How to Keep Your Plot Tension Climbing By Raising The Stakes in Your Storytelling Techniques
You know what’s wild?
A story can have nonstop conflict and still feel flat.
Why?
Because without stakes, conflict is just noise. I’ve seen a lot of beautifully structured stories—great inciting incidents, well-paced reveals—but the tension fizzles halfway through because what’s at risk never truly evolves.
As writers, we don’t just throw our characters into tough situations—we make those situations matter. And stakes are how we do that. They answer the question: What happens if the character fails?
The more layered and evolving that answer is, the tighter the grip we have on our audience.
And for us pros?
It’s not about just raising the stakes—it’s about raising the right stakes at the right time, in the right way. That’s where the real craft lives. So let’s dig into how to actually do that without just yelling “make it worse!” in every scene.
The Different Kinds of Stakes (And Why They Matter Way More Than We Think)
We’ve all heard “raise the stakes” a thousand times. It’s the go-to advice in writing rooms and editing notes. But here’s the thing—not all stakes are created equal. And if we want to keep our stories climbing, not flatlining, we need to get really specific about what kind of stakes we’re playing with.
Let’s break down the four main categories of stakes I return to again and again: personal, public, moral, and internal vs. external. It’s not just a vocabulary exercise—understanding these categories helps us design escalation instead of relying on plot twists or chaos to do the job.
1. Personal Stakes – The Heartbeat of Any Story
At the core, personal stakes are what the character themselves stands to lose—emotionally, psychologically, relationally. These are the stakes that hit home, and honestly, they’re the most potent kind. If we don’t care what failure costs the individual, we won’t care what it costs the world.
Think of Frodo in The Lord of the Rings. Yes, the fate of Middle-earth hangs in the balance, but it’s Frodo’s internal deterioration, his growing paranoia, and his relationship with Sam that really get us. We watch him lose himself piece by piece, and that’s what hurts.
Pro tip: Always anchor the global stakes in a character’s personal loss. That’s what makes even the biggest battle scenes feel intimate.
2. Public Stakes – When the World’s on the Line
Public stakes come into play when a character’s failure affects others—their community, a nation, or the entire world. These can be super compelling, but here’s the trap: if they’re not grounded in the personal, they can feel abstract.
In Children of Men, the stakes are about human extinction. That’s huge. But what really lands is Theo’s slow reconnection to hope and purpose. The stakes are public, but the emotional hook is personal—and that’s the alchemy.
So if you’re going big, always ask: Why does this character care? If your protagonist has nothing real to lose, it doesn’t matter what’s blowing up.
3. Moral Stakes – What’s the Cost of Winning?
This is the one I see underused the most, especially in genre fiction. Moral stakes are about what your character has to compromise in order to succeed. Will they betray someone? Lie? Become the very thing they’re fighting?
Take Walter White. The public stakes—money, health, family safety—are always shifting. But the moral stakes? That’s where the meat is. Every “win” costs him a piece of his soul, and we’re gripped not because of what he gains, but because of what he loses morally.
These kinds of stakes make tension multi-dimensional. They force your character to face who they are becoming, not just what they’re doing.
4. Internal vs. External Stakes – Layer or Lose ‘Em
Last one, but this one’s huge. Every external stake (win the war, stop the virus, save the team) should mirror an internal stake (heal old wounds, face guilt, choose growth over fear). When those two things align, you get emotional resonance.
In The Queen’s Gambit, Beth’s external journey is about winning chess matches. But the internal stakes—battling addiction, learning to trust, accepting love—are what keep us watching. Without that, it’s just people moving rooks around.
So when you’re raising stakes, don’t just pile on danger. Ask: What’s the emotional cost? What’s the identity shift? What inner truth is being tested?
And here’s the twist—you don’t need to raise all four kinds of stakes in every act. You need to know which one matters most right now, and let it evolve. Sometimes raising the stakes means going quieter, not louder. That’s the kind of escalation that surprises people—and sticks with them.
Five Ways to Keep the Stakes Climbing (Without Just Blowing Stuff Up)
Let’s be real for a second—when most people think of “raising the stakes,” they picture explosions, betrayals, or some big twist like a surprise villain reveal. But for us who’ve been in the trenches of story craft for a while, we know: those big moments don’t land unless the tension has been steadily climbing underneath them.
So how do you actually keep raising the stakes in a way that feels earned? I’ve pulled together five go-to techniques I use when a story’s tension starts to sag—methods that aren’t just louder, but smarter.
1. Reveal a Hidden Cost
You think your protagonist has finally pulled it off—they outwitted the villain, rescued their sister, kept the truth from being exposed. Great! But then… boom. The solution comes with a cost they didn’t see coming.
This technique is golden because it keeps the stakes moving without introducing new plotlines. Instead, it re-contextualizes what we thought was already resolved.
In The Dark Knight, Batman takes the fall for Harvey Dent’s crimes—a decision that saves Gotham’s soul but wrecks his own image. The emotional and moral costs are hidden at first, but they hit hard.
Try this: After a “win,” ask yourself, What could this cost the character later? Then make that cost show up at the worst possible time.
2. Narrow Their Choices
This one’s subtle but powerful: as the story moves forward, make your character’s options shrink. What they could’ve gotten away with in Act I? Gone. That friend they relied on?
Betrayed them.
That skill they leaned on?
No longer works.
In 1917, every scene strips away what the protagonist can depend on—comrades, time, even daylight. It’s like watching the world close in on him, and we can feel the pressure rising.
Why it works: Less choice = more tension. It forces decisions that are messy, compromised, and meaningful.
3. Evolve the Antagonist
Flat antagonists are tension-killers. A great way to raise the stakes is to let the antagonist level up—not just in power, but in strategy and complexity.
Think about Killing Eve.
Villanelle starts out as a chaotic killer, but as the series goes on, she gets smarter, more emotionally unpredictable, and (frustratingly) more relatable. It raises the emotional and strategic stakes for Eve in every episode.
Bonus tip: Let the villain learn from the hero’s moves. It turns the plot into a chess game, not a chase scene.
4. Undermine What the Hero Depends On
Strip away safety. That could be their reputation, their resources, or even their belief in themselves. Nothing raises stakes faster than seeing someone lose what they thought they could count on.
In The Martian, Mark Watney has to survive on Mars. But just when things are going okay?
The habitat explodes. His potatoes freeze. His ride home changes course. We care not just because it’s dangerous, but because we watched him build something—and now it’s taken from him.
The loss of stability, even temporarily, makes the stakes feel alive and dangerous again.
5. Shift What’s at Risk
Sometimes, tension drops because the thing that’s at stake has stopped evolving. You can raise it by simply shifting the target. What starts as “save my job” becomes “save my family,” which later becomes “save my soul.”
In The Last of Us, Joel’s initial goal is practical: transport the girl. But what’s really at stake evolves—from obligation to emotional vulnerability. By the time we hit the climax, what he’s risking isn’t just survival—it’s who he’s willing to be in order to protect someone he now loves.
So if things feel flat, ask: What’s really at risk now that wasn’t before? And pivot into that.
Keeping the stakes climbing doesn’t mean constant chaos. It’s more like pressure cooking—tightening the screws slowly, until everything feels fragile. And that’s when readers lean in.
Where and When to Raise the Stakes (Structure Is Your Friend)
Now let’s zoom out.
You’ve got all these great ways to raise the stakes—but when should you use them?
There’s a rhythm to how tension builds in a story, and if you raise the stakes at the wrong time—or not at all—it can throw off everything from pace to tone.
So let’s talk about placement—how to align rising stakes with structure, and how to avoid that dreaded “mid-act mush.”
Act I: Anchor Us in Personal Stakes Early
The biggest mistake I see here? Going too big, too fast. Don’t start with the world at risk—start with someone’s world at risk. Their job, their pride, their relationship. We need a clear baseline of what matters to this character before anything gets threatened.
In Up, we care about Carl not because he wants to go to Paradise Falls, but because we saw what he lost. Those first 10 minutes are a masterclass in personal stakes.
So in Act I: establish the “why” behind the conflict, and plant the seeds of what could be lost—emotionally and practically.
Act II-A: Complicate the Stakes (Don’t Just Raise Them)
Now that we care, it’s time to widen the circle. This is where you start introducing moral stakes, public stakes, and conflicting priorities. Escalation through complexity, not just danger.
In Breaking Bad, Walter starts off trying to protect his family. But by the midpoint, he’s lying to them, putting them in danger, and compromising his own values. The stakes didn’t just rise—they got murky.
So here: Tangle things up. Make winning cost something. Introduce new risks, and force your character to prioritize.
Act II-B: Pull the Rug Out
This is where you earn your raise-the-stakes badge. Something needs to shift or break here—an alliance, a worldview, a moral line. And the best version of this? It changes the audience’s understanding of what the story really is.
In Get Out, Chris realizes the house isn’t just creepy—it’s a literal trap. The stakes go from uncomfortable social tension to body horror. That pivot locks us in for the rest of the ride.
Don’t just escalate—reveal the bigger picture, and show the true cost of failure.
Act III: Stack the Stakes
This is it—the collision. All the personal, public, and moral stakes should crash together in Act III. We’re not adding new stakes here—we’re paying off what we’ve already built.
In The Hunger Games, Katniss isn’t just trying to survive. She’s trying to protect Peeta, make a political statement, and hold onto her humanity. The finale isn’t bigger in scale—it’s heavier in meaning.
Here’s a quick checklist for your final act:
- Are all levels of stakes present?
- Does the protagonist have to choose between two bad options?
- Do they risk becoming something they feared?
If yes? You’re landing the plane beautifully.
Before You Leave…
If you’ve made it this far, I hope you’re already thinking about ways to tighten the screws in your own work. Whether you’re outlining your next novel, breaking story in a writers’ room, or fixing a limp third act, remember this: Stakes are what turn scenes into story.
Conflict alone won’t cut it—not for expert audiences, not for you, and definitely not for readers. It’s the meaning behind the conflict that keeps people locked in. That’s what tension is: the fear that something valuable might be lost.
So yeah, raise the stakes. But more importantly—raise the right ones, at the right time, in the most human way possible.
Catch you next time.
And hey—good luck raising hell on the page.