I've been thinking about making a post like this for a while, but I seem to be particularly inspired today, so: promises! Let's take a look at the emotional core of progression and why it's so compelling. This is something that I actively studied and worked on about 2-3 years ago and then refined into a cleaner understanding around the middle of last year. If you're looking to write PF, then my opinion is that you should at least be aware of these underlying mechanisms of progression. It helps in developing power systems.

What are those underlying mechanisms, you ask? Simple! It's all about the promises you're making.

There are other resources out there that cover the standard loops in progression and how a protagonist typically cycles through them. That's not what I want to talk about here. I want to talk about how we, as readers, experience these cycles of progression--and how the best progression stories out there almost universally play into this.

As an aside: this will seem obvious to some and invisible to others. It's a technical look at the driving forces behind progression. It's not a reflection of my reasons for writing or the themes I put into my work, but it does reflect my understanding of how to put together a story that's compelling while still carrying the themes and ideas I want to carry. I'm not perfect, but I strive to improve book to book.

We start with a simple question: what is the reader looking forward to?

A promise is, frankly, intrinsic to almost all forms of fiction and creative media in general. You begin with a premise (which is a type of promise), and [the reader] becomes excited about something based on that premise. If I really like a premise, I'm more willing to give a story leeway as I wait for that premise to kick off--your title, blurb, and cover all play into my expectations when I start a story.

And let's not forget the genre.

LitRPG, for example, ratifies these promises into something tangible. For the most part, someone going into a LitRPG story can expect to look forward to levels, skills, and classes. Someone going into cultivation can expect to look forward to tiers, techniques, and laws. You can absolutely work outside of these bounds, but the further outside you go, the more you're going to have to define what we have to look forward to. Is it the next spell? Some sort of microchip upgrade? What do you, the author, want me to be most excited about?

A typical LitRPG will operate by intertwining these mechanical cycles of progression: When you get a level, you get stat points. The stat points might push you closer toward getting a skill (which is the next thing we're excited about). The level might also push you closer toward getting a class (which is usually the Big Thing we're excited about). Class just unlocked? Well, now we've got a whole new suite of skills to be excited about. Done leveling up all your skills? Whoops, almost time for the next class evolution.

Intertwining these promises--or tension levers--is a big part of what keeps progression exciting and what makes us want to keep turning the page. Any system you build should be built with this understanding of the reader experience. Your goal is not to just "have a system". Your goal is to "have something exciting coming soon".

Which runs us into our second point: why should the reader care?

Look, a lot of aspiring authors write progression. The basic elements are simple enough that you can capture them by accident--a classic LitRPG literally has these tension levers all built in by default (which, as an aside, is also why they appear to succeed more; it is quite literally harder to not write those tension levers than it is to write them. It's also why making changes to a system can break the feeling of progression if it's being done just to be "unique" and end up working against a story or make it harder to write).

But if that were all there is to it, there wouldn't be tier lists and favorites and stories that do better or worse at capturing that feeling of progression. There's no reason to be excited about the next class evolution or next skill level if there's no reason to care, and that is easier said than done.

(Aside: Yes, there are exceptions. There are exceptions to pretty much everything in writing. "Crunch" and "theorycrafting" are also promises that draw in readers--they're outside the scope of this particular breakdown, though. If you work with them or enjoy those elements, you'll likely understand what I mean from this aside alone.)

Promises work in tandem with payoffs. When you show you can fulfill a promise you've made, you build trust with the reader. This is at least part of the picture: you have to demonstrate that the skills the character is gaining have an impact and that the class matters in the context of the world and the plot. This is part of the reason we have stratified tiers in so many forms of progression, whether we're talking about class milestones in LitRPG or ranks in cultivation--they contextualize what's been gained against the world.

Another thing that builds into it is something my writing circle would define as the "emotional core", i.e. "why this matters in the context of the MC's personal struggles, and why the reader cares about the MC's personal struggles". Lindon in Cradle, for example, has several distinct driving factors that all build into the emotional core of his journey (his relationship with his father, Sacred Valley's relationship with the world at large, the potential future that might befall the valley, and later the conflicts he's embroiled in). You'll notice that every time a promise is fulfilled (i.e. he advances in some way), it's often juxtaposed against one of these elements, because they're the reasons his advancement matters.

And now for our third point: anticipation is based on specificity.

I thought about phrasing this one as a question, but I think it works better this way.

With all this talk about making promises, it's worth also pointing out that being specific matters. In more scientific terms, I'd probably say something like "a good promise is accurate, but not precise". This one's easier to explain via example and (my own personal) reactions:

--

• Bob will grow stronger soon.

My reaction: ...Kay, cool.

• Bob will overcome the barrier that's been preventing him from evolving the [Identify] skill.

My reaction: Ooh, neat. I wonder how the skill will evolve? Maybe he'll finally figure out what the deal is with [Undefined Object].

• Bob will soon overcome the barrier that's been preventing him from evolving the [Identify] skill. It will evolve into [Ahkashic Key], which will let him identify [Undefined Object], which is actually the secret to defeating the Dark Lord (it will blow him up).

My reaction: That's cool, but uh... does that mean the story's over?

--

I exaggerated a little. But still! The point is that in order for a promise to work--in order for a reader to look forward to what comes next--we need to have some idea of what's coming next, but we shouldn't know exactly what's coming next. If we have enough information to be able to speculate and make accurate guesses, even better! Although that kind of leans into the whole crunch/theorycrafting thing. Your mileage may vary; the specificity of a promise is probably the most subjective part of the process.

Anyway! That's what I've got. If you're trying to design a system or write PF, I hope it helps. They're the basic tenets of what I look at when I'm writing a new concept and trying to build on it (along with themes and characters and so on, but that's a different post).