First, Build a Messy Human
The term “character-first” sounds obvious, but in practice, it’s a radical departure from how much television gets made. It isn’t about creating a hero to service a plot; it’s about building a person so specific and contradictory that their desires, flaws,
and bad decisions become the plot. Waller-Bridge’s advice to other writers is telling: she suggests tapping into what you are feeling yourself and writing from that place of authenticity. She has spoken about writing not for a faceless audience, but to make a single, trusted friend laugh. The result is a foundation of startling honesty. A character-first approach means starting with the internal question—'What does this person want, and what lie do they believe about themselves?'—before ever asking what happens to them. The external events of the story then become a consequence of the character’s inner life, not the other way around. It’s the difference between a puppet being moved through a story and a person who sets the world in motion.
Let Character Drive the Plot
Look at 'Killing Eve,' which Waller-Bridge adapted for its first season. The premise is a cat-and-mouse spy thriller, but that’s not what the show is truly about. The series is powered by the specific, magnetic pull between two people: Eve Polastri, a bored intelligence officer craving excitement, and Villanelle, a psychopathic assassin who delights in chaos. Their mutual obsession is the story's engine. The plot doesn’t happen to them; they create it with every impulsive, questionable, and deeply personal choice they make. Eve’s transformation from a desk jockey to someone capable of violence isn't a plot twist; it's the logical endpoint of her character's deep-seated desires being unleashed. In a lesser show, a case file would drive the action. In 'Killing Eve,' the action is driven by Eve wondering, 'What would she wear?' or Villanelle thinking, 'How can I get her to notice me?' The characters are the narrative's cause, not its effect.
Weaponize Vulnerability
Nowhere is Waller-Bridge’s method more apparent than in 'Fleabag' and its iconic use of the fourth-wall break. That knowing glance to the camera isn't just a stylistic gimmick; it’s the show's entire psychological thesis made visible. Fleabag is performing for us, her secret friend, to distract herself from a well of grief and shame. Her charm is a defense mechanism. We are her confidante, her crutch, and the one she turns to when the reality of a situation is too painful or absurd to bear alone. The device becomes truly masterful in season two when another character—Andrew Scott's Priest—notices her doing it. He sees her looking away, at us. This isn’t just a clever trick; it’s a profound character moment. He sees her, truly sees her, in a way no one else can. Waller-Bridge herself explained that she saw his relationship with God as a mirror to Fleabag's relationship with the camera—both feel constantly witnessed. The fourth-wall break, a formal device, is fully integrated into the protagonist's emotional journey.
The Lesson for a Crowded Landscape
So what does this mean for the dozens of new shows vying for attention each fall? It means that a killer premise about time-traveling detectives or a zombie-infested suburbia is no longer enough. In a world of infinite choice, viewers don't just follow plots; they build relationships with characters. A high concept might earn a curious click, but a deep, flawed, and achingly human character is what earns devotion. The Waller-Bridge approach proves that the most valuable asset a show can have is a person viewers feel they know intimately. It’s the messy, contradictory, vulnerable core of a character that makes an audience lean in, forgive their mistakes, and follow them anywhere. As new shows roll out their big ideas, the ones that will still be talked about next year will be those that understood the real story was never about the premise, but about the person at its center.
