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Yes — Script 360 does that
A synopsis tells somebody what happens in your screenplay. A pitch tells them why they should care. They are different documents, they are read by the same person in different moods, and the second one is the harder of the two to write about your own work — because it means deciding what is best about it and saying so out loud.
Script 360 writes that for you, from the Story Breakdown it has already made of your pages.
What a pitch actually is
It is what a writer says in a room, or what a manager puts in an email to get somebody to open the script. Three or four paragraphs, 250 to 400 words, and it works differently from everything else on your script’s page:
- It leads with the hook — one sentence somebody could repeat to a colleague an hour later.
- It does not walk through the plot. No act turns, no “and then”. The reader does not need the story in order; they need to want it.
- It does not give away the ending. A synopsis tells; a pitch withholds. The reader is being persuaded, not briefed.
- It sells the part, not just the story. A pitch has to make an actor want the role at the centre of it.
Alongside the pitch itself you get Why now, The role, Comparable titles and Audience — each one only if your script genuinely supports it. If there is no honest answer to “why now”, the section simply is not there. We would rather say nothing than manufacture a reason, because a producer can tell the difference and it costs you more than it buys.
It is argued from your Story Breakdown
The pitch is written from the Story Breakdown — the structured reading of your screenplay that holds the protagonist, the want, the need, the opposition, the stakes, the themes and the comparable titles. That matters for two reasons.
The first is honesty. Every claim in the pitch has to trace back to something in that reading. It is told, in as many words, not to invent a comparable title, a budget, a market or a piece of casting, and not to praise the writing — it has not read your prose and it may not pretend otherwise.
The second is price. If your script already has a breakdown, a pitch is a small extra cost. If it does not, the button quotes you for both together and does both in one go, and the breakdown is yours to keep for everything else it feeds.
Where it goes, and who can read it
The pitch lives in the AI Extras section of your script’s page, in its own tab. From there it is attached to the screenplay everywhere the screenplay is shown:
- On your script’s page, under The Pitch.
- On the Script Library listing, if your screenplay is listed there.
- On the public link you send out — the page a producer sees without needing an account.
- As a bullhorn icon on your script’s card, in your dashboard and in the Library. Anyone can click it and read the pitch in place.
So you write it once and it travels with the script. A reader who opens your public link sees the pitch under your synopsis without being asked to go looking for it.
Readers can only read it. Editing, copying and deleting are yours alone — nobody looking at your screenplay gets a button to do anything with your sales copy.
It is a draft, and it is yours to change
Every part of the pitch is editable in place. Click any line — the hook, a paragraph, the comps, the audience — and type. It saves as you go.
Use that. The AI does not know which comparable title has been getting you traction, or that you have stopped calling it a thriller, or that the part you want an actor to see is the sister rather than the lead. It writes a strong first draft from what is on the page; you know things that are not on the page.
You can also write more than one. Each run comes back a genuinely different argument for the same screenplay rather than the same one reworded, so writing a second to compare is a real thing to do — and you keep them both. Delete removes one when you have decided.
What one actually looks like
This is the pitch Script 360 wrote for Downfall, a one-hour pilot set in a Soviet-occupied Los Angeles. It is reproduced exactly as it came back — nothing here has been tidied up for the FAQ.
In a Soviet-occupied Los Angeles, three childhood friends — a thief, a cop, and a priest — try to walk away clean from the only family they’ve ever had, and find out there is no clean way out.
Downfall opens on a simple, devastating idea: you can leave the crew, but you can’t leave the people. Willem, Colin, and Frederick grew up together in the same rooms and the same trouble, and now they’ve built three separate lives on top of it — a leader trying to go straight, a cop protecting his father’s badge, a priest hiding a war inside himself — all of them one favor away from losing everything. The favor comes due in the first ten pages, when their most reckless friend puts a bullet in a KGB officer, and the three of them discover that loyalty doesn’t ask permission.
This is occupation as pressure cooker: a Los Angeles run by men who answer to nobody, a crime boss who wants to own what’s left of the underworld’s talent, and a KGB enforcer whose restraint dies with his commanding officer in the same warehouse where the season’s body count starts. The friends aren’t fighting to win. They’re fighting to keep what little clean ground they have left, and every choice costs them a piece of it — Willem’s promise to the woman carrying his child, Colin’s father’s position, Frederick’s belief that faith survives contact with what he’s seen.
What makes it sing is the shape of the trap: the very thing that makes these men worth watching — their unwillingness to abandon each other — is the exact mechanism that destroys them scene by scene. There’s no villain forcing their hand as much as their own decency, twisted until it looks like damnation. The pilot ends on a countdown with no resolution, because the point isn’t the answer, it’s watching a good man close his eyes and wait.
It has the fraternal weight of Peaky Blinders, the moral rot of Gomorrah, and the alternate-history nerve of The Man in the High Castle, but its engine is smaller and more personal than any of them: three men who cannot stop loving each other long enough to save themselves.
Why now
A story about ordinary people negotiating their own complicity under an occupying power — what they’ll do, betray, or become to protect the people they love — lands differently in a moment preoccupied with exactly those questions.
The role
Willem is the part actors circle — a man trying to hold a code together with his bare hands, forced in the closing minutes to choose, on camera, between his own conscience and his oldest friend’s life, and given nowhere to look but inward.
Audience
Viewers who found the family loyalty of Animal Kingdom and the brotherhood of Peaky Blinders irresistible, and who want that same engine run through the moral pressure of occupation.
Comparable titles
The Man in the High Castle · Gomorrah · Peaky Blinders · Animal Kingdom
Notice what it never does. It does not tell you how the standoff ends. It does not summarise the four acts. It does not tell you the dialogue is sharp. It takes one idea — you can leave the crew, but you can’t leave the people — and spends four paragraphs making you want to read the script to find out whether it holds.
That is the difference between a pitch and a synopsis, and it is why you want both.
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