They said I did the most pretentious, vain, and narcissistic thing an author can ever do: I wrote myself into a story as a romanticized persona.

Psssh.

This groundbreaking, and frankly ill-advised, literary move is on full display in my fantasy web novel, Plot Device.

I take full responsibility for introducing this self-reflexive error into the world of fiction.

I confess that when I had the stroke of genius … (haters will say it was just a regular stroke) … I assumed I was charting entirely new, dangerous waters when I made myself a character.

It was to be a bold experiment in narrative arrogance, a move so high-concept and original that future critics would struggle to assign it a genre—probably “ego-fiction” or “what the fuck were you thinking?”

I swore up and down that no one had ever done this before.

However, after a quick, shame-filled Google search performed while writing this email, I discovered I was not, in fact, the first person to make this terrible mistake.

Oh no, I joined a long line of literary lunatics who thought, “Hey, I’m the star—pass the quill!”

It turns out I was preceded by a motley crew of hacks who tried and failed spectacularly.

This unsuccessful coterie clearly bungled the simplest lesson of authorship: never buy your own plot device.

I’m talking about obscure writers like Dante Alighieri, Miguel de Cervantes, Stephen King, Stephanie Meyer, J.K. Rowling, Kurt Vonnegut, Alasdair Gray, C.S. Lewis, Jonathan Ames, Grant Morrison, W. Somerset Maugham, Bret Easton Ellis, Geoffrey Chaucer, Orhan Pamuk, Clive Cussler, Douglas Coupland, David Wong, Philip Roth, Paul Auster, Jorge Luis Borges, Martin Amis, and… probably more that didn’t show up in my Google search because even the algorithm’s like, “Nah, you don’t need that baggage.”

It’s clear from this list of creatively bankrupt authors that inserting themselves into their stories never worked out for them—poor bastards, their books gathering dust while their egos collect participation trophies from the “I Tried” shelf.

Their attempts at blending fact and fiction were universally deemed amateurish, and they were rightly ignored by the reading public, who probably skimmed past the self-insert as if it were a literary masterpiece with a bad cover and no TikTok trend to signal its social proof.

Take, for instance, the medieval author Geoffrey Chaucer. His inclusion of the character “Chaucer” in The Canterbury Tales—a clumsy, socially awkward observer tagging along like the uncle nobody invited—was an early sign of the vanity that would ultimately prevent his work from ever becoming a mainstay in literature. The narrative’s integrity collapsed under the weight of his own poetic ego.

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A disaster.

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The modern attempt by J.K. Rowling in Harry Potter? Please. Her cameo as a random witch was so forced it felt like the Sorting Hat coughed her up as a prank.

Her books flopped, her career tanked, and she was never heard from again.

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And don’t get me started on Stephen King’s endless parade of “Richard Bachman” alibis. When he included himself in The Dark Tower series, it proved his narrative world-building was so weak that he needed to prop it up with his own real-world fame.

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A true sign of a flagging imagination.

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Based on my intensive, two-minute study of these unrenowned flunkies, I can confidently assert that author self-insertion is a literary device with a 100% failure rate.

It is the creative equivalent of putting a “Kick Me” sign on your narrative.

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It always DESTROYS publishing careers.

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So, why have I made the pathologically egotistical choice to follow in their footsteps?

Hubris, baby! Pure, unfiltered delusion.

So, let’s have some fun breaking down the fatal flaws I barreled through anyway.

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The Inevitable Disaster: Why It NEVER Works

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The reasons for its guaranteed catastrophe are threefold, and I have chosen to ignore all of them in Plot Device.

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A. Fatal Flaw 1: The Irresistible Aroma of Vanity

First and foremost, the self-insert is an exercise in unadulterated vanity. When the author writes themselves in, it’s rarely to show their characters’ humility or lack of redeeming features. No, they are usually included to solve plot problems, deliver essential philosophical sermons, or, worst of all, be the undeserved object of affection for the protagonist (a phenomenon I have totally avoided, naturally). It’s a moment of profound ego, where the author says, “My real-life presence is so compelling, it must be included in the fictional world.” This immediate rupture of the reader’s immersion is, historically, irreversible.

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B. Fatal Flaw 2: The Confusion of Reality

Secondly, the device ruthlessly exploits the reader’s patience by deliberately confusing them. It creates a hall of mirrors where “fiction” and “fact” blur. And the moment the line between the author (the external creator) and the character (the fictional subject) gets muddy, the reader is faced with an unsolvable paradox. Is the dialogue being delivered by the character, or is it merely the author stepping onto the stage to preach their views? It’s like inviting your therapist to the family dinner and asking her to spill the tea.

This self-reflexivity is not clever; it’s just lazy.

Skillful authors weave themes organically, like your mom hiding veggies in your lasagna.

Unprofessional geniuses (hi, me) run out of subtlety and shove their mug in frame: “Hi, I’m Michael, and this metaphor’s about me!”

In Plot Device, I didn’t just dip a toe; I cannonballed in, splashing “is this real?” all over the plot.

Readers engaging in patternicity will inevitably over-interpret the narrative and connect dots I never intended (but will shamelessly take credit for), mistaking the self-insertion as an impressive way to elevate the themes of agency, free will, and the power of narratives.

While future critics will rightfully roast it as “lazy shorthand for ‘trust me, bro,’” wondering if I was trolling them or just hated editing.

The answer is: yes.

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C. Fatal Flaw 3: The Hallmarks of Amateurishness

Finally, and most damningly, the self-insert is the ultimate amateur move. Competent authors create worlds so complete they don’t need a tourist guide yelling, “This is about regret!”

Awkward authors (like myself and the aforementioned obscure list) use their own persona as a crutch, a shortcut, or a clumsy mouthpiece for “deep” thoughts. It signals an inability to trust the reader and, worse, a failure to generate a character truly distinct from the person typing it. It’s like creating a “complex anti-hero” who is just “you, but with better hair.”

It is the hallmark of someone who has run out of ideas and decided that they are the most interesting character they can possibly invent, which is adorable in theory and eye-roll-inducing in practice.

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Overly Dramatic Conclusion: An Unnecessary Warning

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So, what’s the takeaway from this comprehensive, yet highly selective and biased, historical overview?

It’s simple: Self-insertion has NEVER worked, and it NEVER will.

Every time an author decides their own existence is the most fascinating thing about their fictional narrative—like mistaking “I’m deep” for “this is depth”—they create an immediate, palpable dip in quality, like adding kale to ice cream and calling it “elevated.”

This is a truth PROVEN by the obscurity of every writer who has ever attempted it.

It brings me great (and entirely unearned) pride to announce that I, Michael Martin, have continued this long, storied, and unsuccessful tradition by inserting myself into the very fabric of Plot Device like a bad sequel nobody greenlit.

I have ignored the failures of Cervantes (who probably regrets that windmill detour), the narrative collapse of King (who’s written himself out of more plots than a bad magician), and the amateurish mistakes of Chaucer (bless his pilgrim heart).

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I have done it anyway.

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So, if you find yourself recoiling at what you perceive to be a gratuitous, amateur exercise in vanity and self-reflexivity…

If the concept has you grinding your gears, wondering where the author’s reality ends and the story’s fiction begins…

Or if you believe this is simply a dreadful idea unless the author happens to possess the kind of rare, generational genius that can actually pull it off…

Know this: I am willfully oblivious to your concerns.

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That means I’ve ignored them.

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So, now would be the perfect time for you to reenact the Homer Simpson meme and slowly, quietly, begin your theatrical retreat, muttering “Nope, nope, nope.”

Definitely, DO NOT grab your copy of the Vaudeverse Saga ACT I: Starter Pack, which includes a copy of Plot Device—unless you’re ready for the ego trip of the century, complete with airfare to Narcissusville.

​https://vaudeverse.com/vaudeverse-starter-pack/​

Michael Martin