It’s all been done before–so what?

You know those stories where the premise feels like it’s been done a million times? The "trapped in a room" kind of thing? It’s easy to think there’s nothing new to say with them. But there’s something about these familiar scenarios that works, and it’s not the premise that’s tired, it’s how we tell the story.

You can take the same basic plot and give it a totally different life. The thing that makes these stories stand out, even when the framework is the same, is how the details are layered in. Take Room, for example. Sure, it’s about a mother and son trapped in a room, but it’s told through the perspective of Jack, a young boy who has never known the world outside that room. That alone changes everything. It makes the whole situation surreal, tragic, in a way that something like Misery can’t touch, where the tension is all about the twisted psychological battle between captive and captor.

You’ve got 10 Cloverfield Lane, The Ruins, The Menu, Saw, Bodies Bodies Bodies – I could go on and on and on. What really makes each of these stories unique, even though they share that same familiar setup, is the layers you build. Look at Green Room. It’s not just a group of people stuck in a room—its punk rockers trapped in a Nazi bar. The stakes? Physical survival. Resistance. The tension comes from the environment, the risk, the feeling that things can go south at any moment. It’s the same setup, but the details—the players, the external conflict—change the whole emotional texture of the story.

Then there’s The Belko Experiment. Same idea—people trapped in a building. But the twist? The psychological and moral dilemma at play. People aren’t just trying to survive—they’re making choices that tap into something deeply human. It’s about survival, sure, but it’s also about ethics, trust, and how far you’re willing to go. The setting is the same as a lot of other “trapped” stories, but it’s the moral and psychological undercurrents that make it feel fresh. It’s not just about the escape; it’s about how people choose to react when they’re pushed to their breaking point.

The themes are another part of the equation. The survival narrative is easy enough to slap on any of these stories, but it’s how the other themes are explored that makes all the difference. Room isn’t really about the survival of the body; it’s the emotional survival of a mother and child. It’s about trauma, recovery, and what it takes to heal after something as brutal as being locked away for years. That’s what gives it weight. And then look at something like Misery—that’s survival too, but it’s less about physical endurance and more about the mental chess match between the captor and the captive. The stakes are psychological, not physical. Same premise, but those shifts in emotional and thematic focus make them feel like completely different animals.

At the heart of these kinds of stories, it’s really about the character and the conflict. The situation might be familiar—trapped, stuck, no way out—but it’s the characters that give the story its depth. Their wants, their fears, their obstacles. It’s the reason a story like Misery can feel so claustrophobic, so intense. It’s not just about escaping—it’s about who controls the narrative. In Room, it’s not just about getting out, but about what happens after, how you live once the horror is over. That emotional journey is what adds the texture, the complexity. The external situation might be the same—locked in, trying to survive—but the emotional stakes are completely different depending on who’s in that space.

This is the thing I keep coming back to: there’s nothing wrong with playing with a familiar setup. There’s nothing wrong with using a well-worn story structure. The trick isn’t in avoiding it, it’s in making it yours. What are you doing with the premise? What makes your characters, your setting, your conflict stand out? How are you layering in those emotional or psychological details to make it feel like something new? Because that’s where the originality comes from. Not in reinventing the wheel, but in using what you know and flipping it in ways that feel fresh.

Stories like Green Room, The Menu, and The Mist all take that same basic idea and stretch it in different directions. The tension, the stakes, the conflicts—they may all come from the same seed, but how the writer waters it, how they nurture it, is what makes it bloom into something totally different. It’s not the plot, it’s the voice. It’s not the setup, it’s how you shift the lens and dive into the details that others might overlook.

So maybe next time you’re staring at a story that feels like it’s been done before, don’t shy away from it. Ask yourself: How can I make this feel different? What’s the emotional core of the story? What’s the conflict that’ll hit differently? Because even the most familiar setups can give you something fresh if you take them and add your own perspective to the mix.

Here is to old plots told with a fresh lens.

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