Show, Don’t Tell: The Power of Sensory Details in Writing

In my years of teaching at universities and conferences, lecturing on podcasts, and conducting instructional panels and presentations, I have encountered the phrase “Show, Don’t Tell” as one of the most basic yet often misunderstood phrases and pieces of advice and certainly one that is too frequently given without any real substance.

Every writer has heard this. “Show, Don’t Tell.” Dozens of times, if not hundreds. Many say it simply because it is something to say and tell writers to do, even if the speaker doesn’t understand why or how to achieve it. It’s become a cliché. It shouldn’t be.

“Show, Don’t Tell” is a technique that separates good writers from great writers. It’s a powerful tool that can transform a story from a mere series of events to a living portrayal of true life and solid actions. Whether crafting a mystery, a thriller, or a personal memoir, understanding how to entice readers through sensory details immerses them and keeps them fully engaged in the narrative, and that is precisely where you want them to be.

Why Showing Matters More Than Telling

No one likes to be told what to do, what to think, or what to say. No one wants to be told a story. If nothing else, it is boring. This boredom factor alone should serve as a reminder of why “Show, Don’t Tell” is important to their writing—because it keeps their readers engaged and interested.

Telling someone something is like a professor reading notes to a class. You sit and listen. A well-told story that shows what is happening puts the reader into the moment. They feel the weight of the characters’ emotions. They feel the oppressiveness of the sun. They feel the coldness of the wind. They feel the tension in the room between two people who are arguing. They feel the pain of a love that is not returned. “Show, Don’t Tell” is all about feeling. Not telling. Not explaining. Not boring. Avoid this by showing and letting the reader’s imagination and feelings run with the narrative. “Show, Don’t Tell” creates a cinematic experience, not a list of items to be cognitively checked off.

Example of Telling:

To see the difference between showing and telling, let’s look at the phrase:

It was hot, and John was nervous.

We get the point across succinctly, but it is flat. There is no life in it, no action. It is a water cooler conversation—not the stuff of dreams.

Example of Showing:

Let’s look at the same scene, but this time show it, don’t tell it:

John pulled the tattered handkerchief out of his back pocket, searched for a dry spot in the wrinkled, dirty square, and then wiped his face. There were fifteen rows of corn still left to hoe. The hoe shook in his hands, his knees wanting to give, and his heart pounded. If Eddie returned and the corn wasn’t cleared, there would be hell to pay. John grasped the handle with his sweaty hands—not from the heat, but from what he knew would be his reward—and chopped another saw brier.

In this second example, instead of outright saying that John is nervous, we reveal it through physical actions, threats, his surroundings, and John’s inner conflicts. This not only allows the reader to infer the emotions—the reader will get it; I guarantee it—but it also tells us much more about what is going on and deepens our engagement as readers with the character’s experience, threats, and the character’s emotions (which, being emotive beings, leads to the manipulation of our feelings, as well).

Using the Five Senses

Excellent writing is transferred to the reader as a great experience, not using “Telling.” “Showing” relies on logic; there must be a logical progression, but it mainly highlights the senses. The more senses you employ, the more you layer the sensory details, and the more realistic and irresistible the world you create.

Sight

The primary way we experience a story is through sight. We see and are told what is happening. But true storytelling is achieved through “Showing.” Instead of stating that a house was falling apart, bring it to life with details:

The missing steps leading up to the front door, the cracked and warped boards on the porch, the rocking chair with the torn cushions that look as though they might be for a dog’s bed rather than for someone to sit on, the torn screen at the bottom and the cat hair caught in it, told him that a cat lived there whether any people did or not. 

This version becomes much more inside a reader’s head.

Sound

The second most common sense used in a story is sound, and it usually comes under the phrase:

She said …

Or

She heard …

Or

There was a bang.

To make it vibrant, instead of using these trite phrases and probably trite examples, maybe go with something like:

“I don’t think he loves me.”

Jane didn’t think Sarah heard her say this to Joan, but Joan needed to know, if only by overhearing. Jane and Sarah sat on the sofa with Joan across the room. Joan had been looking at the fireplace. The fireplace suddenly seemed hotter. Joan felt it in her cheeks.

Now we have a context, and we have conflict. We get it by a character reaction, visceral feel, or a description. Or how about:

She heard the sound of the men approaching.

Again, to “Show” more:

Elizabeth hugged the damp and sooty wall next to the dumpster. She hoped someone would open the door and bring out the trash. She’d rush inside. People would try to stop her, but it was better than letting him find her. Then she heard it. She heard the steps in the puddles and wet cobblestones of the street. He was coming for her. She heard several sets of feet. They were all coming.

Touch

We rarely mention touch, except in love and fight scenes, but it is a vital human sense and can be used effectively to an author’s advantage.

The pan was hot.

The following reads much better and tells us immensely more:

All she could think about was him telling her she didn’t love him. What was it about her? She grabbed the eggs off the stove, and then, when the heat made its way instantaneously from her hand to her head to her hand, she dropped everything on the floor. She couldn’t reach down to pick it up. Almost immediately, it looked as though her hand would blister. All she could do was cry.

Smell

Smell, again, like all the other senses, opens doors:

The dog stunk.

Better:

The minute she opened the back door to let the dogs in, she knew what had happened. The smell permeated everything. Dixie ran between her legs, and before she could grab her, she slid down onto the oriental rug and started rolling. The scent seemed like it was coming out of the walls.

Taste

Same sort of thing with taste:

The chicken tasted terrible.

Try using:

She bit into the chicken with anticipation. Then it hit her. She looked around. The others at the table seemed fine. She knew how important this meeting was for her husband. She held her napkin cradled in her lap. How could she spit this chicken substitute into the white cloth without anyone knowing it? She did know she couldn’t keep this in her mouth much longer without something worse happening.

Let Actions Reveal Emotion

As you can see, I use actions to reveal a great deal of emotion related to the senses. To me, how the character feels is as important as what happens.

Looking only at emotion, let’s see if we can’t let actions and body language work in our favor.

Example of Telling:

She felt attracted to him.

Example of Showing:

He glanced at her. It was in his eyes. They seemed to pierce through her. He seemed to know what she was feeling even though she did not. The shape of his face, shoulders, hands, legs. They all seemed to register with her. And then she realized it: she was falling in love. This couldn’t be possible. There was no way she could love a man like him.

Dialogue as a Tool for Showing

Dialogue is also an excellent way to show instead of tell. Here’s a poor example:

Eddie dismissed her love for him.

Instead, why don’t we try:

Eddie looked up from what he was doing. “I’m sorry?” he questioned. “I missed what you said.”

She wasn’t going to repeat herself, but she did anyway. “I love you.”

He smiled as though it touched him. “That’s nice.” That was all he said.

When to Tell Instead of Show

We all know that rules are made to be broken. In “Show, Don’t Tell,” there are also exceptions. In fact, not always showing is a way to break up the sequence and get quickly to the point.

While “Showing” is a powerful tool, there are times when it is not necessary. Summarizing minor events (“they drove down Broadway and then crossed over to Church Street”), conveying straightforward information (“He picked up a bottle of sulfuric acid”), or maintaining pacing in a non-critical moment (“She moved forward to the end of the test and started backward, hitting the easy questions first”).

The key to when to use “Show, Don’t Tell” is balance. Where do the action, dialogue, and character’s sensory reactions add more than detract? When do you just need to get on with something? As a writer, you’ll need to determine that yourself. Read a lot. See where the action moves forward or where an author drops an info dump. Look at your writing and try to spot the same things.

Putting It Into Practice

When I write the first draft, the first pass goes down quickly. I don’t think much about showing or telling. I want to get the story or idea on the page. On the second pass, I start looking for where I missed opportunities, adding layers that reveal the flesh and excitement of the story. Sometimes, I get too longwinded; I tend to summarize in those cases. The more you write, the more you’ll begin to sense everything.

Here’s an exercise you can do. Take a page of something you’ve written—maybe your current work in progress. Don’t start with something fresh; remember, the first draft is just about getting the story down. Grab a pen and mark where you’re telling instead of showing. If a section seems long, flag it; it may need to be summarized. You’ll feel it in your gut as a reader. That’s why being a great reader is essential: it helps you develop a feel for the cadence and flow of things. Now, rewrite that page, changing the things you’ve identified. Does it read better? I think the chances are high that it does. I’d say the second version is much more vivid and engaging. What do you think?

Closing

Conforming your writing to “Show, Don’t Tell” is something you practice conscientiously, but it makes all the difference. It gives your story forward action. It creates visuals and cinematic effects. It tickles the senses through details. Readers fall into the world you’ve made rather than sit passively as though you are telling a sequence of things that happened to you at work. Your story comes alive, and so do your characters. Using “Show, Don’t Tell” invites your readers into your work. They feel what is happening; they don’t simply know it. The sensory areas of their brain are activated. They become active participants in your writing. Most importantly, it puts the readers into the story. They experience every moment that happens right along with your characters. Another way to say “Show, Don’t Tell” is to reframe it as “Feel, Don’t Intellectualize.” Your character’s feelings—love, disappointment, anger, frustration, disgust, pleasure—bring the story alive for the reader. You create that empathy by showing.