In organizational contexts, stories play a fundamental role in analyzing and understanding people, teams, and cultures. A story can be a powerful tool to emotionally engage an audience, convey important concepts or values, and effectively communicate a company’s vision and goals. But beyond this, through their plots and narrative choices, stories can also bring to light the implicit dynamics within a team—its established mechanisms, power relations, and behavioral patterns—and in doing so, become a valuable instrument for developing awareness and a shared vision of challenges, resources, strengths, and areas for improvement. All of this contributes to enriching relationships and fostering both individual and collective growth.
Stories, then, serve as a common thread—a bridge connecting experience and learning. They are a journey of discovery, an opportunity to explore the nuances of human relationships, and a way to understand how we inhabit the very things we do.
Even before written words, life experiences were depicted in the form of drawings, however rudimentary, or passed down orally. This reminds us that for human beings it has always been almost impossible not to tell stories. The word itself—narrare—from an etymological perspective, derives from the root gna, meaning “to know, to make known,” combined with the suffix -zione in Latin, which conveys both action (making something known through the act of telling) and relation—the connection that arises between the different parts interacting in the process.
To understand (for oneself), and then to communicate (to the other): this, in a simplified way, might summarize the usefulness of storytelling. Think of myths—ancient, complex, sacred narratives—which, through symbolic stories, provided explanations for the inexplicable, interpretations of the world’s origins, and insights into the founding values of a particular community. In doing so, they nourished and sustained collective memory.
Through the crafting of stories, we generate meaning and sense.
This is why stories are so important in transmitting knowledge. But to consider this their only function would be reductive. When we encounter a story, in fact, we are always standing before multiple levels of interpretation and analysis.
A first level is the “literal” one. At this level, facts are taken at face value, with no deductions of any kind. Let’s imagine a story in which we are told:
“She had left her job three months earlier and hadn’t seen any of her colleagues since. That evening, Laura went to the party but, once she arrived, struck by a strong stomachache, she went back home.”
If we stopped at this level, we might conclude that it was precisely because of the stomachache that Laura left the party. But if we were to push a little further, reading between the lines or considering the broader context, we might also suppose that Laura’s stomachache is not simply a cause, but rather a symptom of something else. Perhaps her last work relationship did not end well, perhaps there were colleagues at the party she did not want to meet, perhaps the stomachache was the consequence of all this. [Or perhaps not. But the possibility exists. The margin of interpretation is therefore very wide, and we must be careful not to rush into hasty conclusions.]
This would bring us to a second level of interpretation, which we might call the “metaphorical”. Here, analysis moves between the lines of a story, considering every element that may help to make the implicit, explicit.
Visible, the invisible
The characterization of the characters, the choice of certain settings, the description of wide, open spaces or cramped, narrow ones, the use of long, expansive time frames or short, rhythmic ones—all of these, if we choose to read them closely, can communicate something beyond their primary meaning. I remember that when I wrote my undergraduate thesis, I examined a short novel by Cassola and was able to dedicate an entire chapter to the way the two protagonists slept, and how the description of their nonverbal gestures revealed key traits (and behaviors) of each character that were decisive in shaping their dysfunctional relationship.
In short, if we choose—and know—how to read them, it is possible to uncover meaning behind every narrative choice that underpins a story.
But there is more.
If instead of analyzing the story—that is, the output of the creative process—we analyze the very process of writing the story, and the way individuals and teams inhabit (cognitively and emotionally) this process, we arrive at a third level of analysis: the “meta-narrative.” It was precisely this idea that inspired us when we designed an experience in which the creative process of story writing could help a team investigate its state of health, its implicit and emotional dynamics, and its transformative potential.
“Your task is to write a story. You are in a forest at dawn. There is a man, a woman, and a child. You are searching for something important to you. You have two minutes to write the introduction. Then the Master will tell you how to proceed.”
Divided into groups, participants begin writing their stories. The boundaries of the narr-action are predefined; the group must “only” bring the story to a close (in this case, we are not interested in analyzing their narrative choices). Put that way, it sounds fairly simple.
At each step, however, the groups face a new challenge set by the Master: at one point, they must make an important decision; at another, they must introduce a character; at another still, they must include an object and give it an unusual meaning.
At a certain point, the Master begins to play with the process: asking groups to select individuals and… sometimes giving them the responsibility of making a key decision, other times removing them from the group and placing them in another. The unexpected twists increase; the game grows more difficult. Gradually, the story takes shape—and the group itself changes in form. Finally, the stories are complete. The Master reads them aloud, amid laughter and applause from participants, who are both entertained and surprised by the amusing plots they managed to create. With the activity complete, the space opens for reflection.
How do we value each person’s contribution? How do we organize ourselves when faced with a challenging objective (writing a story in a very short timeframe)? How do we make important decisions together? How do we manage the creative or brainstorming process? How do we reach agreement when there are many competing ideas? How do we feel, and how do we react, when a major decision is made by someone else—especially if we don’t agree with it? How do we handle gaining or losing a resource? How do we feel when a project is taken from us? And what about when we have to carry forward someone else’s project?
Prompted by the right questions, participants revisit the experience, noticing how their states of mind shifted, what emotions they felt. Some, looking back, discover resources within themselves they had never explored before; others find confirmation of what they already knew. Many discover something unexpected about their colleagues: “Usually he doesn’t speak up, but today he shared a ton of ideas,” or “She usually talks a lot, but today she often stayed silent.” By facilitating these generative conversations, we help the team gain greater awareness of its resources, its operating mechanisms, its challenges, and its areas for growth and development.
Some people leave happy to have rediscovered, through play, a renewed sense of teamwork and belonging, or a deepened sense of collaboration within the group. Others, stirred by this search for meaning, cannot wait to dive back in, to explore how those bonds might be strengthened. They leave with answers; more often, with questions. In any case, they leave changed, transformed.
Because writing stories is not just a methodology; it is an experience that changes you. For in the words, in the stories we tell and share, lies the seed of our potential flourishing.
