If you spend enough time around writing advice, you’ll encounter the phrase “show, don’t tell” with almost religious intensity. It’s repeated in workshops, blogs, classrooms, and comment sections, often without explanation, and even more often without nuance.
“Show, don’t tell” is one of those writing commandments people repeat like it was carved into stone by a very dramatic god with a fountain pen.
At first glance, it sounds simple.
Don’t tell the reader what’s happening. Show them instead.
But what does that actually mean in practice? Is it a strict rule? A stylistic preference? Or one of those pieces of advice that started useful and slowly turned into a blunt instrument?
The truth is more interesting and far more useful than the slogan suggests.
What “Show, Don’t Tell” Really Means
At its core, the distinction is about how information is delivered to the reader.
Telling presents information directly.
It summarises, explains, and labels.
She was nervous.
Showing, on the other hand, presents evidence and allows the reader to interpret it.
Her hands hovered over the keyboard, then pulled back. She wiped her palms on her jeans and checked the message again, even though she had already memorised it.
Both sentences communicate the same idea. Same fact. One is a statement. The other invites the reader to participate, to infer, to feel clever for noticing. The difference lies in the reader’s experience.
- Telling gives the conclusion.
- Showing lets the reader arrive at the conclusion.
This difference matters because readers don’t just want to understand a story, they want to feel it. Showing creates that emotional engagement by inviting the reader to participate.
Why Showing Works
Showing works because it mirrors how we experience real life.
In reality, people don’t walk around labelling their emotions in neat, clinical terms. We infer how someone feels based on behaviour, tone, gesture, and context.
Good writing does the same.
When a writer shows:
- The reader becomes more active than passive.
- The scene feels immediate and vivid.
- Emotions land more naturally and with greater impact.
It’s the difference between being told “this moment matters” and actually feeling that it does.
Why Telling Still Matters
Despite its reputation, telling is not the enemy. In fact, it’s essential.
Without telling, writing becomes slow, bloated, and exhausting. Not every moment deserves a full sensory breakdown.
Take Jane Austen. She tells you things constantly, but with wit so sharp it practically is showing. Or Ernest Hemingway, who shows so much he practically hides the meaning under the floorboards and makes you crawl for it.
Telling allows you to:
- Move quickly through less important material
- Provide background information efficiently
- Maintain clarity and structure
- Control pacing
Imagine writing every single action in full detail:
He reached for the glass. His fingers curled around it. He lifted it. He tilted it. He swallowed.
Technically, that’s showing. Practically, it’s tedious.
A well-placed sentence like:
He drank his water.
is not a failure of craft. It’s control.
The Real Principle: Control of Distance
Instead of thinking in terms of rules, it’s more useful to think in terms of narrative distance.
- Showing brings the reader closer.
- Telling pulls the reader back.
Think of it like a camera:
- Showing = close-up, sensory, intimate.
- Telling = zooming out, summarising, guiding.
If every sentence is a close-up, your reader suffocates. If everything is a summary, they drift off and start thinking about laundry.
Now, is it a must? No. If you try to “show everything,” you’ll end up writing a 900-page novel about someone making toast. Riveting. Truly. A literary monument to bread.
Good writing is about control of distance:
- Show when you want immersion, emotion, tension.
- Tell when you want speed, clarity, or to move past unimportant details.
Good writing moves fluidly between the two.
When you want intensity, intimacy, or tension, you move closer and show.
When you want an overview, clarity, or momentum, you pull back and tell.
This dynamic creates rhythm in your writing. Without it, everything feels flat, either overly distant or overwhelmingly dense.
When to Show
Showing is most powerful when something matters emotionally or narratively.
- Emotional Moments
If a character is grieving, falling in love, or facing fear, showing allows the reader to connect.
Instead of:
He was devastated.
You might write:
He picked up the phone again, even though he knew no one would answer.
The second version doesn’t just inform, it resonates.
- Character Development
Actions reveal character more effectively than descriptions.
Instead of:
She was kind.
You could show:
She stayed behind after everyone left, stacking chairs and wiping tables no one asked her to clean.
Now the reader understands her kindness without being told.
- Tension and Conflict
Showing builds suspense because it withholds direct explanation.
Instead of:
Something felt wrong.
You might write:
The door was open. Just a few inches. Enough to notice and break the general image.
The reader senses danger without needing it spelt out.
- Subtext
Subtext thrives on what is implied rather than stated.
Instead of:
They were angry at each other.
You could write:
“You’re early,” she said.
“I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I didn’t say I did.”
Nothing explicit. Everything is clear.
When to Tell
Telling becomes valuable when efficiency and clarity matter more than immersion.
- Transitions
You don’t need to show every step of a journey.
Three weeks passed before she heard from him again.
Simple. Effective. Necessary.
- Background Information
Expositions are often best delivered through telling.
They had known each other since childhood, though they rarely spoke now.
Trying to “show” this entirely through scenes would slow the story unnecessarily.
- Minor Actions
Not every action deserves attention.
He sat down.
She opened the window.
These are functional details. Over-expanding them adds weight without value.
- Narrative Authority
Sometimes the narrator needs to guide the reader directly.
This was the last time they would speak.
This kind of telling creates anticipation and shapes the reader’s expectations.
The Problem with Overusing “Show”
Like most good advice, “show, don’t tell” becomes harmful when applied rigidly.
Overusing showing can lead to:
- Overwritten prose
- Sluggish pacing
- Unclear meaning
- Reader fatigue
If every sentence demands interpretation, the reader eventually tires of doing all the work.
Clarity is not the enemy of depth.
The Problem with Overusing “Tell”
On the other side, too much telling creates distance.
The writing becomes:
- Flat
- Emotionally detached
- Informational rather than experiential
The reader understands everything but feels very little.
Stories don’t live on understanding alone.
Style Matters
Different writers lean toward different balances.
Some favour clean, direct prose with strategic moments of showing. Others build entire scenes out of implication and detail.
Neither approach is inherently better. What matters is consistency and intention.
A reflective, philosophical piece may lean more on telling.
A tense, character-driven scene will likely rely on showing.
The key is alignment between style, purpose, and effect.
A Practical Way to Apply It
Instead of asking, “Am I showing enough?” ask:
- What does the reader need to feel here?
- What do they simply need to know?
Then decide accordingly.
If the moment carries emotional weight, show it.
If it serves structure or clarity, tell it.
A Simple Exercise
Take a paragraph from your writing and highlight:
- Sentences that label emotions or states (telling)
- Sentences that describe actions, sensations, or dialogue (showing)
Then experiment:
- Convert one telling sentence into showing
- Convert one overly detailed section into concise telling
You’ll start to feel the balance rather than forcing it.
The Balanced Approach
The strongest writing doesn’t choose between showing and telling. It orchestrates both.
Think of it like music:
- Showing is the melody, rich and immersive.
- Telling is the rhythm, steady and guiding.
Without melody, it’s dull.
Without rhythm, it’s chaos.
Together, they create something that moves.
The Real Rule
The less marketable truth:
- “Show” is for emotion, character, tension, subtext.
- “Tell” is for structure, pacing, clarity, authority.
- Great writing uses both like a musician uses silence and sound.
If you want a blunt rule to replace the famous one:
Show what matters. Tell what doesn’t.
Not everything deserves the spotlight. Not everything should be summarised.
Your job as a writer is to decide where attention belongs, and to guide the reader there with precision.
And if everything in your story feels like it matters, congratulations, you’ve discovered the real problem.
“Show, don’t tell” was never meant to be a restriction. It’s a tool for shaping experience.
Used well, it deepens emotion, sharpens character, and brings scenes to life.
Used blindly, it clutters and confuses.
Writing is not about following rules. It’s about making choices and understanding their effects.
And in the end, that’s what separates functional writing from writing that lingers.
Before you go, explore these related ideas:
The Genre Librarian With a Bad Attitude
Off Script: Why We Question, Where Philosophy Came From, and What It Means to Think Differently
The Essential Role of Empathy in Writing: Why It’s the Most Important Skill for an Author
The Author’s Operational System: How to Organise Your Writing Like a Professional
Complete Guide to Book Formatting in MS Word
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