Ever watch a movie that felt like six different stories crammed into two hours, leaving you emotionally exhausted but somehow also unsatisfied? Or perhaps you’ve suffered through a ten-episode series that could’ve—should’ve—been a tight 90-minute film? There’s a reason for that particular brand of storytelling torture, and it’s not just bad writing. It’s medium confusion.

As streaming platforms continue their relentless content march, the line between television and film has blurred like a cinematographer’s dream sequence. This has given rise to a dangerous misconception among screenwriters: that these mediums are interchangeable puzzle pieces. Spoiler alert: they’re not. They’re as different as a sprint and a marathon—both involve putting one foot in front of the other, but try using the same strategy for both and you’ll either collapse at mile three or finish dead last in the 100-meter dash.

The Short Story vs. The Novel: A Perfect Analogy

Film is your perfectly crafted short story. Every word counts. Every scene must earn its place. There’s no room for that fascinating backstory about your protagonist’s childhood turtle unless it directly impacts why she can’t disarm that bomb in act three.

Television, however, is the sprawling novel. Each episode is a chapter with room to breathe, to explore that side character’s peculiar fascination with vintage toasters, to develop the slow-burn romance between characters who might not even meet until season two. Television doesn’t race toward a single moment of catharsis—it builds worlds where multiple climaxes can coexist across seasons of carefully cultivated storytelling.

When Film Scripts Go Television: A Recipe for Disappointment

“This is the golden age of television!” they say. “Netflix is buying everything!” they claim. And suddenly, screenwriters everywhere are breaking their unproduced film scripts into “limited series” faster than you can say “episodic structure.”

The results? About as elegant as trying to turn a speedboat into a cruise ship by duct-taping six more speedboats to it.

Take Maniac on Netflix—a fascinating but flawed limited series that never quite escapes its film-script origins. For all its visual splendor and ambitious ideas, it struggles with maintaining episodic momentum. Each episode feels less like a satisfying chapter and more like a film arbitrarily chopped into segments—because that’s essentially what it was.

Here’s why film-to-TV conversions so often fail: Character Expansion vs. Character Explosion Films typically follow one or two protagonists through a clearly defined arc. When filmmakers expand this into television without proper restructuring, they often just add more characters—like throwing more cooks into an already crowded kitchen. Instead of exploring deeper dimensions of existing characters, we get a narrative traffic jam where nobody gets proper development. Remember True Detective Season 1? Two protagonists, deeply explored over eight episodes. Now remember Season 2? Four main characters, all fighting for screen time, none receiving the depth they deserved. That’s character explosion in action—and it’s what happens when film thinking invades television structure. Structural Whiplash Films follow familiar three-act structures: inciting incident, rising action, midpoint reversal, climax, resolution. Television requires sustainable conflict—problems that generate episodes without feeling repetitive or artificially extended. The Queen’s Gambit worked brilliantly as a limited series because its structure was conceived episodically from the beginning. Each chess match, each life stage of Beth Harmon functions as a natural episode break. Compare that to I’m Thinking of Ending Things, which Kaufman wisely kept as a film despite Netflix’s hunger for series content. Its psychological horror depends on maintaining unbroken tension—something that would have been destroyed by episodic breaks. Pacing Purgatory Television’s rhythm includes natural breakpoints, cliffhangers, and episode arcs that satisfy while still driving viewers forward. Film pacing, when stretched across episodes, creates a story that feels simultaneously rushed and too slow—missing both the contemplative emotional pauses of great cinema and the satisfying episodic completions of quality television.

It’s like being stuck behind someone driving exactly 7 mph under the speed limit. Not slow enough to pass, not fast enough to get anywhere on time.

Television Writers’ Film Follies

The opposite problem occurs when television writers transition to film without adjusting their approach. It’s like watching someone try to fit an entire wardrobe into a carry-on bag—lots of frantic compression and inevitably, something essential gets left behind.

Character Overload Television writers become accustomed to juggling multiple character arcs. When they approach film, they often include too many characters, resulting in a narrative that feels like Speed-Dating Night at the local bar—lots of introductions, zero meaningful connections. Aaron Sorkin, brilliant at television, sometimes struggles with this in film. The Trial of the Chicago 7 juggles so many protagonists that some become little more than walking ideological positions rather than fully realized characters. Missing the Moment Great films create space for audiences to absorb pivotal moments—those breathtaking pauses where we contemplate the weight of a decision or the beauty of a revelation. Think of the final shot in Call Me By Your Name, holding on Timothée Chalamet’s face as he processes love, loss, and acceptance in real time. Television rarely allows such extended emotional contemplation. Television writers, accustomed to moving quickly between scenes and storylines, often rush past these opportunities. It’s like having someone flip to the next page of your book just as you’re absorbing a profound passage. Reset Button Mentality Traditional television (especially network TV) required characters to remain somewhat consistent. Walter White couldn’t fully break bad in episode three—the show needed to maintain that tension for five seasons.

Film characters should undergo profound, permanent transformation. Television writers sometimes struggle with this finality, creating film endings that feel more like season finales—wrapped up enough to satisfy, but with enough loose ends for a potential sequel.

Finding Your Story’s True Home Before you start typing FADE IN:, ask yourself these essential questions: Does your story center on a singular transformative event or a continuing series of challenges? If your protagonist’s life fundamentally changes because her spaceship crashed on a mysterious island, that’s a film. If your story is about her learning to survive on that island while unraveling its mysteries over years, that’s television. How many viewpoint characters are truly necessary? “The Godfather” follows multiple characters but maintains Michael as its core. “Game of Thrones” needs multiple viewpoints because its story is about an entire world in conflict. Be honest about which approach your story requires. Is your story about a definitive change or an ongoing evolution? Films capture moments of permanent transformation; television excels at showing gradual development. “Breaking Bad” needed five seasons because Walter White’s transformation was incremental and complex. “Joker” works as a film because Arthur Fleck’s transformation, while complex, is singular and definitive. How much time does your audience need with these characters? Some stories require the intimacy and intensity of film; others benefit from television’s extended relationship-building.

The Hybrid Future (But Don’t Get Too Excited)

Yes, streaming platforms are experimenting with form—limited series, anthology shows, interactive narratives. But these innovations don’t erase the differences between mediums; they highlight why understanding both forms matters more than ever.

WandaVision works because it was conceived as television from the ground up, using episodic structure to mirror Wanda’s journey through different eras of sitcoms. “The Mandalorian” succeeds by embracing television’s episodic nature while maintaining cinematic visual quality.

The most successful creators in today’s landscape aren’t those who carelessly mash film and television together like a toddler mixing all the Play-Doh colors. They’re the ones who recognize the unique strengths of each medium and make deliberate choices about where their stories belong.

The Bottom Line

Whether you’re crafting a feature film or developing a television series, respect the form you’ve chosen. Don’t try to pack a ten-course meal into a lunch box, and don’t stretch a perfect sandwich across an entire buffet table.

Your audience might not articulate why one storytelling experience feels satisfying while another falls flat—but they’ll feel it. And in an era where content is infinite but attention spans are not, feeling matters more than ever.

After all, both sprinters and marathon runners cross finish lines—but you wouldn’t ask Usain Bolt to run 26.2 miles or expect a marathoner to win the 100-meter dash. Different races, different training, different minds. The same applies to film versus television storytelling.

Choose your race wisely, then run it well.

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Want to learn more craft techniques? Join my “First Draft Forward” 8-week screenplay workshop starting this April/May, where I’ll guide you through transforming your story into a compelling screenplay with focused, constructive critique sessions. More details on this and the PennWriters Conference are available at http://classes.dianabotsford.com.