5. Narrative in systems: How to tell stories about complexity
My background is in theatre. I began several decades ago as a playwright, writing scripts to be performed on stage.
When I began collaborating with scientists, I very quickly saw the parallels between making a play and running a model scenario. Both a playscript and a model start out with a set of given conditions, then ask: ‘If this situation were to occur, what would be the result?’ Scientists use models to think through possibilities and scenarios just as plays invite an audience to reflect on their world.
Scientists sometimes even use elements from theatre and the arts when sharing their models. I’ve seen researchers engage participants with scripts, costumes and roleplaying activities.
This it not to say that all theatre is modelling, or that plays are simply model simulations. Artforms like theatre can’t be reduced to a single functional definition.
But what theatre and other storytelling arts do is to engage people in the practice of imaginatively reconsidering their world. Some of the tools that theatre-makers deploy to achieve this can be brought into the world of science research, policy and design.
How do you tell a story about complexity?
Complex systems are abstract, impersonal and operate on timescales and spaces that are beyond easy comprehension.
Humans, in contrast, are narrative creatures. We make sense of the world through stories. We instinctively search for characters, motives and stories in the impersonal behaviour of complex systems — and we struggle when we can’t find them. This is the breeding ground for conspiracy theories, where we find ourselves mapping familiar human motivations on to opaque and abstract processes.
The solution is not to avoid stories, but to find ways to talk about complex systems that use stories meaningfully.
The best example of the meeting of complex systems and story that I know of is the Tjukurrpa — the body of lore that connects Australian First Nations people with the desert. There are many Tjukurrpa (this is a Warlpiri word), and together they govern Indigenous Australians’ relationship with the land and with society. Within the Tjukurrpa, narratives such as the Two Men and the Red Kangaroo are maps. By following these stories, Indigenous travellers can traverse the desert and live in otherwise inhospitable country.
‘Every man I lived with in the Great Sandy Desert knew the location of every waterhole, through the narratives of the Tjukurrpa (the most important of which are called Tingarri here) in every place we visited over areas of at least 40,000 square kilometres. I recall crossing the Nullarbor Plain with senior men who had never seen the sea, yet who took me to gorges and other locations on the Nullarbor coast they knew through song. Their memory was so complete that in one location they could identify and name individual boulders.’
Compared with the longterm success of Indigenous cultures, our society is incredibly immature. I believe we can learn from First Nations practices of stewardship for the land, but also from their deeper understanding of how to speak about systems — not as abstract impersonal forces, but as characters in a story we are a small part of.
One of the biggest parts of my job, day to day, is finding the right narratives to help us engage with complex systems.
Genre
When Boho developed Best Festival Ever for University College London, we spent a long time searching for a narrative that would allow us to navigate the complex system of a music festival. We settled on an interlinked story following three characters — a festival producer, an up-and-coming musician, and a first-time festival punter. Their separate journeys throughout the weekend, and their occasional meetings, provided us with our narrative spine.
Even more important than the plot was the tone. What style of storytelling would best allow us to traverse the music festival dynamics we wanted to discuss?
We created an underdog narrative, a classic tale of triumph against the odds. Each of our three characters begins as a struggling failure. Through the trial by fire of the disastrous festival, they transform into heroes.
It’s a familiar stereotype, but that was the point. Once we had that genre to refer to, we had a set of familiar storytelling tropes. Participants recognise the genre instantly, which allows for a kind of pleasure as they recognise each story beat when it arrives.
That kind of narrative shorthand turns out to be useful when you’re hopping between interactive games and micro-discussions on aspects of complex systems science.
When Jordan Prosser and I began exploring the future of pop music and genetic databases for CrimeForce: LoveTeam, we also went looking for a genre. We had a set of future scenarios, different possible futures for how music might sound in the year 2050 and what kind of biosurveillance laws might be in place. We needed a way to introduce these scenarios to an audience — and again, a narrative was our spine.
Jordan suggested that we use a police procedural — the classic detective story of which Law and Order is the archetype. A good police procedural offers a snapshot of a variety of locations, which the police visit on the trail of the culprit.
There’s the crime scene, there’s some kind of chase through a sleazy black market district, there’s an encounter with the wealthy 1%, and a showdown at the villain’s hideout. In a few short scenes you get a snapshot of society and a sense of how it functions — perfect for illustrating our future society in the year 2050.
These lighthearted genres worked well for these projects, but of course, a more serious topic needs a different approach.
Multiple perspectives
In 2017, Forum for the Future’s School for Systems Change commissioned Coney and Boho to create 95 Years or Less.
The system we were modelling was the Harapan rainforest in Sumatra, Indonesia. The forest has recently been turned over to a consortium of NGOs to manage on a 95 year lease as an ‘ecological concession’, meaning no timber can be taken from it.
This is a welcome move to protect the forest from being cleared and turned into palm oil plantations, but it also presents a unique challenge. Right now, Harapan’s conservation is being paid for by international NGOs and sponsors. That funding is unlikely to extend for 95 years. Harapan has to become economically self-sustaining — but how?
Tensions in the area have been high, with the Indigenous Batin Sembilan community being blocked from some of their traditional activities by the rules of the concession, and clashes between the managing NGO and migrant farmers who have arrived in the region hoping to earn money from palm oil. These tensions are exacerbated by palm oil companies agitating for access to the land, illegal burnings, and even violent clashes.
The question of narrative was a tricky one. There are obvious sensitivities in telling this story, as well as a wealth of different perspectives and stakeholders to view the situation from.
The approach we took in 95 Years or Less was to leap between perspectives in a series of games that went from the very large timescale to the very small.
To begin with, players took on the role of the forest itself, as we created a 300 year history in 3 minutes. Storms, droughts and fires caused the forest to change its shape from the earliest seeds blown in by the wind to a fully mature forest ecosystem.
We then zoomed in to take in the perspective of interacting species in the forest — beetles, wild bearded pigs, Nipah ferns, river fish and so on, following how each connects to the other.
Then we looked at humans and the challenges and struggles for smallholders in the system to make decisions about their land.
Leaping from perspective to perspective like this gives people a taste of the different stakeholders at play within the system, their different (and sometimes conflicting) needs, and the challenge of balancing all their needs against each other.
At its best, storytelling and narrative allows us to practice empathy. Good systems narratives build up our capacity to see the world from different viewpoints. As we move in a world filled with countless different actors operating from different perspectives, empathy is a critical survival skill.
1. We live in systems: Becoming aware of what surrounds us
The disasters were designed by us — cuckoo clocks vs ants nests — the humility of systems thinking — seeing deep patterns — my practice as a writer, theatre artist and game designer, tools & techniques for thinking about the world
2. How to make a model: The art of systems modelling
What is a model? — maps on napkins vs satellite images — as simple as possible but no simpler — Best Festival Ever: modelling a disaster
3. A snapshot of everything: Tools for systems mapping
Mapping a Swedish forest — thousand year old oak trees — resilience assessments — a walk through the woods — Democratic Nature —
4. The future doesn’t exist: Scenarios and prediction
Why bother trying to predict the future? — the practice of creating scenarios — there are four possible futures — CrimeForce: LoveTeam
5. Narrative in systems: How to tell stories about complexity
Are theatre shows systems models? — underdog narratives & police procedurals — perspectives on an Indonesian rainforest in 95 Years or Less
6. Creating an experience: What design and dramaturgy teach us about worldbuilding
Theatre as rehearsal for revolution — dramaturgy & design thinking — tactility in Get The Kids and Run — collective experiences in Gobyerno
7. Don’t play games, make games: Interactivity in complex systems
Games are systems — game theory in Temperature Check — calculating risk in Busy Mayors — skilltesters vs decision-makers in Run A Bank
8. Lessons learned
Final thoughts — steering 9 billion people through a century of climate and global change — working with time instead of against it -
