7 Misconceptions of Kishotenketsu

Kishotenketsu is a 4-part narrative structure prevalent in East Asia (specifically China, Japan, Korea, and Vietnam). And in recent years, it has made its way into Western writing communities . . . with, unfortunately, some misconceptions and misunderstandings.

But this is no time to reach for the pitchforks; these don't come from a place of malice, but innocence. Nor does this post come from a place of anger--I just want to clear up some of the confusion. Then we can all understand this structure better.

First, though, we should probably review what kishotenketsu is.

What is Kishotenketsu?

Kishotenketsu is a 4-part East Asian narrative structure. It originated from a type of 4-line Chinese poetry called qichengzhuanhe, but the word that has entered the English language is the Japanese name for the structure. It is pronounced as "key-show-ten-ketsu."

Ki = Introduction

This is the story's setup. The writer introduces the characters, world, or any other important information.

Sho = Development

The writer builds, expands, or escalates what was introduced, further developing the material. There may not be a striking difference between ki and sho, but in here, the narrative continues.

Ten = Turn

At ten, there is an unexpected turn or change in the story. This is often considered the "high point" of the narrative. It sometimes gets translated into "twist" (which I personally feel is misleading).

Ketsu = Conclusion

After the turn, the narrative concludes. Often what happens in the previous three parts gets adequately explained or reconciled in some way in here, so we have a new understanding or interpretation of what happened. 

This structure is used in film, novels, anime, manga, k-dramas, East Asian horror, and more. Here is an example of a famous Chinese poem to illustrate.

"Goodbye" by Wang Wei.

After bidding farewell among the mountains,

the sun sets. I close the wooden gate.

With every spring the grass turns green again,

my friend, I wonder if you will be back when it happens.

The first line introduces a situation. We get the setting, and it also implies at least two entities (because there is a farewell).

The second line develops or builds on that, with the speaker returning home.

The third line seems unrelated--why are we talking about green grass every spring?

The final line unites or connects them. The speaker is thinking about next spring, because he is wondering if the other person will return by then. 

In Japan, Osamu Tezuka is considered to be one of the greatest manga artists and animators of all time, having earned the titles "The Father of Manga" and "The God of Manga." In his book, How to Draw Manga, he gives several examples of kishotenketsu being used in 4-paneled comics (called yonkoma manga). Here is one:

Ki (Panel 1): An old man encourages a toddler to walk.

Sho (Panel 2): The man walks backward, and the toddler crawls nearer.

Ten (Panel 3): Walking backward, the old man falls.

Ketsu (Panel 4): Now battered, he crawls like a baby. The toddler, standing, applauds him.

The ten or turn, is that the old man falls, not the kid. It's an unexpected (and ironic) change, that the conclusion further validates.

While kishotenketsu originated from short-form narratives, it's (of course) been applied to long-form narratives as well. The award-winning Korean film Parasite is a great example. (Warning: spoilers)

Ki: We are introduced to the Kim family, who live in poverty. Kevin Kim's friend, who is leaving the country, suggests Kevin replace him as an English tutor for a wealthy couple's daughter. One problem: Kevin has to fake his credentials. His sister helps him forge his documents, and he gets the position. He immediately tries to get the wealthy family (The Parks) to hire his sister, by pretending she's a talented artist who can teach their son.

Sho: Over the next quarter of the story, each member of the Kim family gets another member hired, by sabotaging others and pretending the family member is someone they are not. The lies build, but the Kims' situation greatly improves. Sho clearly builds on ki.

Ten: While the Parks are out of town, the Kims take over their house. As they eat and dream of a better life, the old housekeeper they (covertly) got fired, shows up again, saying she left something in the basement. Mrs. Kim lets her in, but when she doesn't come back up, she goes downstairs and discovers another family is secretly living in the basement: the old housekeeper and her husband. This is a turn that completely changes the situation and story. 

As conflict breaks out between the families, each one is at risk of having the truth revealed to the Parks and losing everything.

Ketsu: The next day, the Parks host an impromptu party for their son, so the property is full of people. The Kims try to keep up appearances, while worrying about the housekeeper and her husband. The tension and conflict escalate, until eventually family members are attacking each other openly at the party. Members from each family end up dead.

In the end, Kevin and his mother live in poverty again, while his father now secretly lives in the basement at the wealthy house, a wanted man.

For a comprehensive explanation of kishotenketsu, with more examples, see Kishotenketsu Story Structure Explained.

7 Misconceptions of Kishotenketsu

1. Kishotenketsu has No Conflict

As kishotenketsu made its way to the West, it was (mis)labeled as the "story structure without conflict." This is because, as you'll notice from my breakdown above, the structure does not directly mention conflict. It's this: Introduction. Development. Turn. Conclusion.

In contrast, the 3-Act Structure in the West is often broken down into these parts: Setup. Confrontation. Resolution. "Confrontation" obviously means conflict.

But just because kishotenketsu doesn't mention conflict, doesn't mean it doesn't have it.

While it's possible to write a kishotenketsu with no conflict, it's not the lack of conflict that defines kishotenketsu.

You'll notice in Wang Wei's poem, there is no conflict. There is arguably some tension, as the speaker misses another person, but there is no immediate obstacle or clash happening. It is technically a conflict-less narrative.

But anyone can tell a conflict-less story--whether or not they use kishotenketsu to do it. I could tell you about my amazing trip to the Grand Canyon, where everything went right, where there were no problems, no conflict. It could even be interesting.

But there is something that conflict-less stories have in common: They're short.

Because the reality is, a long story with no conflict doesn't hold an audience, regardless of whether it's from the East or the West.

Kishotenketsu originated from short-form narratives, which do not require conflict. But when applied to long-form narratives, it still needs conflict to work. 

Just as Western stories do.

I believe part of the confusion here has come from people looking at conflict-less, short-form kishotenketsu and assuming long-form kishotenketsu are also conflict-less.

But you'll be hard-pressed to find a long-form kishotenketsu that has zero conflict.

Wang Wei's poem follows kishotenketsu, but so does the conflict-filled anime Attack on Titan. 

And from my research and observations, it's the Westerners who are saying kishotenketsu is "conflict-less," not the East Asians.

Kishotenketsu can certainly help you write a short, conflict-less story in a satisfying way, but if it's longer than a few pages, it's going to need some form of conflict to be satisfying.

(If you would like a more thorough breakdown on this misconception, see the heading "Myth: Kishotenketsu Has No Conflict" here.)

2. Kishotenketsu is About a Twist

When kishotenketsu came to the West, the word ten often got translated into twist, which is a bit misleading. When Westerners hear of a story having a "twist," they assume a plot twist. This has led to some Western writers stating that kishotenketsu must have a twist (and some have even said it must be a major twist).

The ten is not necessarily a plot twist.

It's closer to a turning point.

It also sometimes gets translated into "climax."

It can be a plot twist. But it doesn't have to be.

A ten can show up as a lot of different things--its definition is, really, even broader than that of a turning point.

This is why I prefer to just call it a ten.

A ten can be:

- a turning point

- a plot twist

- a key reveal--a drop of information that changes ours or the characters' understanding of the situation (sometimes it may only be a reveal to the audience, not the characters)

- a change in point of view / which characters we are following

- a change in location or time

- a change in genre or tone

- something seemingly unrelated to the story thus far

If you are writing a long-form kishotenketsu, then it's highly likely the ten will also be a turning point or will have one near it, even if it has one or more of these other features.

For example, the first four episodes of Dragon Ball Z Kai follow kishotenketsu. The ten is when the protagonist, Goku, dies in the third episode. This is obviously a big change in the story; the audience isn't really going to be following Goku around much. Instead, the side characters become more prominent.

But his death is also a turning point, because it changes the direction of the plot: His friends now need to collect the Dragon Balls to wish him back.

In a short-form kishotenketsu, the ten does not technically have to be a turning point. In Wang Wei's poem, the ten arguably does not "turn" the plot. It's simply a change in topic. We may argue it's a "turn" in the sense that it turns our attention to something else; it changes the poem's direction. But it's not changing what happens next.

We may perhaps say the ten is a “twist” in a broader sense of the word--it is often unexpected and alters the audience’s experience or perception of the narrative. But it is not necessarily a plot twist.

3. Kishotenketsu Must Look like "This"

Kishotenketsu is, frankly, a very general and "loose" approach to writing. It does not have a lot of "rules." There aren't a lot of elements that officially "define" it. Really, it's simply what I outlined above: Introduction. Development. Turn Ten. Conclusion. That's it.

If you are writing its poetic version, then traditionally, each part will take up a line. If you are creating a 4-paneled comic, then each part will take up a panel.

But beyond that--especially when you get into long-form narratives--it's pretty "loosey-goosey."

As I've just discussed, the ten can show up as a lot of different things. The ketsu is also open to a lot of different outcomes. It's not even necessary that it "ties up" the story in a satisfying way (like we expect here in the West). Traditionally, ketsu is used to reconcile what came before, but again, that's not a requirement. It can be open-ended, ambiguous, or even contain a new turn. It doesn't need to offer closure. It can look just like a typical Western denouement, or it can look completely different.

There are also variations where you can repeat parts of the structure, creating something like a ki-sho-ten-sho-ten-sho-ten-ketsu or a ki-sho-ten-ten-ten-ketsu.

It is not a "complex" approach to writing. And there aren't really restrictions on how it must show up.

The majority of East Asian stories follow kishotenketsu; it's basically the "normalized" approach. These stories aren't a rarity. Yet occasionally I see writers struggling to "find" them, thinking they must strictly fit a set of rules (usually based on the misconception that they have no conflict and/or must have a twist). If you watch k-dramas, anime, or read manga, or consume pretty much any other entertainment media from those countries, you've consumed kishotenketsu.

Sometimes I feel like we are overthinking the structure. If you read or listen to East Asians explain it, it’s really not that complicated.

4. This is How Kishotenketsu is Diagrammed

When kishotenketsu came to the West . . . we got kind of an odd diagram. Which is, well . . . this:

This became the most common way to diagram it in the West, which is unfortunate . . . because this is actually made by a Westerner. The loop is meant to reference the ten, which (again) I think is misleading, since it isn't necessarily a twist, but . . . I get the idea behind the visual.

Luckily, the second-most popular way to diagram it here comes from two professional manga editors in Japan, Mocchi and Taiyo. They visualize it like this:

In truth though, there isn't a single way to diagram it that is correct. If you go back to its traditional roots, I don't believe it has a diagram. It just has four parts.

If there is a visual to go with it, commonly the parts will just be sectioned off into columns, squares, panels, or the like. Occasionally there will be visuals like Mocchi and Taiyo's or even visuals that look very similar to Western structures. One of the cultural differences in the drawings, I've noticed, is that we usually use straight lines for our diagrams, and those in the East usually use curved lines.

(link)

. . . I'm not going to say the Western diagram is "wrong," since there technically isn't a "right" way, but . . . I wish more people knew it was not actually East Asian. In my perusal of Japanese, Chinese, and Korean sources, I've never seen it diagramed with a loop-the-loop. That is a Western rendition. And on a personal note, maybe it's just me, but there is something about that diagram that rubs me the wrong way. But if you want to visualize it that way, well . . . I'll try not to judge you 😉🙃

5. Kishotenketsu Doesn't Coexist with Other Story Structures

I debated whether or not to go here . . . but I did. Occasionally . . . I feel like kishotenketsu is sort of seen as "exotic" in the writing community. Like it's this foreign "mystical" thing that is so different from Western structures, and therefore, can't coexist with them. But that's not really accurate.

Quite frankly, some kishotenketsu stories can look very similar to Western stories. In fact, the same story may easily fit both kishotenketsu and 3-Act Structure. When researching kishotenketsu, I even found some Japanese sources that used Western fairytales, like Little Red Riding Hood and Cinderella, as examples of it.

Writing instructor Lee Locke compared it to the 3-Act Structure, and said they are largely the same. Kishotenketsu simply has more parts or "splits."

It's not so much that the structures are completely different, as it is that cultures may fill their structures out differently. Also, because kishotenketsu is more general, and "loose," it's more accepting of what we Westerners would consider "rule breaks."

Obviously a ten that feels like a major genre change, would be considered a big rule break here. But in East Asia, this is more accepted. A ketsu or falling action that does not tie up loose ends would generally be frowned upon in the West. But in the East, it's fine.

East Asian kishotenketsu allows and tolerates more "freedom."

Westerners expect and stick to stricter rules.

With kishotenketsu, you could create a story that feels very different from, or very similar to, what we have here.

And beyond Western structures, it can also overlap with another Japanese structure called jo-ha-kyu (which I may cover another day).

6. Kishotenketsu Uses 4 Acts

It's often said that kishotenketsu is a story structure of four acts. Technically, though, it's more accurate to say it has four parts. Its origin is short-form narratives, and short-form narratives don't have acts. A kishotenketsu poem doesn't have acts--it has lines and stanzas. A yonkoma manga doesn't have acts. It has panels. An urban legend doesn't have acts either.

When applied to long-form narratives, its parts often get referred to as acts. 

While I personally wouldn't call them acts (because to me, they don't all fit the definition of an act), I'm not going to police people for calling them that. If you want to call them acts and that works for you--awesome. Many others feel the same way.

I just think it can get a little confusing to use "acts" when the term doesn't apply to most kishotenketsu.

I don't think this is a big deal, so I debated whether I should even include it, but because this can make things a little more difficult when learning about kishotenketsu, I wanted to go over it.

7. Westerners Shouldn't Use Kishotenketsu

Along with this vibe that kishotenketsu is viewed as "exotic" or "other," is this vibe that we should not use it if we are not East Asian. I understand this comes from a concern of appropriation. But from my research and observations, it's only those who live in the West who are saying this. Of course, no group of people is a monolith, but if anything, my research has shown the opposite. East Asians are fine with us using it, and some are even teaching us how to use it.

Likewise, they have no problem borrowing and using the 3-Act Structure, or using our Western stories as kishotenketsu examples. 

I also found some Chinese and Korean sources that said "kishotenketsu" is the English name for the structure (borrowed from Japan, of course).

And really, the truth is, this structure already existed in the Western world--in our urban legends and jokes--we just didn't have a name for it.

So, it's fine if you want to use kishotenketsu.

. . . It's also fine if you want to question or criticize kishotenketsu; a lot Japanese people have already done that! (The structure is sometimes criticized for being "illogical.")

All in all, I hope this article clarifies some areas of confusion, and that you learned something new about kishotenketsu.

For a more comprehensive breakdown of it (as well as a list of my sources), check out this kishotenketsu article.

For a breakdown of how it's used to write slice-of-life stories, you may want to check out this kishotenketsu article.