It took me a long time to fully understand one of the most commonly repeated pieces of writing advice: show, don’t tell.
It was one of of the first writing "rules" I heard and like many writers, I believed I understood it.
I could point to sentences and say, “Yes, look, this is showing.”
But then I would get feedback on my own drafts that politely translated to: You are… still telling.
Which felt confusing, because I was absolutely certain I was showing.
And yet, there it was, scattered throughout my manuscript like little signposts announcing: Emotion happening here. Please feel accordingly.
So if storytelling is about showing… why do stories still tell things?
Why do skilled authors regularly summarize events, describe emotions directly, or move quickly through time instead of dramatizing every moment?
And most importantly — is telling ever actually okay?
The answer is yes.
The real issue is not telling vs. showing — it’s knowing when each serves the story best.
What Does “Show” Actually Mean?
Showing places the reader inside the experience. Instead of simply informing the reader what happened, you allow them to witness it unfold through action, dialogue, sensory detail, and character response.
Telling: Kathryn was nervous.
Showing: Kathryn adjusted her grip on the strap of her bag for the third time in as many minutes. The corridor was quiet — too quiet — yet she kept glancing over her shoulder as if she expected someone to appear.
Showing creates immersion. It allows the reader to feel emotion rather than simply observe it.
Readers don’t just want information. They want experience. (Unfortunately for all of us, experience is harder to write.)
In one of my earlier drafts, I had a line that read: He was intimidating.
Helpful? Technically.
Compelling? Not exactly.
My critique partner responded with a comment that essentially said: What about him is intimidating?
Turns out readers do not automatically supply the emotional context we meant to include.
We have to give them something to work with.
What Does “Tell” Actually Mean?
Telling summarizes information directly.
It communicates efficiently and clearly, without dramatizing every detail.
Telling: The journey took three weeks, and by the time they reached the city, winter had settled in.
Could this be shown? Yes.
Should it always be shown? No.
Sometimes showing every moment would require several scenes of walking, weather complaints, and increasingly creative ways to describe travel rations.
One of my own drafts included an entire paragraph describing how a character felt about a conversation… instead of simply letting the conversation happen.
My critique partner gently pointed out that if a character needs three sentences to explain why a moment is emotionally significant, the moment itself might not be doing enough work.
Not every moment needs a spotlight. Sometimes the story just needs to move forward and showing every event slows the story down. And pacing matters when you want readers to keep turning pages.
The Problem With Treating “Show, Don’t Tell” as a Rule
“Show, don’t tell” is often taught as an absolute rule.
But storytelling is not built on absolutes — it is built on choices.
If writers try to show everything, the result often feels slow, unfocused, or unintentionally repetitive.
Imagine reading a novel where every minor action is fully dramatized:
Her hand hovered inches from the door as if the air itself had thickened, resisting her movement. She flexed her fingers once, then again, before finally extending them toward the handle. The brass caught the dim light, worn to a dull sheen by countless other hands, though none of them had ever stood here quite as long as she had.
Her fingertips brushed the metal first, testing the temperature. Cool. Colder than she expected. She adjusted her grip, thumb pressing into the narrow groove beneath the latch while her other fingers curled slowly around the handle, each joint bending with careful precision.
The handle resisted at first, unmoved by her hesitation. She applied pressure gradually, feeling the mechanism inside shift with a muted click that seemed louder than it should have been in the quiet corridor. The hinge released with a long, uneven creak, the sound stretching thin as the door gave way one reluctant inch at a time.
She paused at the threshold, eyes adjusting to the dimness beyond. Her lashes fluttered once, then again, as though blinking might prepare her for whatever waited on the other side. She drew in a slow breath through her nose, the air faintly tinged with dust and something older she could not immediately name. Only then did she allow herself to step forward, the soft sound of her footfall swallowed almost immediately by the stillness of the room.
By the time she walks through the door, the reader has aged approximately three years. Somewhere around paragraph three, the door has developed a full character arc.
Of course, this example is intentionally overdone, but it illustrates the balance writers are trying to find: deciding which moments deserve the reader’s full attention and which simply move the story forward.
We do not need a fully immersive sensory experience for every doorway.
Sometimes a door is just a door.
Good storytelling balances immersion with momentum.
When Showing Works Best
Showing is most powerful when the reader needs to feel something.
Consider showing when:
- Introducing key emotional moments
- Revealing character decisions
- Establishing tension or conflict
- Building relationships between characters
- Delivering pivotal turning points
- Creating atmosphere in important settings
These are moments where reader experience matters more than speed.
Showing gives the moment weight.
When Telling Works Best
Telling is incredibly useful when the reader simply needs information in order to move forward.
Consider telling when:
- Moving through time quickly
- Providing context or backstory
- Transitioning between major scenes
- Explaining worldbuilding elements efficiently
- Summarizing repetitive or unimportant actions
- Clarifying information that would otherwise confuse the reader
Telling keeps the story moving. And pacing is part of storytelling too. If everything is emphasized, nothing feels important.
A Helpful Way to Think About It
Instead of asking: Am I showing enough?
Try asking: Does this moment deserve to be experienced, or simply understood?
If the emotional impact matters, show it.
If the information helps the reader move forward, tell it.
Both are tools. Neither is inherently better. Strong stories some from choosing intentionally.
The Real Goal: Reader Experience
Readers rarely notice whether a passage is technically “showing” or “telling.”
What they notice is:
- whether they feel connected
- whether they feel curious
- whether they understand what matters
- whether they want to keep turning the page
Showing and telling both serve clarity and engagement.
The problem is not telling.
The problem is telling when the reader needed to feel something instead.
Stories are not transcripts of reality. They are curated experiences.
Some moments deserve the spotlight. Others simply move the story forward.
Learning the difference takes time — and usually several rounds of revision where we discover that yes, we were still telling… right there… in that paragraph we were very proud of.
If you find yourself wondering whether a scene feels flat, rushed, or distant, the question may not be how to write better sentences, but rather:
Should this moment be shown instead of told?
Or the opposite.
Because sometimes, telling is exactly what the story needs.
More Resources
If you’re still trying to untangle show vs. tell (aren’t we all?), I highly recommend Janice Hardy’s Understanding Show, Don’t Tell (And Really Getting It) — it breaks the concept down in a way that makes revision much more manageable.