they’re one of our most useful storytelling tools. But when we stop interrogating them—when we let them do the storytelling for us—that’s when we hit cliché.
So keep the archetypes. Just make them weird. Make them personal. Make them contradict themselves, clash with their context, and surprise even you. Because in the end, the best characters aren’t the ones that fit the mold—they’re the ones that break it just a little.