How NOT to Confuse Your Readers

As readers, we’ve all had that experience where a book hooks us so completely, we can’t put it down. We race through the pages, desperate to know, how is this all going to turn out?

As writers, we all want to craft that experience for our readers. But sometimes, in an attempt to create tension and suspense and intrigue, we keep our story mysterious, motives hidden or details obscure.

But this approach can backfire.

It sounds counterintuitive, but keeping readers in the dark doesn’t build tension. It creates confusion. Readers don’t understand what’s happening, what’s at stake, and why they should care. Rather than feel immersed, they feel left out.

The key is to understand the difference between withholding information and withholding context.

Withholding Information

Withholding information is an important storytelling skill. It powers your story’s narrative, posing questions that keep the reader turning pages to find out the answer.

But you shouldn’t withhold any old information; you should hold back information that matters to the character. It’s not about the reader—it’s about the character. What they know, and what they don’t. And, most importantly, what they desperately want.

Our characters need to walk onto the page desperately wanting something. There should a big question the character’s trying to answer, or outcome they’re trying to achieve, or itch they’re trying to scratch. It has to matter deeply to them. How things will work out for the character, how they will answer that big question or achieve that outcome—that is the important information you withhold from the character and, by proxy, the reader.

You then build tension and intrigue by slowly revealing this information, not by keeping it secret. As readers gain information, they feel themselves inching ever closer to finding out whether the character will get what they desperately want. It’s like closing a loop.

A master work of withholding information is We Were Liars, by E. Lockhart. From page 1, Lockhart creates a deep mystery surrounding a tragic accident her protagonist, Cadence, can’t remember but desperately wants to. The book crackles with tension as Lockhart provides a slow-drip of seemingly disparate clues that don’t add up until the very end. I couldn’t put that book down—the curiosity almost hurt. I had to know, how’s this all going to end?

At the same time, while there was so much I didn’t know about Cadence’s story, I always knew everything I needed to know to understand what was happening in a scene. I knew who was in that scene. I knew where we were, when we were. I got just-in-time backstory so I could understand the dynamics between characters and setting in the scene. I knew what Cadence wanted and what was at stake each step of the way. While I was tearing through pages looking for tantalizing clues to the mystery, I was never lost or confused.

Because, while Lockhart is masterfully withholding information about this tragic event from Cadence and from her readers, she’s not withholding context.

Withholding Context

Context is the essential background information readers need to understand what’s happening in the scene. This includes logistical details, like where and when a scene is taking place, who’s in the scene and how they got there, and even deeper contextual details, like the backstory and personal dynamics between characters and historical, cultural, and social constructs of the story world.

Another key piece of context is what the character wants and why it matters to them, both at the global story level and at the scene-to-scene level. Getting this on the page helps readers understand what is at stake for the character and allows them to track the character’s progress, or lack thereof, toward getting what they want.

When all of this important context is in place, the reader is grounded in the scene and can focus on the big story questions.

Sometimes writers hide, delay, or leave context out on purpose, thinking they’re creating tension and intrigue and making readers “work for it.” But for the reader, the effect is the opposite. They’re not intrigued; they’re confused. They can’t follow the big story questions the writer wants them to follow.

For example, let’s say a writer decides to hold back the details of the antagonist’s plan until the climax, thinking this will keep it mysterious. But withholding this context means the reader spends most of the story not knowing what the antagonist is up to, why they’re doing what they’re doing, whether they’re making any progress, or what is at stake throughout the story. Rather than create tension and intrigue, the writer has shut the reader out, denying them what they need to know to understand the scene, characters and stakes.

When the readers have this context up front, on the other hand, they begin to anticipate the coming clash between the antagonist and the protagonist. Tension simmers on the page as they keep reading to see how the power struggle plays out. Knowing more, not less, is what creates the intrigue.

Another way this can show up on the page is a lack of interiority and abrupt scene endings, where the writer thinks “she glanced away” tells readers all they need to know, and that anything more is spelling out the story when the readers should be able to figure it out on their own. But this is just another way of shutting the reader out. Readers need to know what viewpoint characters are thinking so they understand why they are making specific choices and how they feel about it. Putting this on the page doesn’t ruin anything. On the contrary, it deepens the story.

Author’s Burden of Knowledge

Sometimes writers don’t realize they’re withholding important context. They unintentionally leave it off the page because they already know everything about the story and forget the reader is coming to it cold.

Always remember: your readers don’t know what you know.

Getting it Right in Your Story

The next time you’re reading a book by an author you admire, look at how they handle context. Often, it lands so seamlessly alongside the forward-moving action that you barely notice it. It shows up on the page in little bits and pieces at just the right moment, and you take it in passively. As a reader, you’re grounded in the story and your attention is on the big questions—which is where it should be.

Because well-done context is easy to miss, actively look for ways the author slipped context onto the page. How do they let you know where you are? How do they handle the passage of time? How do they establish who’s in a scene and what the dynamics are between those characters and the protagonist? How do they move those characters around in space? How do they let you know what’s at stake in this scene? How do they let you know what a character wants and why—and how many times do they remind you of this?

In Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games, we know everything about the Games—how they work, who’s in them, the role they play in this society—except whether and how Katniss will survive them. The more context we have about the Games and why they matter, and how desperately Katniss wants to survive them, the more invested we are in the big story question: how will she make it out of this alive?

A successful story unfurls for the reader in a way that keeps them grounded and keeps them guessing. It’s a tricky balance. Get it right, and you’ll have readers racing through your story. Get it wrong, and they’ll be headed for the exits.

This article originally appeared in JaneFriedman.com.