A Field Guide to Telling: Your Story's Seven Sins
A few years ago, I worked on a space opera with one of the best concepts I’ve ever seen.
On paper, the novel had everything: incredible characters, a powerful premise, and rich veins of conflict. But beta readers were lukewarm, saying:
It isn’t really engaging.
Or that the story:
Doesn’t feel real. I don’t care about what happens.
Opening the manuscript, I could see why. The story had incredible promise, but the execution felt flat. Despite numerous twists and turns, everything had that dull, paint-by-numbers feeling.
Three pages in, I already had a strong idea what was causing it, and by the halfway mark, I was certain.
The writer had made the fatal error of telling the story instead of showing it.
This is what a lot of writers don’t know: storytelling is a kind of spell. We don’t tell the reader what to feel, we draw them in and make them feel it.
The Seven Species of Telling & Their Key Identifying Features
We’ve talked about the “show, don’t tell” rule before, and how it’s often misinterpreted, but we’ve never explored exactly what the different forms of telling are, and how each of them causes problems.
So, this week, we’ll be digging into exactly what I told the writer of that space opera.
Because it was the root of all their problems, and has plagued many of the other novels I’ve worked on over the years.
Telling emotions
The first, and most common form of telling happens when we tell a character’s emotions directly:
Emily was furious.
Notice how we only know what’s going on with Emily because it’s stated outright.
In a way, this makes total sense. We need the reader to know what a character is feeling, so they can feel it, too. But unfortunately, it often does more harm than good.
Why it causes problems: We’re asking the reader to do our job for us. Take the sentence above. We want them to read the word “furious” and imagine what it feels like, then project that into the story on Emily’s behalf. Unfortunately, readers rarely put in this sort of work.
This is what a lot of writers don’t know: storytelling is a kind of spell. We don’t tell the reader what to feel, we draw them in and make them feel it.
When we flatly state a character’s emotions, the reader can feel it’s being forced onto them. That makes them resist, and even resent the character. At worst, it spoils their enjoyment and makes the characters feel two-dimensional.
When it works: There are always exceptions in writing, and telling is never bad. Even if it does cause us problems, there are times when it’s necessary.
Middle Grade fiction is a great example of that, and even YA tells emotions a bit more than adult fiction. Younger readers need more of a steer on what a character is feeling, and telling is used alongside showing emotion to help guide them through the experience.
Telling also works brilliantly when the feeling is unusual or unexpected, as Donald Maass discusses in his excellent Emotional Craft of Fiction: if a character is in a terrifying situation and feels the thrill of excitement, then direct telling works perfectly.
But in most other cases, the reader will already anticipate how the character is feeling to some degree. That means we can ship straight to showing the effects.
Characterisation
A lot of writers also feel they need to tell who a character is, for example:
He was one of the kindest people she’d ever met.
As with telling emotions, it’s understandable to write this way. Characters are perhaps the single most important part of our stories, and we’ve put a lot of work into them. We need to make sure the reader knows exactly who they are, right?
Why it causes problems: It denies the reader the satisfaction of getting to know that character for themselves.
It also feels forced: like this character is pushed onto them and they’re being told to like them (or hate them). Again, this can cause frustration, resentment, and even make the reader abandon a book.
It can also lead to contradictions. Our story might repeatedly say a character is kind, but show them acting selfishly. Or the writer might tell us a character is brave, while we see them running away.
Vitally, when we tell the reader one thing and show them another, two things will always happen:
They’ll believe what they see, every time.
They’ll start losing trust in the book.
When it works: When this technique is used intentionally, it’s a powerful thing. For example, it might be part of a wider strategy to show an unreliable narrator.
In fact, telling characterisation can be extremely effective if we’re using it to show that our POV character is judgmental, or even flat out wrong.
On-the-nose dialogue
This can look like any of the other forms of telling, but spoken out loud. For example, we might have a character directly state how they’re feeling:
“I’m just so upset! Why would he do this?”
Or tell about another character:
“He’s just a horrible person!”
They could also say something that falls into one of the forms below: explaining the plot (“we need to get back to the castle!”), sharing backstory (“it all started with my grandfather...”), or delivering an infodump (“Ivan the Awful has ruled this land for fifty years...”).
It’s tempting to write this way, especially when we have things we need to share. And putting it into the mouths of our characters feels better than telling outright. But unfortunately, there’s one fatal issue...
Why it causes problems: No one actually speaks like this. And while we aren’t replicating authentic speech (real people talk in wandering sentences, full of umms and ahhs that would drive our readers mad!) we need to give the impression of a real conversation.
That means each character should have a unique way of speaking, and everything should be filtered through:
Who that person is.
What they want.
The more we go against that, the more it breaks the reader’s suspension of disbelief—reducing the characters to puppets, rather than living, breathing people.
When it works: Sometimes, for brevity and pacing, it’s necessary to have a touch of on-the-nose dialogue. If it happens once or twice, it’s generally no big deal—it’s only when everyone speaks this way all the time that we get into difficulties.
We might also use it as a way of showing a character is lying, under some kind of mind control, or to signal that something is afoot.
As with almost all forms of telling, used intentionally, consciously, and in moderation, it can be a powerful tool!
Plot explanation
This is exactly what it sounds like. It happens whenever we explain the plot of the story directly to the reader.
They had to break into the lab tonight. It was the only way to get Maria out of there before the scientists killed her.
Again, this makes perfect sense to us. We want to make sure the reader doesn’t get confused, and that they know what’s going to happen.
And sometimes, especially if we’re discovery writers, we’re figuring the story out as we go—so by telling it, we’re telling ourselves.
This is fine (everything is fine) in a first draft. But if we want to share the story with others, we need to address it in revisions.
Why it causes problems: It makes a story feel stiff and artificial. It even breaks the fourth wall in a way—reminding the audience that they’re reading a book, and nothing is real.
Like the other forms of telling, it also introduces distance, adding a layer of numbness and insulation between the reader and the visceral experience of what’s happening.
When it works: Like telling emotions, this is much more common when writing for a young audience. It may be completely appropriate in MG or YA fiction.
From time to time, we might also need to tell the plot directly just to keep things moving, or to stop the reader from getting genuinely confused. With speculative fiction, it’s easy for the reader to get lost—unsure what’s real, what’s magical, and what’s purely metaphorical.
Sometimes that means we need to tell. We just need to use it with care.
Backstory
In backstory, we leave the present moment—diverting into what happened to a character in their past. Flashbacks (when not used as part of a split timeline) also fall into this category.
It might be spoken out loud, or written into the main text of a story, but it often looks something like this:
The first time Alex went to space, he was seven years old. His mother was a test pilot in the galactic navy, and...
I see this all the time as a developmental editor, and often feel the tug to write like this myself. After all, we put a lot of work into our characters, and their background feels important—especially when it’s affecting their actions in the present.
It feels like something the reader should know.
Why it causes problems: Not knowing why a character is acting this way builds up tension. It makes the reader curious. Telling backstory does the opposite.
It pulls the reader out of the present moment (where things are happening, and something is on the line) and diverts into something that’s already resolved. It’s a departure from the story, rather than a part of it. As a result, it can’t maintain tension or make the reader wonder, “What will happen next?”
Unless we’ve done an awful lot of work to make the reader care beforehand, it can also feel like we’re forcing it on them. If the reader didn’t care to begin with, they will care even less now.
The reader is also far less likely to read (and even less likely to remember) lengthy blocks of telling. They’ll skim your carefully crafted backstory, or else forget all about it the second they’re done.
When it works: Sometimes, there’s no getting away from it. When something happened in the past, we can only show so much. Sooner or later, we need to drop that last piece of the puzzle into place and provide key details, and telling is often the only way to do that.
Certain genres also lend themselves to more backstory. For example, in gothic mysteries, it can be a vital part of the plot: pulling the reader even deeper into what really happened all those years ago.
Exposition & Infodumps
Here, we leave the story and wander into explanations of our world, the various peoples and kingdoms, the political system, magical artefacts, and so on.
You often see something like this:
There was a statue of Catherine Arefege standing in the centre of the square. She’d first colonised this world almost a hundred-years ago, but thanks to the life-giving machines built by her techno-priests, she...
Infodumps are very similar to backstory. We’ve put a lot of work into our worldbuilding. It feels relevant, important, and like the reader needs to know. Some writers believe they have to share every background detail—either to make sure the reader isn’t confused, or to build a sense of immersion.
Why it causes problems: Stories breathe the present moment. That’s the only place the outcome is uncertain, and so the only place our story can exist. And exposition (like most forms of telling) takes us away from that.
It’s a flat relating of how things are, rather than the flow of what happens—moving from a character’s goal, into action, the obstacles they hit, and the dance of want vs problems that breathes life and tension into a story.
As with other forms of telling, the reader is also extremely likely to skim over these infodumps, or forget whatever they learned immediately after.
When it works: Sometimes, a quick line of exposition is needed to keep the story moving. Sometimes, it’s better to share a key detail quickly and move on.
Exposition is also more common in YA, and especially in MG fiction, for the same reason as many of the other forms: sometimes, younger readers need a little more help to follow the thread of the story.
Telling in summary
The final form of telling happens whenever we skim through time—covering events on fast forward instead of following the moment:
That night, Elera broke into the archives. She snuck down the corridor, picked the lock with some difficulty, and headed inside. It took her almost an hour to find the book she needed, but thankfully she got back to her room without being seen.
Writers tell in summary for many reasons. Sometimes things are happening, but we don’t really want (or need) to dwell on them. Maybe we’re excited to get to a bit later on, or trying to keep our word count down. Or maybe a character is just training and getting stronger.
Why it causes problems: It’s like watching a film on fast forward. The reader can’t really immerse themselves, or feel that intoxicating mixture of anxiety and excitement about what will happen next.
When it works: Sometimes, we need to tell in summary. It keeps the story moving, or creates a feeling of unreality after a traumatic event.
As always, the trick is to use it with care, and a full understanding of the problems it’s likely to cause.
Handling Guide—Approaching Telling in the Wild
In our next post, we’ll be returning to each form of telling, learning how to enrich our stories with showing instead.
However, if you want to get started now, it’s always good to follow this formula:
Don’t be afraid to trust your reader. Ask yourself: does this really need to be here? A lot of the time, exposition, telling in summary, backstory, and other explanations can simply be removed.
If it absolutely does need to be there, ask: how can I show this? This is vital to characterisation, emotions, and backstory, and we’ll be exploring it much more in the next post.
If something can’t be shown entirely, how can we show as much as possible? Think about the effects, and how we might weave them into the story.
Only use telling as a last resort. Ask: how can we keep this short and sweet—minimising the distancing effect, and getting back into the story as soon as possible?
Field Notes: Putting it All into Practice
If you struggle with telling, or you want to assess its effect on your own work, here’s something you can try:
Pick a scene from your most recent work in progress.
Choose a colour for each form of telling.
Red for telling emotions.
Orange for characterisation.
Yellow is on-the-nose dialogue.
Green is plot explanation.
Blue is backstory.
Purple for exposition & infodumps.
Grey for telling in summary.
Work slowly through the scene. Whenever you find telling, highlight it in the appropriate colour.
When you’re finished, look back and see which colour appears most often. We all have weaknesses, and it can be helpful to see which form of telling is doing the heavy lifting.
For each highlighted section, ask: what essential detail or story truth am I trying to communicate here? It could be “when the war started,” “that Emily is upset,” or “what happened to Eria years ago.”
Save the highlighted and annotated scene in a separate file. We’ll be coming back to it next time!
Notes for Observers
None of the common forms of telling are “bad” or “wrong.” Telling is a tool we have at our disposal, and sometimes it’s the right tool for the job. The exceptions we’ve discussed are proof of that!
However, all forms of telling cause the same problems. They:
Add distance between the reader and what’s happening in the vital present moment.
Can’t sustain the life-giving tension that our story needs to survive.
Are a description of what is rather than an illustration of what’s happening. A diversion from the story, rather than part of it.
Lack emotional impact, causing the story to feel flat.
Aren’t memorable, and the reader is extremely likely to forget them.
Because of this, we need to use telling with care, mindful of the negative impact it can have.
The good news? Showing is glorious, fun, and easy to master. And while showing does eat up our word count (and so isn’t always what we want) it has one incredible superpower: it drags the reader through the page and immerses them in the narrative.
In our next post, we’ll be looking again at the different forms of telling, and how we can supercharge our stories by showing them instead.
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Excellent insights. I’ve learned the secret to (at least my own) writing is to learn all the rules so that I know how and when to break them. I love adverbs, starting sentences with ands (not to mention gerunds), and telling not showing. Stories are living breathing things and have their own rhythms, the trick is tuning into what that is and how to facilitate it.
Thank you for this, a good read for right now. ☺️