Why "True Story" Horror is So Profitable

Why I'm Changing How I (and STORYSMART®) Tell Stories

How a Story of a U.S. Airman Shot Down in Iran is Already Becoming a Feature Film

Turning Photos into Cinematic Storytelling Assets

There are moments in your career that don’t feel particularly significant at the time, but years later, you realize they changed everything. The television show we started when I was with the St. Louis Cardinals, Cardinals Insider, is now heading into its 11th season. In an industry where most things don’t last, there’s something meaningful about building something that endures. While I've already shared the story of how the show almost didn’t happen, what’s been on my mind recently is what we were doing before it ever aired. For me the show was never the starting point, it was a destination on a journey that began seventeen years ago when I decided to fully commit to becoming a brand journalist. A Baseball Brand Journalist When I moved over to the Baseball Operations Department to work with our Media Relations team in September 2009, the media landscape looked very different than it does today. Social media was still in its infancy. We had exactly one platform we controlled, Twitter, and even that was a bit of a mess. Our account was @MLBstlcardinals, while Major League Baseball operated @stlcardinals out of New York. It was confusing for fans and limiting for us. But it also created an opportunity. Instead of waiting for others to tell our story, we decided to start telling it ourselves. Not as marketers, but as actual storytellers. More specifically, we adopted a mindset rooted in journalism. The fundamentals I learned years earlier in college—who, what, when, where, why, and how. The discipline of getting it right. The importance of clarity, structure, and credibility. We weren’t trying to spin the story. We were trying to tell it honestly, accurately, and from a clearly defined point of view. That point of view mattered. We made a promise to our audience: we would cover the team like journalists, but from the inside. We weren’t going to pretend to be something we weren’t. We were insiders. That was the advantage. And instead of hiding from it, we leaned into it. At the same time, we understood the responsibility that came with that position. We didn’t need to be first. We needed to be right. That meant establishing standards. It meant covering the good moments like the wins, the milestones, and the behind-the-scenes access fans couldn’t get anywhere else. But it also meant not ignoring the harder stories when they arose. Credibility was always at stake, and we treated it that way. I knew were building something. A system. A mindset. A way of approaching storytelling that went beyond promotion and into something far more durable. Over time, that approach evolved into a weekly TV show that’s still on the air more than a decade later. But none of that happens without what came first. The decision to think as brand journalists with a point of view. Brand Journalists with a Point of View What we were building in those early days didn’t look like much from the outside. There was no studio. No formal production schedule. No distribution strategy beyond posting to social media and linking out to photos and video. In fact, some of the earliest tools we used would feel almost laughable today.

St. Louis, April 1, 2026 - Last week I had one of those “ no shit, Sherlock ” moments where the obvious hits you all at once. I was thinking about Opening Day. Like I’ve done the past few years, I planned to share a throwback post from ten years ago. I dig into my photo archive, find a few cell phone images from seasons past, and put something out on social media. Posting doesn’t come naturally to me. I know that sounds ironic given what I do now, but I’ve never been particularly drawn to self-promotion or the performative nature of those platforms. After all, I’m a middle-aged introvert, not some Gen Z dude who grew up with social media and enjoys showing off. I hate shameless self-promotion and bragging. That said, I have a fellow Gen X friend who has been chirping at me for years to share more about my time with the St. Louis Cardinals. I headed her advice and started digging. What I found stopped me. As I worked my way through old photos, I realized that 2016 wasn’t just another season. It was the year we honored Lou Brock and the year we launched Cardinals Insider, the television show I developed and produced during my time with the club. That’s when it hit me. It has been a decade. And the show is not only still around— it’s thriving . I must tip my cap to my colleagues at the Cardinals as they have continued to invest in it, expand it, and build on the foundation we put in place back in 2016. It is truly remarkable. Seeing that now as I’ve transitioned my business into filmmaking, hit me in a profound way. It was literally an “aha” moment. Like a lot of entrepreneurs and creatives, I’ve wrestled with self-doubt. You question whether you’re on the right path. Whether the work you’re doing is building toward something. Realizing that this show that I fought to make happen has now run for more than a decade was affirming. Because the vision was never small. From the beginning, the goal was to build something self-sustaining that would continue to grow and evolve long after I was gone. And it has, big time. That realization couldn’t have happened form me at a better time.

I recently watched All the Empty Rooms, the Academy-Award winning documentary short film on Netflix and I haven’t been able to shake it. Not because it’s loud or dramatic. It’s not. In fact, it’s the opposite. It’s quiet. Patient. It lingers. It is honest and simple. And it is quite powerful. I think that is why it stays with me. Watching it, I realized that this wasn’t something that suddenly became a film. This was something that had been unfolding for years. Seven years, to be exact. It didn’t begin as a documentary project. That’s the part I think matters most, especially if you’ve spent any time in journalism. Because films like this don’t come out of nowhere. They come out of work that, in many cases, has already been done. I think there is a lesson here for all storytellers, but journalists especially. It Started the Way These Stories Often Start It started with reporting. It started with showing up, asking questions, and building trust over time. Sadly, the journalist at the center of All the Empty Rooms had been covering school shootings for years. Not just parachuting in for headlines, but returning, revisiting, staying in relationship with the people living in the aftermath. And over time, something shifted. When you cover enough of these stories, there’s a risk that sets in, not just for the audience, but for the person doing the work. A kind of cultural numbness. Another headline. Another mass shooting tragedy. Another news cycle. I think what began to take hold for the journalist was a discomfort with that rhythm. Because what he was seeing up close didn’t feel like headlines. It felt like lives that had been interrupted. Rooms that had been left behind. Families carrying something that doesn’t resolve. CBS journalist Steve Hartman started to realize that the way these stories were being told, fast, efficient, fact-driven, wasn’t capturing what he was experiencing. For him the question became: What would it look like to tell this differently? The Ethical Weight of Going Deeper That question isn’t just creative. It’s ethical. Because once you decide to go deeper, you’re asking something of people. You’re asking to enter their space. Their homes. And in this case, that wasn’t taken lightly. In fact, there was real hesitation. A kind of dread, even, about what it would mean to show up with a film crew and ask families, who had already been through so much, to open their doors again. There’s a line you don’t want to cross. As a journalist, you’re trained to be mindful of that. To not exploit. To not intrude. And yet, something unexpected happened. Families said yes. Not because they wanted to relive the worst moment of their lives. But because they understood what he was trying to do. He wasn’t there to document the tragedy. He was there to document the life. That distinction matters. He was interested in who their child was. What they loved. What filled those rooms before they were empty. In a way, he was helping them protect something that felt at risk of being lost—not just memory, but identity. Not just how their child died, but how they lived. The Power of Small Details That intention shows up in the way the film is constructed. There’s no rush to get to the point. No urgency to explain everything. Instead, the camera lingers. On photographs. On objects. On rooms that still hold the shape of someone who isn’t there anymore. And that’s where the film does something that reporting alone can’t. Because when you read an article, you move at the pace of information and your deadline. When you watch a film like this, you move at the pace of presence. You sit in it. You notice things you might otherwise pass over. A jersey on the wall. A bed that hasn’t been made. A photograph that suddenly carries more weight than it ever did before. Those details don’t just support the story. They are the story. A Deliberately Narrow Frame One of the most interesting creative decisions in All the Empty Rooms is how narrow it is. This isn’t a sweeping examination of school violence. It doesn’t try to cover every angle or offer a comprehensive analysis like college thesis. It stays focused. Photographing rooms. The elements are rooms. Photographs. Fragments of conversation. Personal video clips. A reporter carrying the weight of the story. And the reporting journey that ties it all together. That constraint is what gives it power. Because instead of expanding outward, the film goes inward. It doesn’t try to explain everything. It lets you feel something. And that’s a different kind of storytelling. Why This Became a Short Film I think this is where a lot of people misunderstand the role of short films. There’s an assumption that a short is just a smaller version of a feature. But in cases like this, the short format isn’t a limitation. Quite the opposite. This film works because it’s compressed. Because it doesn’t overextend. Because it trusts that the weight of what you’re seeing doesn’t need to be stretched into something bigger to be meaningful. In fact, doing so might have diluted it. What you have here is essentially a single premise: What remains after someone is gone. And instead of building that into a broader narrative with multiple arcs and threads, the film stays with that premise. It isn’t overthinking it. It is built with quiet observation. Verité. Silence. Detail. It is powerful because of that. It becomes immersive precisely because it doesn’t try to be expansive. And that’s a lesson in and of itself. Not every story needs to be bigger. Some stories need to be more focused. The Moment the Story Changed If you step back and look at this from a process standpoint, there’s a moment in every project like this where something shifts. Where the person doing the work realizes: This isn’t just an article. That moment doesn’t come from nowhere. It comes from accumulation. From years of interviews. From relationships that have been built. From material that has been gathered but not fully used. Because in journalism, you often collect far more than you publish. You distill. You compress. You extract what fits the format and your deadline. But the full story - the conversations, the pauses, the emotional texture— often stays behind. In filmmaking, that’s the raw material. And in this case, that material had been building for years. Seven years of it. At some point, the realization becomes unavoidable: There’s more here. Talk to any journalist and they will tell you they wish they had more time and space to go deeper and tell the more impactful story. I’m grateful that Steve Hartman and photographer Lou Bopp embarked on this journey together and decided to go the next step of bringing in Joshua Seftel to document the journey. What This Says About Journalism This is the part that keeps coming back to me. Because if you’re a journalist, none of this should feel foreign. You already know how to find stories. You know how to build trust. You know how to ask the questions that matter. You’re already doing the hardest part. What’s different is how that work gets developed. In journalism, the goal is to make deadline. In filmmaking, the goal is to build something that can be experienced over time. And that shift from output to development is where I see the biggest gap. Because most stories are treated as something you finish. You write them. You publish them. You move on. You’re on the deadline hamster wheel. That is how I felt working in baseball. After today’s game, we haven another game, and another and so on. But in the context of this story, what if that’s not the end? What if it’s the beginning? The Stories That Stay with You Every journalist I know has a few stories that don’t leave them. The ones that stick. The ones where the relationship didn’t end when the article was published or the story was broadcast. The ones where you know, deep down, that you only told part of it. Those are the stories I think about when I watch a film like All the Empty Rooms. Because those are the stories that have the potential to become something more. Not because they’re bigger. But because they’re deeper. From Reporting to Filmmaking When I talk about STORYSMART®, one of the core ideas I come back to is this: You’re not just creating content. You’re creating assets. And what you have, if you’ve been doing this work for any length of time, is a body of material that likely goes far beyond what you’ve published. Interviews. Audio. Video. Notes. Relationships. Access. Ideas that won’t leave your head. Probably multiple story angles and competing ideas fight for primacy in your brain. I know I get that way. It is almost like a March Madness bracket of ideas that pull at your heart. I’m here to tell you that all of body of work in your files are storytelling source materials. It might be the foundation of a film, but it only becomes that if you recognize it. If you treat it as something worth developing. If you think beyond the first version of the story and you are willing to collaborate with others to take it to the next level. Coming Back to the Rooms When I think about All the Empty Rooms, I don’t just think about what’s on screen. I think about everything that made it possible. The years of reporting. The relationships that were built. The trust that was earned. The hesitation that had to be worked through. The decision to go deeper. The willingness to give back and share a gift with the families you covered. And ultimately, the choice to tell the story in a way that resists the pace of everything else around it. To slow down. To sit with absence. To let the rooms speak. That doesn’t happen by accident. The Question I Keep Coming Back To If you’re reading this and you’ve spent time reporting, I think there’s a simple question worth asking: What story have you already told that isn’t finished? Not unfinished because you didn’t do the work. Unfinished because there’s more there than the format allowed you to share. Those ideas fighting to advance further. I can tell you this for fact: there are stories sitting in notebooks, in transcripts, in hard drives right now that have the potential to become something far more enduring than a single article. In some rare cases, it might be something like All the Empty Rooms. Something that doesn’t just inform. But stays with you. From reporting to something that lasts in the hearts and minds of your audience. And once you start to see your work through that lens, you begin to realize the story may already be there. The question is whether you’re willing to follow it a little further. About the Storytelling for ALL® Newsletter The Storytelling for ALL® LinkedIn Newsletter is a biweekly newsletter examining how stories are developed, protected, and brought to life in today’s evolving storytelling economy. Every other week, I explore the creative, ethical, and economic forces shaping books, films, documentaries, and other story work through the lens of development, rights, collaboration, and long-term value. Written primarily for creators and collaborators, the newsletter also serves story sources who want to understand how their true stories move from lived experience to finished work and how better structure early leads to better outcomes later. For deeper studio thinking, tools, and updates, The STORYSMART® Way is our monthly email newsletter for members of the Storytelling for ALL® community. About Our STORYSMART® Perspective We approach storytelling and filmmaking as a long-term, rights-first business rather than a project-by-project creative exercise. Our focus is on understanding how stories create value over time through ownership, disciplined development, and thoughtful risk management. The ideas shared here are intended to contribute to a broader conversation about sustainable, independent media, not to promote specific projects or investment opportunities.

In 1989, something unusual happened in Hollywood. An actor who was already one of the biggest stars in the world decided to take less money. That actor was Jack Nicholson. The film was Batman. And the role was the Joker. Nicholson could have demanded a massive paycheck. At the time, he was already commanding salaries around $10 million per film, extraordinary money in the late 1980s. Instead, he negotiated a different kind of deal. He took a lower upfront salary and asked for something far more interesting: A share of the upside. Specifically, Nicholson negotiated participation in the film’s gross box office, along with revenue from licensing and merchandising tied to the character and the film. While estimates vary, the consensus is that his deal ultimately earned him somewhere between $60 million and $90 million. For a film released in 1989, that was staggering. But the bigger story isn’t just how much money Nicholson made. The real lesson is how he thought about value. Nicholson wasn’t just negotiating as an actor. He was negotiating like a partner in a story. And that mindset of understanding the economic value of storytelling offers a masterclass for anyone working in the creative economy today. A Time When Batman Was a Risk It’s easy to forget how uncertain the project looked at the time. It was a different world then. It wasn’t a foregone conclusion that the film would be successful. Today, Batman is one of the most valuable franchises in entertainment history. But in the late 1980s, the character’s most prominent screen appearance was the campy 1960s television series starring Adam West that I watched in syndication growing up in 70s and early 80s. The darker, cinematic version we now associate with Batman didn’t yet exist. It was more “cartoonish” and cheesier. Rebooting Batman for the big screen was a risk. The studio taking that gamble was Warner Bros., and the director attached to reinvent the character was Tim Burton, who at the time had directed Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure and Beetlejuice, was considered talented but unconventional. The film was a major bet. But Nicholson understood something important about bets. They become less risky when the right people attach themselves to them. He understood the leverage he had, as well as impact his involvement would have in the production. When Nicholson agreed to play the Joker, the project immediately gained credibility. His involvement signaled to audiences, investors, and the industry that this wasn’t just another comic book adaptation. It was an event. That’s the power of attaching talent to a project. Certain names bring legitimacy. They bring attention. They bring marketing gravity. And they often bring audiences. In other words, they bring financial value. It is what they mean by “bankable name.” Nicholson knew that his name would dramatically increase the film's chances of success. So instead of treating the project as just another acting job, he negotiated accordingly. Like a vested partner. The Bet That Paid Off The gamble worked. Batman became a global blockbuster, grossing more than $400 million worldwide, an enormous number at the time. It launched a new era of comic book films and helped establish the modern superhero franchise model. But perhaps even more importantly, it helped unlock the long-term value of the Batman intellectual property. That value didn’t end with one movie. It became a massive money-producing story franchise with all kinds of derivatives springing from that success. Over the decades that followed, Batman became a massive portfolio of storytelling assets: films, animated series, television shows, merchandise, licensing deals, games, streaming content, and more. The cumulative value of that franchise now reaches into the multi-billions. That is the power of story-driven intellectual property. It compounds. Nicholson understood that dynamic before most people in Hollywood did. By negotiating participation in the story's success, not just his performance, he aligned himself with the long-term economics of the franchise. In effect, Nicholson traded short-term certainty for long-term participation. And he won. He won big. Why This Deal Changed Hollywood Nicholson’s deal didn’t just make headlines. It helped change how creative talent thinks about compensation. For A-listers, it became a template. It impacted the talent market like how a big free-agent deal in baseball impacts other players entering free agency. The market is always moving. The entertainment industry is no different. For decades, actors were largely paid salaries. The studio took the financial risk and the studio captured most of the upside. Nicholson’s agreement demonstrated something different. He learned a lot from his One Flew Over Cookies Nest back-end deal. “Do I look like the kind of clown that can start a movement?” the Joker once asked. Well, Nicholson wasn’t crazy or joking. He started something. Looking back now, it is a masterclass lesson for us. When key talent contributes meaningfully to a project's success, sharing in the upside makes sense. It aligns incentives. It rewards creativity. And it encourages collaboration. It creates more “ownership” in an agency and incentive context. Today, backend participation is common for top actors, directors, and producers. It’s now an expected part of major deals in Hollywood. But deals like that didn’t appear out of nowhere. They evolved because people like Nicholson demonstrated that creative talent could think like partners, not just hired hands. That shift changed the economics of filmmaking, and it reinforced a fundamental truth about storytelling businesses: The story is the asset. All who contribute to it should share in the rewards. Why Story IP Matters More Than Ever This idea becomes even clearer when you look at the broader business context of the entertainment industry today. Major studios aren’t valuable just because of their production capabilities. Their true value often lies in their libraries of intellectual property, the characters, stories, and worlds they own and control. Those catalogs have generated revenue across multiple platforms for decades. Smart stewardship of IP is a critical cornerstone of how creators should be approaching their work in our modern media landscape. Anything otherwise would be malpractice in my mind. While the world is buzzing about two other letters – “A” and “I” – Artificial Intelligence, the smart folks are focused on two letters that are much more important – “I” and “P”. Intellectual Property. Big catalogs of IP are one of the reasons companies like Warner Bros. Discovery remain attractive targets for mergers and acquisitions. Their balance sheets contain something incredibly valuable: vast collections of storytelling IP that can be exploited to create wealth for decades to come. Every time a classic property is rebooted, adapted, streamed, licensed, or merchandised, the value of those assets continues to grow. Batman is one of those crown jewels. And Nicholson recognized that long before most people were talking about “IP portfolios.” He understood that when you participate in a great story, you’re participating in an asset that can live far beyond a single production. It can live on well past you. It can create profound generational wealth. I think about that a lot. A kid from Missouri drew a cartoon mouse and built an empire that now carries my Mizzou basketball and football games. That is the power of creative IP. The Lesson for Creators Today Jack Nicholson’s deal offers several lessons for creators working today, especially independent filmmakers, writers, and producers. First, creative contribution has economic value. Actors, writers, directors, editors, and producers all contribute to the success of a project. When their work meaningfully improves the story, it increases the value of the final asset. Second, attaching talent changes everything. Projects gain legitimacy when respected collaborators join them. Investors feel more confident. Audiences pay attention. Momentum builds. This dynamic plays out constantly in the film industry. The right director, writer, or actor can transform how a project is perceived. Third, shared upside creates alignment. When everyone involved in a project contributes to its success, they show up differently. The energy shifts from “this is my job” to “this is our project.” That difference can be enormous. And that principle brings me to something I’m experiencing firsthand. Building a Film the Nicholson Way I’m currently directing a documentary film that I believe has the potential to reach audiences meaningfully. Like many independent projects, it’s being produced on a modest budget. But one of the ways we’re approaching the project is directly inspired by the philosophy behind Nicholson’s deal. Instead of trying to pay everyone large upfront fees, which would be impossible on an independent budget, we’ve structured agreements that combine modest compensation with generous backend participation. In other words, we’re sharing the upside. That approach allowed us to attach talented collaborators who believe in the story and want to help bring it to life at the highest level. The goal is simple: Produce a film that looks like it cost ten or twenty times what it did. That becomes possible when people care deeply about the outcome. When everyone has a stake in the project's success, the creative energy multiplies. The Philosophy Behind STORYSMART ® This idea of shared upside isn’t just a tactic for one film. It’s part of a broader philosophy that guides the work we’re building with STORYSMART ® . Storytelling is fundamentally collaborative. Great stories are rarely created by a single person working alone. They are built by teams of talented people bringing their skills together. When those collaborators share in the story's success, everyone wins. Creators feel valued. Projects attract stronger talent, and the resulting stories become more powerful. Jack Nicholson may not have used the language of “story IP strategy” when he negotiated his Batman deal, but he clearly understood the underlying economics. He recognized that the true value wasn’t just the paycheck for playing the Joker. The real value was the story itself and the franchise it could become. By betting on that story, Nicholson didn’t just play the Joker. He rewrote the rules of creative economics, and more than three decades later, the lesson still holds. When everyone shares the upside, everyone cares more about the outcome. That simple idea may be one of the most powerful tools storytellers have. About the Storytelling for ALL ® Newsletter The Storytelling for ALL ® LinkedIn Newsletter is a biweekly newsletter examining how stories are developed, protected, and brought to life in today’s evolving storytelling economy. Every other week, I explore the creative, ethical, and economic forces shaping books, films, documentaries, and other story work through the lens of development, rights, collaboration, and long-term value. Written primarily for creators and collaborators, the newsletter also serves as a resource for story sources who want to understand how their true stories move from lived experience to finished work and how better structuring early leads to better outcomes later. For deeper studio thinking, tools, and updates, The STORYSMART ® Way is our monthly email newsletter for members of the Storytelling for ALL ® community. About Our STORYSMART ® Perspective We approach storytelling and filmmaking as a long-term, rights-first business rather than a project-by-project creative exercise. Our focus is on understanding how stories create value over time through ownership, disciplined development, and thoughtful risk management. The ideas shared here are intended to contribute to a broader conversation about sustainable, independent media, not to promote specific projects or investment opportunities.

A Storytelling Geography Lesson Developed in New York. Set in St. Louis. Shot in Georgia. St. Louis, MO March 1, 2026 - When DTF St. Louis premieres today, the first question many people in St. Louis are asking isn’t about the plot. It’s about geography. “Why didn’t they shoot it here?” It’s a fair question. The title carries the city’s name. The setting signals Midwest specificity. For a region working to rebuild its production economy, it feels like a missed opportunity. But that reaction, while understandable, conflates three very different decisions that modern producers make. Story may be local. Production is not. DTF St. Louis is a clean case study in how contemporary projects move through the system. The underlying inspiration began in New York, a true-crime narrative centered on a dentist’s murder trial. That intellectual property was developed for television, reshaped, retitled, and ultimately relocated narratively to St. Louis. Then, when it came time to execute the production at scale, the series was shot in Georgia. New York. St. Louis. Georgia. Three geographies. Three separate strategic decisions: where the story originated, where the narrative would live creatively, and where the show would physically be made. In today’s industry, those rarely align. That isn’t dysfunction. It’s discipline. Projects evolve under commercial pressure. A long-form article becomes a development vehicle. A true-crime framework becomes a reimagined limited series. A coastal story becomes a Midwestern one because the tone, brand positioning, and thematic resonance work better there. Nothing about that process is accidental. IP is fluid. Development is iterative. Titles are market-tested. Settings are chosen for psychological effect as much as authenticity. And when a project finally receives a green light, the last decision — where to physically produce it — is not made on civic loyalty. It is made on math. That is the part of the conversation we tend to skip. If we want to understand why a series set in St. Louis was produced in Georgia, we must stop treating production as a cultural statement and start treating it as what it is: a capital allocation decision. The Evolution of the IP: From True Crime to Limited Series When I look at DTF St. Louis, I don’t just see a provocative title (I had to google “what does DTF mean?”) and a new limited series. I see a case study in how intellectual property moves through the development pipeline. The seed of this project was not Midwestern at all. It began as a New York true-crime story, a long-form magazine piece about a dentist accused of murder, wrapped in layers of betrayal, secrecy, and psychological ambiguity. That kind of storytelling source material is catnip for premium television. It has built-in stakes, moral gray zones, and a legal framework that lends itself to episodic tension. At that stage, the asset wasn’t a television series. It was an article. But in our industry, a well-reported narrative isn’t just journalism. It’s option-able IP. From there, the story entered the machinery of development. Talent attached. The concept evolved. The framing shifted. What began as a direct adaptation gradually became something looser — inspired by, rather than bound to, the original facts. Titles changed. Creative emphasis shifted. By the time HBO ordered the project under the name DTF St. Louis, it was described not as a strict true-crime retelling, but as a wholly original limited series. That shift matters. When I talk to creators about development, I remind them that IP is rarely static. A magazine article becomes a screenplay draft. A screenplay draft becomes a packaging vehicle. A packaging vehicle becomes a reimagined series. Each stage involves recalibration of legal exposure, tone, casting realities, market positioning, and network branding. The location moves from New York to St. Louis wasn’t random. It was strategic. Midwestern settings carry cultural shorthand. They suggest normalcy, stability, the illusion of order. That makes the moral unraveling feel sharper. More subversive. The title alone signals tension between surface respectability and hidden chaos. I don’t know if the fact that I had to google “DTF” to discover it’s intended meaning says something about me personally, my age, my demographic, or the fact that I live in the Midwest. I expect it may be part of the overall marketing strategy. My point is that each element of the project development is strategic. Development is not sentimental. It is iterative and commercial. And here’s the part many emerging creators miss. None of these evolutions betray the original story. They optimize it. They reshape it so it can survive inside a high-budget production environment. That’s the difference between having a story and having a producible asset. By the time DTF St. Louis reached the production stage, the creative geography had been decided. The tone had been locked. The cast had been attached. The network had written the check. Only then does the next question become urgent: Where do we make it? And that is where art gives way to arithmetic. Why Georgia? The Production Math Once a series is greenlit, the conversation changes. Development is creative. Production is financial. When you evaluate where a project should shoot, you shouldn’t start with sentiment. You should start with a spreadsheet. Georgia has spent more than a decade building one of the most predictable production environments in North America. The state offers a 20% base tax credit on qualified in-state spend, with an additional 10% uplift for meeting promotional requirements. Just as important, Georgia does not operate under a restrictive annual cap that forces productions to compete for limited allocations. That predictability matters. Investors price uncertainty. Producers avoid it. But incentives are only one part of the equation. Georgia has depth. It has crew density. It has established sound stages. It has experienced department heads across every category from cinematography and production design to post-production and VFX coordination. It has vendors who understand studio workflows. It has accountants who know how to audit credits efficiently. It has bonding comfort. It has repetition. That ecosystem reduces risk. When you are managing a multi-million-dollar limited series with A-list talent and compressed schedules, risk is the enemy. Delays cost money. Flying in department heads drives up per diem. Housing shortages inflate budgets. Thin crew benches increase overtime and burnout. Production friction erodes margins. In a mature market, those variables are more controlled. Now contrast that with a state rebuilding its incentive program. Missouri currently operates with a $16 million annual cap and split funding pools — one $8 million allocation for episodic programming and another $8 million for feature film. That structure exists for understandable “horse trading” legislative reasons. Compromise is how public policy gets passed. I’ve worked in that arena. I know firsthand that clean, elegant statutes rarely survive the negotiation process intact. Interests are balanced. Fiscal conservatives demand caps. Regional priorities get layered in. Language gets complex. When I first reviewed Missouri’s new tax credit law, my first reaction was that it was unnecessarily complicated and that complexity would introduce friction. And like the annual credit caps, that friction introduces risk. From a creator or investor standpoint, the question isn’t whether a program exists. It’s whether the program is durable, scalable, and operationally smooth. Georgia answers yes on all three, while Missouri is still proving itself. This is not an indictment. It’s a maturity curve. Georgia didn’t become a production powerhouse overnight. It built volume over time. Volume built workforce. Workforce attracted more volume. That flywheel effect is what transforms incentives from temporary subsidies into permanent industry infrastructure. Producers understand that. When a show like DTF St. Louis moves forward, the production team isn’t asking, “Where would we like this to shoot?” They’re asking: Where can we monetize the incentive efficiently? Where is the crew bench deep enough to avoid importing half the department heads? Where are stages reliably available? Where will lenders feel comfortable? Where does the schedule face the least volatility? Those are capital allocation questions. And capital, by its nature, flows toward predictability. That’s the production math. It’s not emotional. It’s not political. It’s fiduciary. For creators and investors who want their projects to survive, that mindset isn’t optional. It’s professional discipline. The Chicken-and-Egg Trap States trying to build a film economy face a brutal loop. They need tax credits to attract production. They need production to build a workforce. They need workforce depth to retain production. They need retention to justify the credits politically. Break any link in that chain and momentum stalls. If credits are capped, larger shows hesitate. If programs change frequently, lenders grow cautious. If crew depth is thin, productions import labor. When productions import labor, the optics weaken. And when the optics weaken, the political durability of the program weakens with it. Georgia escaped that trap through longevity and repetition. Missouri is earlier in the cycle. For creators and investors, the lesson is sobering but clarifying: a newly enacted incentive does not immediately level the playing field. Ecosystems mature over years, not legislative sessions. And capital does not wait for ecosystems to catch up. Production as Capital Allocation At a certain point in the life of a project, the conversation stops being creative and becomes financial. When you raise investor money, whether that’s private equity, gap financing, pre-sales, or your own retained earnings, you assume a fiduciary obligation. You are no longer just telling a story. You are managing risk. Where you shoot is one of the largest risk variables in the entire equation. The headline incentive percentage is rarely the real story. What matters is the net position after audit, legal, and monetization costs. Is the credit transferable? How liquid is the market for selling it? How quickly can it be monetized? Is there an annual cap that creates allocation uncertainty? How long has the program existed? How politically durable is it? Investors care about those questions. So do lenders. So do completion bond companies. Then there’s labor depth. A 30% credit on paper can evaporate quickly if you’re flying in department heads from Los Angeles or New York because the local bench isn’t deep enough. Housing costs rise. Per diems’ stack. Travel days multiply. Overtime creeps in when teams aren’t accustomed to the pace of a series schedule. Infrastructure reduces friction. Friction inflates budgets. When I look at markets like Georgia, Vancouver, Toronto, the UK, or parts of Australia and New Zealand, I see not just incentives, but repetition. Repetition builds experience. Experience builds efficiency. Efficiency protects margin. Margin protects investor confidence. There’s also timing. Episodic television operates on compressed calendars. If a capped program forces you to wait for allocation approval or introduces uncertainty about whether funds will still be available when you apply, that uncertainty must be priced into your plan. And uncertainty carries a cost. Creators sometimes resist this framing because it feels cold. They want authenticity. They want civic loyalty. They want to shoot where the story is set. I understand that instinct. But if the choice is between emotional alignment and financial viability, a professional chooses viability. That doesn’t mean geography is irrelevant. It means geography is evaluated through a risk-adjusted lens. When you start thinking this way, the map changes. Canada becomes a legitimate alternative because of stacked federal and provincial credits and favorable currency exchange. The UK becomes attractive for high-end television because of its stability and studio capacity. Eastern Europe enters the conversation because of labor competitiveness. Australia and New Zealand become strategic plays for large-scale productions. Production becomes jurisdiction shopping. That phrase can sound harsh, but it is simply disciplined thinking. Capital moves toward predictability. It moves toward environments where execution risk is minimized and margins are protected. If you are serious about building sustainable projects, not just getting one made, you must internalize that logic. Story is art. Production is strategy. And strategy, at its core, is the intelligent deployment of capital. The Global Production Economy If you zoom out far enough, the question isn’t “Why Georgia instead of Missouri?” The real question is: why assume the production needs to stay in the United States at all? We operate inside a global production economy now. That shift is not theoretical. It’s structural. Canada has been doubling for American cities for decades. Vancouver and Toronto routinely stand in for New York, Chicago, Boston — sometimes entire states. Producers stack federal and provincial incentives, benefit from favorable currency exchange, and tap into deep crew bases that have grown alongside American studio demand. To the audience, it reads as domestic. To the producer, it reads as efficient. The United Kingdom has built itself into a high-end television and franchise powerhouse. Long-term incentive stability, studio infrastructure, and experienced crews have made it a magnet for prestige series and tentpole films. Australia and New Zealand have leveraged similar strategies for large-scale productions. Parts of Eastern Europe compete aggressively on labor and service costs. Each region offers a slightly different financial profile, but the logic is consistent: predictability, scale, and operational maturity attract capital. This is not about chasing the cheapest option. It’s about optimizing the full stack — incentive structure, currency position, workforce depth, and execution certainty. When streamers and studios evaluate where to produce, they don’t start with sentiment. They start with a global map. They compare jurisdictions the way investors compare markets. They ask where the environment is stable, where the math is clean, where the infrastructure supports speed. Capital flows accordingly. That reality can feel unsettling if you’re thinking locally. But from a creator’s perspective, it’s empowering. The map is larger than your home state. Your project is not confined to one jurisdiction’s politics. You are not limited to one incentive regime. If you want your story to travel, you must think beyond municipal pride and into global strategy. The production economy is no longer regional. It is competitive, mobile, and international. And the creators who thrive in this environment are the ones who understand that mobility is not betrayal — it is professionalism. Emotional vs. Professional Response When a show carries your city’s name but shoots elsewhere, it feels personal. I want Missouri to win. I want workforce growth here. I want infrastructure maturity. But when I’m producing a project with capital at risk, my obligation shifts. My job is not to make a symbolic statement. My job is to deliver on time, on budget, and at the highest possible quality. The emotional response says we should support local. The professional response asks where this project has the highest probability of success. Sustainable creators learn to hold both truths at once. My STORYSMART® Message When I step back from DTF St. Louis — from New York to St. Louis to Georgia — I don’t see controversy. I see clarity. Stories travel. Intellectual property evolves. Production moves. Capital seeks predictability. I talk often about ownership and professional discipline. Owning your story is the first step. Developing it strategically and professionally is the second step. Producing it where the math works is the third. Story is art. Production is strategy. And strategy requires clarity. Geography is an input. Discipline is the key to making it all work. In a global production economy, that mindset isn’t optional. It’s the difference between chasing projects and building value that compounds over time . About Our STORYSMART® Perspective We approach storytelling and filmmaking as a long-term, rights-first business rather than a project-by-project creative exercise. Our focus is on understanding how stories create value over time through ownership, disciplined development, and thoughtful risk management. The ideas shared here are intended to contribute to a broader conversation about sustainable, independent media, not to promote specific projects or investment opportunities.