Should Your Protagonist Be the Problem-Solver in Your Story?

I used to think the answer to this question was obvious. Of course your protagonist should solve the problem. They’re the hero. That’s the whole point… right?

But the more I read — and the more I wrote — the more I realized that this “rule” isn’t actually a rule. It’s more like a default setting. And sometimes, the most interesting stories happen when you tweak the settings.

So let’s talk about it. Should your protagonist be the one fixing everything? Or can your story actually get stronger when they don’t?

Why We Expect the Hero to Fix Things

We’re wired to expect the main character to take charge. When I pick up a thriller or fantasy novel, I want to see the protagonist make choices that shape the outcome. If someone else swoops in and solves everything, it feels… disappointing.

Think about Harry Potter. If Dumbledore handled every major threat while Harry just watched from the sidelines, would the series feel the same? Not even close. Harry’s decisions — going after the Sorcerer’s Stone, forming Dumbledore’s Army, walking into the forest — are what give the story its emotional weight.

When your protagonist is the problem-solver:

• They have agency. The story moves because they act.
• The stakes feel personal. Their success or failure matters.
• Growth feels earned. They change because they struggle.
• The payoff satisfies. We feel the victory with them.

In action-driven genres especially, readers expect the main character to carry the burden. Katniss volunteers. Frodo carries the ring. Sherlock solves the case. If they didn’t, the stories would collapse.

But here’s the interesting part: not all stories are about defeating the villain or solving the mystery.

Sometimes they’re about something else entirely.

When It’s More Powerful If They Don’t Solve It

This is where things get fun.

There are plenty of powerful stories where the protagonist does not fix the central external problem — and that’s exactly why they work.

Coming-of-age stories

In many coming-of-age novels, the protagonist doesn’t change the world. They change themselves.

In The Catcher in the Rye, Holden doesn’t “solve” anything. He doesn’t fix society. He doesn’t win some big external battle. The real movement is internal — his growing awareness of his own vulnerability. The problem isn’t the world; it’s his relationship to it.

Tragedies

In tragedies, failure is often the point.

Take Macbeth. He doesn’t solve the problem; he creates it. And his inability to escape the consequences drives the story. If he suddenly redeemed himself and fixed everything neatly, it wouldn’t be a tragedy anymore.

Sometimes the inability to solve the problem reveals the theme more clearly than success ever could.

Stories about powerlessness

In war novels or dystopian fiction, characters often can’t control the system they’re trapped in.

In The Handmaid’s Tale, Offred doesn’t overthrow Gilead. Her lack of power reinforces the horror of the regime. The story’s tension comes from survival, not revolution.

If she single-handedly toppled the government, the message would shift completely.

Ensemble casts

In some stories, resolution is shared.

In The Avengers, no single hero saves the day alone. The victory only happens because of collective effort. Tony Stark isn’t the sole problem-solver. Neither is Captain America. The solution emerges from teamwork.

And that changes the emotional tone from “individual heroism” to shared responsibility.

What Actually Matters More Than Who Solves It

Here’s the question I’ve started asking myself when outlining a story:

What is this story really about?

Not the surface plot. Not the explosions or betrayals. The deeper thing.

If your story is about courage, then yeah — let your protagonist act. Let them take the risk. Let them solve the problem through their choices.

If your story is about acceptance, grief, or limitation, then solving the external problem might not even be the point.

Sometimes the real “solution” is:

• Letting go
• Facing the truth
• Owning a mistake
• Accepting loss
• Choosing integrity even when you lose

Look at Titanic. Rose doesn’t stop the ship from sinking. She can’t. That’s not the story. The story is about her choosing freedom, identity, and agency within disaster. She doesn’t solve the external catastrophe, but she solves the internal one.

And that’s often the key distinction.

Your protagonist must drive something — even if they don’t fix everything.

They should influence the emotional resolution. They should make meaningful choices. They should shape how the story feels at the end.

But they don’t always have to be the mechanic fixing the broken engine of the plot.

How I Decide for My Own Stories

When I’m stuck on this question, I walk myself through a few things.

First, I ask: What would feel most satisfying for this specific story? Not what’s “correct.” Not what craft books say. What actually fits.

Then I look at genre expectations. If I’m writing a mystery, readers expect the detective to solve the crime. Breaking that expectation would require a very intentional twist.

Then I ask something more uncomfortable: If my protagonist isn’t solving the problem, are they still active? Or are they just drifting?

There’s a huge difference between a character who can’t control the outcome and a character who doesn’t try.

Even in stories where the protagonist fails, their effort matters.

In La La Land, neither character “wins” in the romantic sense. But they actively choose their paths. The story works because those choices define the ending.

That’s the nuance I think many writers miss. It’s not really about whether the protagonist fixes the big external conflict.

It’s about whether they own their arc.

If they’re passive, the story feels flat.

If they’re central to the emotional resolution — whether through action, failure, sacrifice, or growth — the story feels complete.

And honestly? That realization changed how I write. Sometimes the boldest move isn’t letting your protagonist save the day.

Sometimes it’s letting them try — and then asking what that attempt reveals about who they really are.

When Letting Your Protagonist Fail Makes the Story Better

Let’s talk about something that makes a lot of writers uncomfortable: letting the protagonist fail.

I don’t mean small setbacks. I mean real failure. The kind where they don’t defeat the villain. They don’t win the relationship. They don’t fix the system. They don’t get what they wanted.

At first, that feels wrong. We’ve been trained to think stories are about victory. But sometimes, failure is the most honest outcome available.

Think about Breaking Bad. Walter White technically “solves” many problems along the way. He outsmarts rivals. He escapes danger. He builds an empire. But if we zoom out, he fails in the most important sense. He destroys his family. He becomes the very thing he once feared. The show isn’t about him winning. It’s about watching his moral collapse.

And that collapse is what makes it unforgettable.

The key here is this: failure must mean something. If your protagonist fails randomly or because the plot demands it, readers will feel cheated. But if they fail because of their flaw, their belief system, or the choices they made? That’s powerful.

Let’s look at Pride and Prejudice for a second. Elizabeth Bennet doesn’t “solve” Darcy’s pride. She doesn’t orchestrate every resolution. But she does confront her own prejudice. She misjudges Darcy. She rejects him. She grows. Her early failure of perception is essential to her arc.

If she had been perfectly insightful from the beginning, there would be no story.

This is what I’ve come to believe: the protagonist doesn’t need to control the world — but they must confront themselves.

Sometimes external failure highlights internal truth. In Manchester by the Sea, Lee can’t undo his past. He can’t repair everything. And that’s the point. The story’s emotional weight comes from the painful reality that some damage doesn’t disappear.

That doesn’t make him passive. It makes him human.

Now here’s where writers often get tripped up: they confuse “not solving the problem” with “not doing anything.”

Those are not the same.

A protagonist can:

• Try and fail.
• Try and partially succeed.
• Refuse to act and face consequences.
• Realize too late.
• Sacrifice something meaningful.
• Change internally even if the world doesn’t.

All of those are active narrative choices.

But if your protagonist just floats through events while other characters make all the meaningful decisions? That’s when readers disconnect.

Take Frodo in The Lord of the Rings. Here’s something people forget: he doesn’t actually choose to destroy the ring at the very end. He claims it. He fails in that final moment. The ring is destroyed because of Gollum’s intervention.

On paper, that sounds like a violation of the “hero must solve it” rule.

And yet the story works beautifully. Why? Because Frodo carried the burden. He endured the psychological erosion. He made the choice to take the ring to Mordor. His journey is what made the ending possible.

His failure doesn’t erase his heroism. It defines it.

That’s the nuance.

If your protagonist fails, ask yourself:

• Was the failure connected to their flaw?
• Did it reveal something essential?
• Did it cost them something?
• Did it change them?

If the answer is yes, you probably have something emotionally rich on your hands.

Sometimes the most satisfying ending isn’t “the hero wins.”

Sometimes it’s “the hero understands.”

And honestly? That kind of ending can linger much longer.

How to Decide What Your Story Really Needs

So how do you figure out whether your protagonist should solve the problem, fail to solve it, or share the solution?

This is where you have to get brutally honest about your story’s core.

I like to ask myself a few grounding questions before I commit to an ending.

What is the true central conflict?

Is your story about defeating an external threat? Or is it about wrestling with identity, love, guilt, power, freedom?

If the real conflict is internal, then the “solution” might not look like a battle victory.

In The Great Gatsby, Nick doesn’t fix Gatsby’s obsession. Gatsby doesn’t win Daisy. The American Dream isn’t redeemed. The point is disillusionment. The story delivers on that theme perfectly — because the ending reinforces it.

If you forced Gatsby to succeed romantically, the entire message would collapse.

What does your genre promise?

Genres come with emotional contracts.

If you’re writing a cozy mystery, readers expect the crime to be solved. If you’re writing a romance, readers expect emotional union. If you’re writing epic fantasy, readers expect confrontation with the central threat.

You can subvert genre — but do it consciously.

Game of Thrones shocked audiences by killing apparent protagonists. But notice something important: the world still moved forward because other characters stepped into agency. The narrative never felt empty.

Subversion works when it’s intentional, not accidental.

Is your protagonist active or reactive?

Here’s a quick gut-check I use.

Does your protagonist:

• Make difficult choices?
• Influence other characters?
• Change because of events?
• Create consequences?

Or are they simply responding while others lead?

Even in stories where the protagonist doesn’t solve the main problem, they should still be the emotional anchor.

In La La Land, Mia and Sebastian don’t end up together. They don’t “solve” the romantic conflict in the traditional way. But they actively choose career paths that cost them the relationship. Their decisions shape the ending.

That’s agency.

What emotional experience do you want readers to walk away with?

Empowerment?
Bittersweet longing?
Grief?
Hope?
Reflection?

The role of your protagonist in solving (or not solving) the problem directly shapes that emotional aftertaste.

When Katniss volunteers for Prim, we feel empowerment. When Lee Chandler in Manchester by the Sea can’t forgive himself, we feel sorrow and realism. When Gatsby dies chasing illusion, we feel tragic inevitability.

Each ending aligns with the story’s emotional goal.

That’s not accidental.

If you’re unsure, try this exercise: write two versions of your ending.

One where your protagonist directly solves the problem.

One where they don’t.

Then ask yourself which one feels truer — not safer, not more conventional — but truer.

I’ve done this, and I’ve surprised myself more than once.

Sometimes giving the protagonist total control makes the story feel shallow.

Sometimes taking that control away makes the story deeper.

The trick is remembering this: your protagonist doesn’t have to fix everything — but they must matter most.

If the ending could happen exactly the same way without them, you’ve got a problem.

If the ending feels like a direct consequence of who they are and what they chose, you’re on solid ground.

Before You Leave

If there’s one thing I hope you take from this, it’s this: don’t follow the “protagonist must solve the problem” rule blindly.

Ask what your story is really about.

Ask what emotional truth you’re trying to explore.

And most importantly, make sure your protagonist drives the heart of the story — whether through triumph, failure, sacrifice, or growth.

That’s what readers remember.