Screenwriting : What Stories Owe Us by Adam Spencer

In his recent blog post, “How Modern Franchises Became Our New Religion,” Jean-Pierre Magro articulated something I’ve felt for a long time but have rarely seen named with such clarity: the idea that modern audiences inhabit these worlds the way earlier generations inhabited myth and faith.

That observation carries weight.

And it opens a door to a question I believe we, as storytellers, can’t afford to ignore.

If franchises are becoming the new churches, then storytellers are no longer just entertainers. We are—whether we intend it or not—custodians of meaning.

People don’t turn to these stories simply for distraction or spectacle anymore.

They arrive carrying very real needs—psychological, emotional, even spiritual—that older institutions are no longer meeting.

And if audiences step into our worlds to feel something restored, recognized, or re-centered, then the responsibility on our side becomes larger than:

“How do we keep them coming back?”

The far better question is:

“What do they need when they come here?”

The needs seem obvious once we name them:

• Grief that has nowhere else to metabolize.

• Loneliness that algorithms can’t soothe.

• Moral confusion without wanting dogma.

• A longing for connection in a fragmented landscape.

• Exhaustion with endless “us vs. them” narratives.

• A readiness for stories that don’t require annihilation to reach resolution.

These aren’t abstract concepts.

They’re the quiet conditions people carry into the theater, the book, the game, the streaming series. And in the absence of older structures, stories now bear the weight of helping people make sense of themselves—

whether or not they were designed with that responsibility in mind.

Which brings us back to craft.

Stories teach.

Even when they don’t intend to.

The architecture of a fictional world always becomes a kind of rehearsal for how we imagine living in our own.

Conflict engines matter.

Resolutions matter.

The difference between integration and annihilation matters.

When a narrative teaches that victory requires obliteration, it reinforces that worldview.

When it teaches that opponents can be changed, understood, or folded back into coherence, it shapes something entirely different.

Neither approach is “wrong.”

But one is more costly to the inner life of the audience.

And if we accept Jean-Pierre’s premise—that franchises now occupy the social and psychological space religion once held—then the ethical question becomes unavoidable:

What are we teaching people about themselves when we let them inhabit our worlds?

This doesn’t mean stories must preach.

It simply means stories must care.

Care about the psychic conditions of the people who enter them.

Care about the emotional architecture we build under the plot.

Care about the moral physics we encode into the narrative.

Because people will live in these worlds long after the credits roll.

They will use them to understand their pain, their relationships, their losses, their sense of belonging, their sense of what is possible.

If our stories truly function like modern myth, then myth-making becomes an act of custodianship.

In that light, Jean-Pierre’s essay isn’t just an analysis—it’s a call to responsibility.

A reminder that meaning is not a byproduct.

It’s the point.

And if modern franchises are functioning like religions, then those of us building worlds—any kind of world—should take care with the spiritual, emotional, and communal consequences of their design.

Not to moralize.

Not to dictate.

But to build with intention, knowing someone out there may be leaning on the story for more than entertainment.

Stories don’t need to save people.

But they shouldn’t harm them either.

And if we can meet the deeper needs honestly—not through manipulation, but through genuine human insight—people will return not because they were hooked, but because they were held.

That’s the kind of story ecosystem worth creating.