The History of Show Don’t Tell. And Why I Want to Repeal It

I was comforting an author recently after a tough round of contest results. She was discouraged, frustrated, questioning her talent. We’d worked together before, so she sent over the judge comments—and there it was. That same line I see again and again: “Show, don’t tell.”

It was part of a contest rubric, graded like it was an objective measure of skill. I rolled my eyes.

There are good reasons to enter contests. But this is the downside: anonymous feedback that treats subjective craft choices like hard-and-fast rules. And of all the advice passed down to new writers, “show, don’t tell” might be the most misunderstood—and misapplied—of them all.

Let’s be honest: it was never meant to be a rule.

Once upon a time (say, a decade or so ago), “show, don’t tell” was just an easy way to describe a certain kind of writing—usually in deep POV—where the character’s internal experience is seamlessly embedded into the narrative. Where we live the moment with them, rather than being told about it from afar.

Somewhere along the way, this became dogma. Downloadable worksheets, workshops, blog posts, judge rubrics—it spread. And what began as a tool became a test.

And here’s the problem: it’s led to more harm than help.

Authors trying to scrub all traces of “telling” from their prose end up cutting the very elements that give their narrative voice depth. I’ve seen stories rewritten to avoid a single filter phrase. I’ve read manuscripts where dialogue becomes the only delivery method for backstory. Where internal narration is stripped bare for fear of “telling” too much. Where white room syndrome takes over because the author is afraid to use exposition at all.

That’s not better craft. That’s narrative starvation.

Let me be clear: “telling” is not the enemy. Telling is how we convey meaning. It’s how we learn who a character is when we’re in their head. It’s the internal lens that gives context to action. Without it, the writing becomes flat, reactive, and distant.

What we should be talking about is narrative balance.

A well-crafted scene uses both showing and telling. A masterful voice can hold both the immediacy of the moment and the weight of internal reflection. And that’s what makes a story immersive.

What contests, workshops, and checklists often fail to assess is the point of all this. It’s not about removing “telling” to earn a better score. It’s about drawing the reader deep into a character’s experience. That’s the real goal. That’s where storytelling lives.

When I work with authors, I don’t ask, “Are you showing or telling?”
I ask, “Are you inviting the reader in?”
“Are we close enough to the character?”
“Do we understand what’s at stake, and why it matters?”

That’s what deep POV accomplishes. That’s the craft I want to see celebrated.

And if you want to develop a strong, layered narrative voice—don’t chase trends or strip your style to fit a rubric. Study your favorite authors. Look at what gives their work its emotional depth. Spoiler: it’s not the absence of “telling.” It’s the presence of voice, rhythm, insight. It’s knowing what not to show.

So yes, I want to repeal “show don’t tell.” Or at least retire it from being a default bit of wisdom.

Because what your story really needs isn’t more rules. It’s more intent.