How to Avoid the Mary-Sue Syndrome i.e. Too-Perfect Characters

Most of us don’t sit down intending to write a “Mary Sue.” We’re building characters we care about, admire, maybe even aspire to. And yet… sometimes, despite our best intentions, we end up creating someone who feels untouchable.

Too smooth.

Too right.

And suddenly, readers start disengaging—not because the character is good at things, but because they never really lose, struggle, or face consequences that stick.

The issue isn’t perfection; it’s narrative invincibility.

This is especially tricky for experienced writers.

We know our characters need flaws, but sometimes we tuck those flaws into backstory or use them as decorative seasoning instead of letting them drive the drama. And that’s where things quietly unravel.

What I want to explore in this post is how subtle this trap can be, and how we, as seasoned storytellers, can spot and dismantle it before it breaks tension or undercuts depth.

Why “Too Perfect” Characters Actually Break the Story

Here’s the thing: characters can be good at stuff. They can be brilliant, strong, admired—even legendary. What breaks the story isn’t what they can do—it’s the fact that what happens around them no longer feels like it matters.

Let me explain with an example we all know: James Bond. He’s capable, suave, lethal. But early Bond—particularly the Fleming-era Bond or even Daniel Craig’s take—isn’t flawless. He bleeds, both literally and metaphorically.

He gets outsmarted. His choices often cost him people he cares about. That pain lingers. That’s why audiences stick with him.

But in contrast, think of Rey in the Star Wars sequels. Regardless of how you feel about her, she sparked this exact conversation.

She’s powerful—and that’s not the problem. It’s that her arc rarely forces her to earn her growth. Her Force abilities evolve off-screen.

Emotional stakes seem weightless. She rarely pays a price for mistakes, because the narrative lifts her instead of grounding her. And that’s what triggers the “Mary Sue” label—not competence, but consequence-proof writing.

Let’s Talk About Narrative Immunity

This is the core issue. Characters become flat when they’re shielded from true narrative consequences. Not just plot-level stuff, but emotional, interpersonal, moral consequences that change them.

You ever write a scene where your protagonist screws up—and it somehow makes everything better?

Or where their darkest moment is still so noble that everyone forgives them within three pages?

That’s narrative immunity in action. And the more you let it slide, the more you sap your story of tension.

Think about Walter White from Breaking Bad.

The man is a genius. But that’s not why we’re watching. We’re glued to him because every step of his journey costs him something—his marriage, his self-respect, his soul. He doesn’t just act; he transforms. He fails. Spectacularly. And that makes his genius bear weight.

But Isn’t It Okay to Have Competent Characters?

Absolutely. We need characters who can take action, who do make things happen. Competence is not the enemy. In fact, one of the biggest myths in this whole “Mary Sue” discourse is that we have to sand down our characters’ strengths to make them “relatable.”

No.

What we have to do is give their strengths friction.

Example? Lisa Simpson. She’s smart, gifted, morally centered—and yet her intellect alienates her. Her idealism isolates her. Her strengths create conflict, not convenience. That’s the pivot we need.

High Stakes Require High Vulnerability

If your protagonist is going to change the world, they need to be at risk of breaking under the weight of that responsibility. And not just externally—internally. What belief might they have to give up? What part of themselves might they betray to win?

Characters who are too perfect aren’t just boring—they’re safe. And safe characters don’t push stories forward.

So before we even get into the checklist of red flags in Part 3, here’s the question I ask myself now when building characters:
“What can this person lose—and are they allowed to lose it?”

Because if the answer is “nothing,” I know I’ve got a problem.

How to Spot a “Too Perfect” Character Before Your Readers Do

We’ve all had that moment where a beta reader—or worse, a stranger on Goodreads—hits you with the dreaded, “This character feels kind of… unrealistic.” And as experts, that stings. Because we know how much nuance we built into that character. We know their backstory, their psychology, their theme-level role in the story structure.

But sometimes, despite our best efforts, the character still reads as “too perfect.” Why?

Because flaws on paper don’t mean flaws on the page. What matters is how those flaws shape what actually happens.

So here’s a list of red flags I’ve learned to look for—both in my own work and when editing others’. Some are loud. Some are subtle. But together, they tend to signal that something’s off.

1. Skills Without Context

A character suddenly speaks six languages, masters swordsmanship in a week, or hacks into a military database without any prior setup? That’s a problem. Even in speculative fiction, we need scaffolding. Readers don’t need a training montage, but they need to see effort, or at least limitations.

Think of Neo in The Matrix. He becomes “The One,” but only after we’ve watched him fail, get beat down, doubt himself, and train his ass off. The payoff is earned.

2. Everyone Around Them Thinks They’re Amazing

If your character is never seriously challenged—emotionally, ideologically, morally—by anyone around them, you’re in dangerous territory.

Are they the smartest person in every room?
Do allies always defer?
Do enemies only exist to prove how right your hero is?

This kind of narrative bias shows up when side characters start functioning as cheerleaders instead of people.

In contrast, look at Tony Stark. Even as a genius billionaire superhero, he’s surrounded by characters (Pepper, Cap, Fury, Peter Parker) who argue with him, call him out, or force him to confront his failures.

3. Mistakes Always Work Out in Their Favor

This one’s sneaky. Your character messes up—but wait! It turns out the mistake accidentally helped the plot. Or it gave the villain false info. Or it earned them sympathy. In other words, they’re not really failing—they’re just… plot-surfing.

It kills stakes.

Katniss Everdeen wins our trust not because she’s hyper-competent, but because her mistakes hurt—Rue dies, Peeta almost dies, rebellions get out of control. And she carries the weight of those choices.

4. Antagonists Are Dumb or Cartoonishly Evil

This is less about your character and more about their ecosystem. A perfect character might not seem so perfect if they’re constantly up against real challenges.

If your villains are flat, incompetent, or exist only to be defeated, then your protagonist’s success feels inevitable. And inevitability is the enemy of tension.

Consider Killmonger from Black Panther. He’s compelling because he’s not wrong. He forces T’Challa to evolve. The hero gets better because of the villain—not in spite of him.

5. Flaws Only Exist in Backstory

Here’s a classic misstep: giving your character a tragic backstory (dead parents, past trauma, survivor’s guilt) but not letting it affect their present-day decisions in meaningful ways.

Flaws need to be operational, not ornamental.

If your character’s trauma doesn’t leak into how they trust, how they fight, or how they love, then it’s not a flaw—it’s a narrative accessory.

6. They Always Have the Right Answer

No matter the situation, your character always picks the morally correct option, wins the debate, or sacrifices just enough to stay noble. That’s fine once or twice—but across an entire story? It becomes predictable.

Conflict isn’t just about what a character chooses, but why they’re conflicted.

The Leftovers gives us characters like Kevin Garvey who want to be good, but often don’t know how. That ambiguity creates real, sticky drama. That’s what readers remember.

Final Check: Ask the Ecosystem

One trick I use is what I call the ecosystem test. If I removed this character from the story, what would happen to the rest of the cast?

Would they collapse without the hero?
Would all the tension evaporate?
Would no one step up or grow?

If so, the protagonist might not be a character—they might be a crutch.

How to Fix It: Build Depth, Not Damage Control

Okay, so let’s say you’ve spotted the signs. Now what? You don’t want to sand your character down to mediocrity. You want them to stay powerful, inspiring, even admirable. But they need texture—real, earned complexity.

This is where the real writing work begins.

1. Build Contradictions Into Their Core

Instead of thinking of “flaws” as weaknesses, think of contradictions as fuel. The best characters are the ones who are two things at once.

Brave but reckless.
Loyal but obsessive.
Idealistic but manipulative.

These contradictions should affect how they make decisions—and create friction with other characters.

BoJack Horseman is a great example. He’s selfish and self-aware. He wants to be loved but keeps sabotaging his relationships. That duality drives the entire series.

2. Make Flaws Hurt—And Affect the Plot

It’s not enough for your character to have a flaw. That flaw should actively complicate their journey.

Let their insecurity push an ally away. Let their arrogance cause a mission to fail. Let their idealism blind them to manipulation.

The more the character suffers because of themselves, the more real they become.

3. Let Other Characters Drive the Story Too

If your protagonist is the only one making decisions or causing change, the story becomes a one-man (or one-woman) show. That feels artificial.

Give side characters real agency. Let them be right when the protagonist is wrong.

One reason Stranger Things works so well is because everyone gets moments of heroism. Eleven is powerful—but it’s Dustin, Nancy, Steve, and others who keep things grounded.

4. Give Them a Blind Spot They Don’t Fix

Not every arc has to resolve into healing. Some flaws should stay flawed. It makes the resolution richer when a character succeeds in spite of themselves—or even fails because of what they couldn’t change.

Don Draper never really “fixes” his issues. He learns to manage them. And that’s far more relatable than a tidy, redemptive bow.

5. Use Consequence Loops

Here’s something I wish I learned earlier: characters become interesting when their past actions echo.

Let decisions haunt them. Let success create new problems. Create cause-and-effect loops where the character’s own actions shape their future terrain.

In The Expanse, Holden tries to expose corruption, and ends up triggering war. His idealism has real cost—and real weight.

Bonus Tip: Let Them Lose

I get it—your hero is important to you. But you’ve got to let them lose. Not just physically. Philosophically. Morally. Emotionally.

Let them make the wrong call. Let the audience squirm.

Because real humans screw up. And it’s in those moments—those raw, ugly stumbles—that we love them more.

Final Thoughts

At the end of the day, avoiding the Mary Sue trap isn’t about weakening your characters. It’s about trusting the power of imperfection. Real people are messy, inconsistent, and beautifully contradictory—and the more your characters reflect that, the more your story sticks the landing.

Let them struggle. Let them lose. Let them be brilliant and broken.

That’s where the good stuff lives.