You’ve heard it a thousand times: show, don’t tell.

I’ve gotten into the topic myself in a few previous posts.

But…why?

Yes, there’s all kinds of qualitative evidence that it works. That audiences respond better when you show rather than tell. But what if I told you that hiding behind this oft-repeated lesson is perfectly logical, scientific, evolutionary reason?

“Show don’t tell” doesn’t make for good storytelling simply because some gray-bearded writer said so a century ago (actually, according to Wikipedia, it was likely Russian writer Anton Chekhov, but that’s a distraction), it actually satisfies something fundamental to the human psyche, something physical, something with implications which go far beyond one’s enjoyment of an author’s writing.

What do we mean by “show don’t tell?”

I got deeply into this topic in my prior post, but for your convenience I’ll sketch it out briefly. In that post, I say:

Demonstrate, don’t remonstrate.

I.e., don’t tell us that a thing is true; show us why it’s true.

“Telling” is the act of explaining something that an audience needs to know. If I’m writing a story, telling relates the events that happen and, more importantly, the effect those events have on the characters and conflicts.

“Showing” digs underneath, teasing out what needs to be known without laying it out explicitly.

Show don’t tell, an example

Telling:

Solene walked up to the dark, scary house. It had once been a place of joy, she reflected, just like the one she grew up in. But now this place simply reeked of evil. She had to go in if she was going to recover Tom’s address book, and while perhaps ghosts weren’t real, drugged-out squatters certainly were, to say nothing of rats. The moon fell behind a cloud, increasing her sense of dread.

Showing:

The house loomed above Solene, nearly as impenetrable as the night itself, somehow reminiscent of the one on Primrose Hill. Someone had once been happy here, but now the paint had peeled, the timbers rotted. She heard a strange, high-pitched sound. Rats, or something worse? Cold air drove a cloud across the waning moon. She shivered. Somewhere inside lay Tom’s address book.

In the first version, we’re told that the house is scary. Why Solene has to go in. That she feels dread, and exactly what does and doesn’t scare her. That she was happy in her childhood home.

The second version tells the same story with a focus on details that express our perspective character’s thoughts. The explicitly “dark, scary” house becomes a dark, looming presence where unexplained sounds and decay, Solene’s reaction to the cold, set a mood. We merely suggest lost happiness in some childhood home by juxtaposing “someone had once been happy here,” forcing the reader to imagine some inner turmoil. We imply her motivation without “she had to go.”

That’s what “show don’t tell” means: details which convey deeper, more satisfying details hiding below the surface.

But — in the spirit of understanding “why” — what actually makes this approach more satisfying?

Allowing an audience to work

The common rationale behind the writer’s admonition is simply that, when we “tell,” the result is flat and uninteresting. Showing avoids editorializing and pandering; we can guide the audience, but a reader wants to draw their own conclusions and not be spoon-fed answers.

All of this is true. And I’ve written to this effect in the past, both in the article I linked to above, and in another on the importance of crossing the chasm.

That post discusses why it’s so important to trust your audience to make important connections, to allow them to work at following the story.

When we tell an audience that “the house is scary,” they do no work. And that reads as flat and uninteresting.

When we show the house and its setting, we trust the audience to draw the conclusion that the house is scary. They work a little and don’t need to be told.

And now…sushi?!

Enter a recent Substack post by Kaz Matsune — not a writer but a sushi chef! — which made me think differently about what underpins the idea of making an audience work and how that in turn connects to “show don’t tell.”

Kaz teaches sushi-making in San Francisco (I highly recommend his classes) and writes often on subjects like the difficulty of mastering simple skills and his reflections on being a teacher.

This specific post is called “Talking Isn’t Teaching.” Does that sound kind of familiar? You’re way ahead of me!

Show me some dopamine!

A key feature of learning, Kaz asserts, bears expressly on why teaching in a traditional lecture setting is so difficult. Students need to be shown, not told.

Kaz builds his classes with short demonstrations, after which students pair off and practice. This allows students to work together, to teach one-another, and to physically engage their new skills. The act of working engenders better learning.

Andrew Stanton, the filmmaker behind such hits as Finding Nemo and Wall-E, puts it this way: “Don’t give [an audience] 4. Give them 2+2.” His “Unifying Theory of 2+2” suggests that we captivate an audience by asking them to do work, to solve problems.

Kaz’s post then includes this fascinating tidbit:

It turns out that all human beings [do] not just enjoy, but love learning. Specifically, our brain is wired to love learning and growing. When we learn new things, our brain releases dopamine, a neurotransmitter that creates feelings of pleasure and reward.

Wait…what?

Here’s a quote from my “crossing the chasm” post, discussing what makes a joke funny:

[When the audience finds a joke funny] they get the satisfaction of proving how smart they are, even if just subconsciously. That satisfaction — that small jolt of dopamine (he said as if he had any real idea what that even means) — adds to the audience’s sense that they’re “in on it”…that they have the privilege of getting what others miss.

When you work, you derive satisfaction from the result; that satisfaction expresses itself in dopamine (i.e., joy); which incentivizes further learning. Presumably this provided an evolutionary advantage among our ancestors: achievement was rewarded by pleasure, leading to more achievement and therefore better odds of survival.

The practical outcome: better learning, attention, and retention.

When you show, every sentence is a little puzzle, a little joke, an opportunity to draw connections. The writer’s (or teacher’s) equivalent to sending the audience away to practice. Showing forces your audience to work, and the satisfaction of completing that work expresses itself neurochemically as dopamine…as joy.

When you show, you force your audience to work, and the satisfaction of completing that work expresses itself neurochemically as dopamine…as joy.

The broader implications of “show don’t tell”

That joy means your audience stays with you. That they want more. Think about that for a moment, and allow it to percolate beyond storytelling.

Whatever you do, your audience is biochemically programmed to appreciate working for a reward.

If I teach or present, can I allow my audience to work to improve their learning and their interest in my topic?

If I sell, can I leverage that sentiment in order to maximize interest in my product?

When I tell a joke or anecdote to friends, can I use this feeling to make those jokes and anecdotes more compelling?

When you consider it, a lot of what we do in life can be improved through a better understanding of the “show don’t tell” phenomenon.

Show me some love!

I write because I love it, but it’s even better when I know folks are reading.

So show (don’t tell) me some love. Like this post, share it, or even better, click that all-important subscribe button.

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I write about things which interest me, which often includes writing, my home town of San Francisco, and my work-in-progress novel.