Let’s talk about something I see all the time as a beta reader: writers trying to create tension through atmosphere, without anchoring that atmosphere to the characters. It’s a classic move, and honestly, I get it. Crafting a moody, vivid scene can be a lot of fun, and it feels like you’re doing important story work.
You’ve probably read it before. Maybe you’ve even written it. (No judgment, we all experiment and learn!) You open the book, and there it is:
Moody weather. Empty streets. Flickering lights. The wind sighs. The trees whisper. The rain taps like a metronome against the windows.
All beautifully written. You can practically smell the damp pavement and hear those creaky branches. The talent for description is clearly there.
But after a page, maybe two, the reader still has no idea who the main character is or why they should care about this meticulously described scene. Who is this rain falling on? Are they bothered by the flickering light, or is it some kind of signal? What does this mood mean to an actual person?
That’s not a hook. That’s decoration. And while pretty curtains are nice, they’re not what makes someone stay in the room.
Where This Goes Wrong:
Why does this happen so often? Many writers fall into it because they’ve been told world-building is just as important as character and plot.
And yes, it is. Absolutely. A rich, believable world can make a good story truly great. But (and this is a big but) it’s only important when it interacts with the story. When it’s integrated into what’s happening to your characters. Otherwise, it’s just an info-dump dressed up in pretty words.
Setting doesn’t create tension unless it complicates something for your character.
Think about it:
A creaky floorboard is just a creaky floorboard. Boring. But when your character is hiding from a home invader, terrified of making a sound? That same floorboard is suddenly a landmine. Every potential creak is a shot of adrenaline for the reader.
A thunderstorm can be great background noise. But it isn’t truly dramatic until someone has to run into it. Maybe they’re racing against time to get medicine, or they’re escaping something terrible. Now the storm is another obstacle, another enemy.
When the atmosphere isn’t tied to what a character is feeling, doing, or struggling against, it’s just… there. It doesn’t resonate. Atmosphere without emotional context is just noise. Interesting noise, maybe, but it doesn’t pull the reader in the way human struggle does.
How I Know This Matters:
Let me tell you about a manuscript I read a few months ago. It was a YA novel, and from the very first page, I knew what was coming: a story that looked atmospheric on the outside but left me disconnected inside.
How did I know? Because the first three paragraphs were a detailed account of a bus ride. Then came three chapters of walking around town. The character gets off the bus, notes the chilly wind, walks into a gas station, then wanders until he finds a coffee shop. He talks to the barista, notices a pretty girl, steps back outside. More wind. More town. More mood. Eventually, he circles back to the gas station, finds the house he was supposedly looking for all along, right around the corner. Then he gets a call from the school reminding him to register the next day. Finally, he goes into the creepy house, feels like someone’s watching him, and… that’s it.
By chapter five, I still didn’t know who this kid was. I knew he was adopted, that his adoptive parents died, and that he was moving to the town where his birth parents lived. But all of that was revealed on page one. Nothing about his age, how he was affording to live alone as a high schooler, or why he was moving there in the first place. There was no arc. No plot. Just motion without meaning.
That manuscript wasn’t ready for a beta reader. It needed an alpha reader. And I told the author that, honestly and with care. Because while they had talent, what they didn’t yet have was a foundation.
That’s why I’m passionate about this. Because I’ve seen what happens when writers rely on setting as a stand-in for story, and I’ve seen how powerful the shift can be when they stop.
What Readers Actually Hook Into:
Let’s be clear: readers don’t bond with fog or firelight. They don’t root for a crumbling castle or a dystopian cityscape.
They bond with a person, someone who feels something, wants something, risks something.
- Feels something: Is your character scared out of their wits? Full of grim determination? Heartbroken? Show us that through their interaction with the setting. If they’re terrified, every shadow is a monster.
- Wants something: What’s their immediate goal? To find shelter from that moody weather? To figure out why those streets are so empty? This gives their actions purpose.
- Risks something: What happens if they fail? Will they freeze in the storm? Get caught by whatever emptied those streets? Stakes are everything.
If we don’t meet the character soon or understand their immediate situation, even the most beautiful scene will feel flat. It’s like watching a movie with the sound off. You see the pretty pictures, but you’re missing the heart.
And here’s the hard truth:
Fluff around a character isn’t character development. Spending a page on the intricate details of their coat doesn’t tell me who they are. Showing them shivering because that coat is thin and they’re too proud or too poor to get a new one? That starts to tell me something.
Fluff around a scene isn’t plot. Describing every dusty object in an abandoned room doesn’t move your story. Showing your character frantically searching that room for a specific item they desperately need, their urgency revealed through action? That’s plot.
How to Fix It:
How do you make sure your setting supports your story instead of distracting from it?
Start with the character. Ask yourself:
- What is my character doing right now that matters? “Matters” is key. What’s their immediate objective? Are they trying to escape? Find an answer? Survive the next five minutes? This gives their presence in the scene a purpose.
- What’s their emotional state, and how can the setting reflect or challenge it? If your character is anxious, the oppressive silence of a room can amplify that. If they’re determined, a difficult, rocky path can underscore their resilience. Let the setting reflect or resist who they are.
- Can the setting interrupt the character’s plan or reveal something new? A sudden fog rolls in, obscuring their escape route. A seemingly ordinary object turns out to be a vital clue. Make the world interact with the character.
You can always build out the setting in revision. Add all that delicious texture later. Once the bones are strong: character, conflict, stakes; you can go back and layer in the atmosphere. It will land harder because it means something.
But in the beginning? When you’re trying to hook the reader?
Structure first. Substance first. Character and conflict first.
Get us hooked on a person and their problem.
Then we can hang the pretty curtains. And they’ll look a whole lot better because there’s actually a compelling life happening in the house.
How a Beta Reader Can Help
It’s not always easy to tell when you’ve leaned too hard on setting; especially when you’re close to your own work. That’s where a skilled beta reader can make all the difference.
A beta reader can spot when the mood is strong but the stakes are missing. When the setting overshadows the character. When the world is rich… but the people feel like afterthoughts.
We’re not here to tear your story down. We’re here to point out where your words sing and where they need more harmony. If your opening feels more like a silent movie than a story, we’ll tell you, and we’ll help you fix it.
Because your story isn’t the setting. It’s the person walking through it.
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.