What the Michael Jackson Biopic Teaches Us About Storytelling

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.

For years, we’ve talked about the “creator economy” as if it exists somewhere outside of Hollywood. That distinction is collapsing. The recent partnership between TikTok and Tubi isn’t just another creator initiative or talent program. It’s more significant. It’s a signal that the infrastructure of the entertainment industry is being rebuilt quietly, efficiently, and right in front of us. And if you understand what’s happening here, you begin to see something I’ve been talking about for a long time through the STORYSMART® framework: The future of media belongs to those who originate, control, and develop their story IP—before anyone else does. The Headline Is Misleading—The Shift Is Not On its face, the announcement is straightforward. TikTok and Tubi are launching an incubator to help creators develop long-form series. Creators will lead the creative direction, TikTok will help identify talent, and Tubi will provide support and distribution. That sounds like a program. It’s not. It’s a system. What we’re witnessing is the formalization of a pipeline that has been developing organically for years: Short-form → Audience → Proof of Concept → Long-form → Monetization That pipeline used to be fragmented. It is now being institutionalized and that changes everything. A “New” Studio System Is Being Built To understand why this matters, it helps to zoom out. The traditional studio system operated like this. Studios sourced or acquired IP. Studios then developed the projects internally. They controlled production and distribution. Creators were hired to execute. In that model, power flowed downstream from the studio. What we’re seeing now is the inversion of that model. Today creators originate IP. They build audiences directly. Platforms identify what’s working and then invite creators upstream into long-form development. That’s not a minor shift. That’s a structural reorganization of the industry. Tubi isn’t just licensing content. It’s building a development pipeline fed by creators who already have validated ideas and audiences. They have built a following and are consistently engaging with that audience. TikTok isn’t just distributing content. It’s functioning as a global story testing engine. Put those together, and you don’t have a partnership. You have a modern studio system. Short-Form is the New Development Slate One of the biggest misconceptions creators still have is thinking of their short form content as the “end” product. It’s not. It’s the beginning. What used to be a script, a pitch deck, or a sizzle reel is now a feed. Every post is a test. Every series of posts is a proof of concept. Every engaged audience is a signal that there is an appetite for more. It is also validation of episodic entertainment. In Hollywood, development executives used to ask: Does this story work? Is there an audience? Can this scale and will we make money? Today, those questions are being answered in real time, publicly, on platforms like TikTok. The difference is speed and data. Instead of spending months developing a concept in a vacuum, creators are now essentially iterating ideas in public. They are refining tone, structure, and format. They are building an audience alongside the story, if you will. By the time a platform like Tubi gets involved, the risk profile has already changed. The story isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s proven. From Feed to Franchise This is where it gets interesting. Because once you understand that short form is development, you start to see the next phase: Episodic storytelling is the bridge from feed to franchise. Creators who succeed in this new ecosystem aren’t just posting content. They’re building narrative continuity. Think about it. They’re creating recurring characters, ongoing storylines, thematic consistency, and audience expectation. In other words, they’re doing what television has always done, just in shorter bursts. And that’s the key. The transition from short-form to long-form isn’t a leap. It’s an extension. When done correctly, a long-form series is simply a more expansive version of something that already works. That’s why this Tubi + TikTok model makes so much sense. It’s not about “teaching” creators how to make long-form content. It’s about identifying creators who are already thinking episodically and giving them the resources to scale. The Shift from Dependency to Leverage There’s another layer here that matters just as much. For years, creators have been dependent on platforms. Algorithms dictated visibility. Platforms controlled monetization. Distribution was the gate. That dynamic is shifting. What this partnership signals are that platforms are now competing for creators who bring something valuable to the table. They are looking for a built-in audience, fresh IP, and proven engagement. That’s leverage. All of this aligns directly with a core principle of our STORYSMART® philosophy. Don’t build your story on someone else’s platform. Build your story so platforms come to you. To be clear, that doesn’t mean ignoring platforms. It means using them strategically. I’m a big fan of the idea of non-dependent distribution. I’m inherently cynical about big monopolies and technology that touches us everywhere we go. But there’s a difference between being platform-dependent and being platform-leveraged. Creators who understand that distinction will be the ones who benefit most from these new models that are being pioneered. The STORYSMART® Lens: Why This Matters Everything we teach through STORYSMART® is built around a simple idea: your story is an asset. It is not content. It is not just a post or a one-off project. Your story is an asset that should be treated like any other asset. Like any asset, its value is determined by ownership, structure, how it is developed and how it is positioned in the market. What this Tubi + TikTok initiative validates is that the market is now actively seeking well-developed story assets originated by creators. But most creators aren’t prepared. They have content. They have audience. They even have momentum. But what they often lack is a clear story architecture and well-organized, copyright-protected source material with clear rights clarity and smart development strategy. That’s where the gap is. And that gap is exactly what the STORYSMART® framework is designed to solve. Because when a platform comes calling, the question becomes are you ready to scale your story or are you just reacting to the opportunity? The STORYSMART® Media Mogul Mindset This is where mindset becomes strategy. The creators who will win in this new environment are the ones who stop thinking like content creators and start thinking like media companies. That means treating short form as development, not output. It means building stories intentionally, not accidentally. Most importantly, it means understanding right and ownership from day one and structuring projects for long-term value. It’s the difference between “I have a following” and “I have an IP pipeline.” That’s the STORYSMART® Media Mogul Mindset. And it’s no longer optional. Because the industry is moving in that direction with or without you. Why This Moment Matters Right Now Timing is everything. We’re at a point where several forces are converging. Streaming platforms need cost-efficient, proven content. Creator platforms have massive talent pools and data. Audiences are already conditioned for episodic, bite-sized storytelling and technology has democratized access to quality production. That convergence creates opportunity. But it also creates competition. Because as more creators enter this space, the differentiator won’t be who can create content. It will be who can develop story. That’s a higher bar. And it’s where professionals such as filmmakers, journalists, and writers have an edge if they adapt. The Big Picture So no, this story isn’t really about TikTok or Tubi. It’s about the emergence of a new system where development starts in public, validation happens in real time, and platforms act as accelerators, not gatekeepers. Creators who understand story and smart deal structure will rise to the top. Hollywood isn’t going to disappear. It is decentralizing. And in doing so, it is creating more entry points than ever before. But access without strategy doesn’t lead to ownership. And ownership is where the real value is created. If you’re a creator, a filmmaker, a public figure, or someone sitting on a story that matters, this moment should feel both exciting and clarifying. Because the path is becoming more visible. Start with your story. Develop it intentionally. Build your audience. Structure your IP. Then scale. That’s how you go from feed to franchise. And that’s how you operate in a world where the new studio system isn’t coming. It’s already here. With the right media lens, you can see it hiding in plain sight.

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.