From The Qin Empire to Emperor Wu of Han, from The Governance of Zhenguan to The Ming Dynasty 1566, and the wildly popular Qing Dynasty palace dramas, Chinese historical dramas have practically woven together the entire 5,000 years of our history.
Yet, there’s one dynasty that stands out like a gap in the timeline, untouched by filmmakers.
Before it lies the culturally vibrant Song Dynasty, brimming with poets and scholars; after it comes the Ming Dynasty, famed for “the emperor guarding the gates.” Both are goldmines for historical dramas. But the Yuan Dynasty, squeezed between them with its roughly century-long history, is almost a blank slate on screen. Apart from the somewhat dated Genghis Khan, can you name a single major drama that truly tells the Yuan Dynasty’s story?
Almost none. At best, it serves as a backdrop in The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber or as the defeated “previous dynasty” in stories about Zhu Yuanzhang.
What do we watch historical dramas for? The stories, the characters, but at their core, it’s about emotional connection. You need to feel the protagonist’s joys and sorrows, cheer for their triumphs, and lament their failures.
Now, here’s the problem: if you were transported to the Yuan Dynasty, who would you be?
Most likely, you’d be a “Southern Person” (Nanren), the lowest rank in the Yuan’s “four-class system.”
This system wasn’t some vague social hierarchy—it was codified in law, a stark system of ethnic segregation.
First Class: Mongols. No explanation needed. The ruling elite, born superior.
Second Class: Semu People. Not a derogatory term, but a shorthand for “people of various categories,” mainly referring to those from Central Asia or the Western Regions who joined the Mongols in their conquests. Think of them as “technical partners” with high status.
Third Class: Han People. Note, this doesn’t mean ethnic Han. It refers to those living north of the Huai River, previously under Jin or Western Xia rule, including Han, Khitan, and Jurchen peoples. They surrendered early, so their treatment was slightly better than that of the Southern People.
Fourth Class: Southern People. This is where most ethnic Han, the descendants of the Southern Song, fall. Because they resisted until the end, they faced the harshest oppression.
What did this system mean in daily life? For example, if a Mongol killed a Southern Person, the penalty might just be a fine or the loss of a cow. But if a Southern Person accidentally offended a Mongol, they could face “tattoo punishment”—having their face branded, a lifelong stigma.
Want to become an official? The imperial examination system wasn’t entirely abolished, but it was a hollow gesture. Quotas were pitifully small, and even if you passed, you’d likely be stuck in low-level positions, far from the core of power. The court was essentially a “family business” run by Mongols and Semu people. For Han scholars, generations of pride and talent were rendered worthless.
So, how do you make a drama out of this?
Make the protagonist a Mongol noble? Watching them oppress the masses and revel in privilege? The audience would riot.
Make the protagonist a Han person? Then the entire drama becomes a chronicle of frustration. The protagonist would live cautiously, swallowing their pride, and any small achievement could be undone by a single word from above. Who wants to watch that? A story of unrelenting oppression with no outlet for relief? People watch dramas for entertainment, not to feel suffocated.
This deep-rooted “class solidification” and “ethnic oppression” give Yuan Dynasty stories an inescapable sense of unease. Unlike other dynasties, where even in dark times there were paths to rise, the Yuan often felt like your fate was sealed by birth. That sense of despair is something modern audiences struggle to connect with.
Even if you set aside emotional barriers and aim for a purely serious historical drama, is that feasible?
It’s tough because you can barely cobble together a decent script.
The foundation of historical dramas is historical records. For the Tang, Song, Ming, and Qing dynasties, we have mountains of histories, notes, essays, and archives—enough for writers to mine for years.
But the Yuan Dynasty is an exception.
First, they weren’t big on keeping records. The Mongols, a people who conquered on horseback, valued martial prowess over scholarship. The meticulous historiographical systems of earlier Chinese dynasties were adopted half-heartedly, resulting in incomplete records. There were no dedicated historians following the emperor to document daily activities, so many key decisions went unrecorded.
This creates an awkward situation: Yuan emperors are largely faceless.
Can you name a few Yuan emperors off the top of your head? Apart from Kublai Khan at the start and the last emperor, Toghon Temür, the others are a blur. And it’s not your fault. In less than a century, the Yuan had 11 emperors, some reigning for as little as a couple of months. Palace coups were more common than daily meals, with power changing hands in chaotic succession.
What did these emperors look like? What were their personalities or deeds? Even historians struggle to piece together scraps, so how can a screenwriter create compelling characters? Without strong characters, the story is just an empty frame.
Second, archaeology offers little help. Royal tombs are a key source for understanding ancient rulers. The tombs of Han, Tang, Song, and Ming emperors yield detailed inscriptions and artifacts.
But Yuan emperors practiced “secret burials.” After death, they were quietly buried, the site trampled flat by horses, and grass planted over it. Within a few years, even their own descendants couldn’t locate the graves. To this day, not a single Yuan imperial tomb has been found, cutting off a major avenue for understanding the era.
Finally, even the “official history” is unreliable. After the Ming Dynasty was established, Zhu Yuanzhang ordered the compilation of the History of Yuan. But it was rushed, completed in just over a year. The compilers themselves complained about the lack of sources, noting that much of what they recorded was based on conflicting hearsay, with little verification possible.
An official history riddled with errors and contradictions is a nightmare for creators. Costumes and props can’t be accurately designed, historical events are muddled, and character relationships are a mess. This isn’t filmmaking—it’s academic research, and the hardest kind.
Beyond politics and sources, there’s a deeper issue: a cultural gap.
Why do Qing Dynasty dramas thrive while Yuan ones languish? Because the Qing actively sought to integrate.
From Emperor Hong Taiji onward, the Manchus embraced Han culture, studying Confucianism, holding exams, and employing Han officials. By the Kangxi, Yongzheng, and Qianlong reigns, the emperors’ mastery of Han scholarship often surpassed that of Han scholars. They governed with familiar bureaucratic systems and Confucian ethics, so Qing dramas—despite Manchu language and attire—feel relatable, with familiar themes of loyalty, power struggles, and family dynamics.
The Yuan Dynasty was a different story.
The Mongol rulers maintained a distant, even dismissive attitude toward Han culture. They clung to steppe traditions, some of which shocked Han sensibilities.
Take the “levirate marriage” system, for instance. After a father’s death, a son could marry his father’s concubines (except his biological mother); if a brother died, the younger sibling could marry the widow. To steppe peoples, this ensured property stayed within the family and protected vulnerable women—a logical tradition. But to Han people steeped in Confucian ethics, this was scandalous, even incestuous.
Imagine a Yuan palace drama where a new emperor inherits his father’s concubines. How would audiences react? It’d likely never pass censorship.
This cultural “dimension wall” permeates everything. From political ideals to daily habits, the Yuan felt like an alien entity in the Chinese heartland. Unlike the Qing, which worked to assimilate, the Mongols tried to rule an agricultural empire with steppe logic. The result? Mutual discomfort and a persistent divide.
This cultural estrangement makes the Yuan feel like a “familiar stranger” in Chinese history. We know it’s part of our past, but its logic feels foreign. That alienation is a creative death knell.
After all this talk of why it “can’t be done,” let’s touch on the most practical issue: money.
Making a TV drama isn’t charity—it’s about profit. A big-budget historical drama costs hundreds of millions. Before investors open their wallets, they ask: Will people watch this? Will it break even?
Yuan Dynasty stories are the riskiest bet with the lowest expected returns.
High costs meet low expectations. The lack of audience connection, the difficulty in crafting stories, and the cultural divide all point to one outcome: the market won’t buy it.
But here’s the twist: Yuan culture isn’t without its gems. Yuan Dynasty drama and poetry, like Guan Hanqing’s The Injustice to Dou E or Wang Shifu’s The Story of the Western Wing, are peaks of Chinese literature, still beloved today. The hit drama A Dream of Splendor drew its story from Guan Hanqing’s “Zhao Pan’er Rescues a Courtesan.”
This shows that audiences are intrigued by the Yuan’s urban culture and artistic achievements. But when it comes to its political history or palace intrigues, people quietly look away.
References：
- History of Yuan (《元史》), compiled under the Ming Dynasty.
- Sima Guang, Zizhi Tongjian (《资治通鉴》), for context on earlier dynasties.
- Guan Hanqing, The Injustice to Dou E and other Yuan dramas.
- Wang Shifu, The Story of the Western Wing.
