Who Are The Main Characters In Everybody And Why Do They Matter?

Think of the cast of 'Everybody' as a set of living metaphors: the central figure, Everybody, is the every-person protagonist who stands in for the audience and forces us to confront mortality and meaning. Death is the impartial Catalyst: not villainous, just inevitable — it propels the story and strips social pretenses away. The other characters are names for realities we live with daily — friends, family (kin), possessions or wealth, love/beloved, and the conscience or good deeds. Each of these either deserts, supports, or reveals the protagonist under pressure.

They matter because the play turns abstract Ethics into people you can watch and react to. Watching a friend-character turn away, or seeing ‘Stuff’ refuse to travel with Everybody, is a sharp, almost embarrassing lesson about what we actually depend on. At the same time, the presence of a moral or divine voice asks whether anything we do has lasting weight. For me, the spice of 'Everybody' is how minimal its cast can be while still staging a maximum of human questions — it’s intimate, theatrical, and quietly accusatory in the best way, leaving me to mull over which characters in my own life would stand beside me.

Walking into a production of 'Everybody' feels like being handed a small, brilliant puzzle where the pieces are people and ideas. The central figure — the one literally called Everybody — is the obvious anchor. That role matters because it’s the human mirror: Everyone on stage and in the audience can read themselves into it. the playwright deliberately strips the protagonist of a stable identity so the character becomes a vessel for questions about mortality, responsibility, and what we carry with us. In many productions the role is even assigned by lottery or rotated, which underscores that universality. Watching an actor suddenly become Everybody is a jolting reminder that fate doesn’t consult resumes or social media bios before it knocks.

Death is the plot engine and the other unavoidable presence. It’s not just a grim reaper figure; it’s the force that forces honesty. Death’s function is dramaturgical and philosophical: it makes relationships speak, possessions confess, and creeds wobble. Without Death, 'Everybody' would be a series of conversations about values; with Death, those conversations become urgent confessions. God (or the higher moral voice that summons Everybody) provides the cosmic frame — not always didactic, but enough to ask whether our lives count in the ledger that matters at the end. That tension between cosmic judgment and personal reckoning is the spine of the piece.

The supporting personifications — friends, kin, love or Beloved, possessions/wealth (sometimes called Stuff or Goods), and the idea of Good Deeds/Knowledge — are crucial because they dramatize what we test under pressure. Friendship and Kin often abandon Everybody when the stakes flip; Stuff is embarrassingly honest in its selfishness; Love might stay or leave depending on how the production wants to interrogate loyalty. Good Deeds or a moral conscience often functions as the redemptive or salvific element: it’s what, in the medieval template of 'Everyman', actually travels with you. In modern stagings these roles let the play ask: what is performative, what is sincere, and what survives a life when your final Curtain pulls.

I love how 'Everybody' doesn’t give easy answers — instead it hands you archetypes to argue with on the walk home. The characters matter because they’re less about plot and more about holding up different lenses: identity, inevitability, community, and what we value. After a show, I’m always left cataloguing my own companions—who’d stay, who’d go—so the piece clings to me like a thought experiment I can’t stop turning over.