MUST THE READER SOLVE THE STORY?
GAAFATAA — THE QUESTIONER
Another hand rose.
This writer had been quiet for a long time.
He looked older than most of the others.
Not angry.
Not impressed.
Concerned.
"I have a question."
I looked at him.
"Ask."
"When does complexity stop being storytelling...
and become homework?"
...
Another writer raised her hand.
"I would ask something even simpler."
I turned toward her.
"Does the reader need to understand everything?"
A few writers shook their heads.
"No."
She continued.
"Then what does the reader need to understand?"
Another hand rose.
"The chapter in front of them."
She looked toward him.
"Only that?"
"No.
They need enough of the past to understand why the present matters."
"And if they don't remember the past?"
"The story should help them."
"How?"
"Naturally."
"Meaning?"
"Through consequences.
Through characters remembering.
Through recurring emotions.
Through symbols.
Through dialogue.
Through things returning when they become important."
Another writer raised his hand.
"So the reader shouldn't need notes?"
"Not to enjoy the main story."
"What about understanding everything?"
"That's different."
"Should understanding everything require more effort?"
"It can."
"Then where is the line?"
Nobody answered.
I asked:
"Must there be one?"
...
A traditional writer raised his hand.
"There absolutely should be."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because writers forget something."
"What?"
"Most readers aren't us."
"Who are they?"
"People coming home from work.
People reading before sleeping.
People reading on their phones.
People who read three chapters today and return next week.
People who forget names.
People who miss clues.
People who don't want to create a timeline just to understand what happened."
"What do they want?"
"A story."
"What is a story?"
He sighed.
"Don't start."
A few writers laughed.
He continued.
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
"They want characters they care about.
Conflict.
Emotion.
Discovery.
Something that makes them want to turn the page."
"Can a puzzle do that?"
"Yes."
"Can a mystery?"
"Obviously."
"Can a complicated story?"
"Yes."
"Then what are you warning against?"
He thought.
"A story that punishes the reader for not studying it."
...
Another hand rose.
"That's it."
I looked toward the voice.
A woman near the back continued.
"There should be a difference between:
'I noticed something extra.'
and:
'I have no idea what's happening because I didn't notice something extra.'"
Several writers nodded.
I asked:
"Should the hidden layer deepen the story?"
"Yes."
"Should it be required to understand the immediate emotional story?"
"Usually no."
"What happens if it is?"
"Then you're narrowing your audience."
"Is narrowing an audience always wrong?"
"No."
"When is it wrong?"
"When the author didn't intend to."
...
Another writer raised his hand.
"I have a harsher question."
I turned.
"If a reader has to read the same special chapter four times in one evening just to understand what everyone is discussing...
did the author write something deep?"
Silence.
"Or did he write something unclear?"
Another writer answered.
"Could be either."
"How would you know?"
"Ask what happens on the second reading."
"What do you mean?"
"If the second reading reveals meaning that was impossible to notice before...
that's layering."
"And if the second reading is necessary just to understand the basic events?"
"That's probably confusion."
Another hand.
"What about the third reading?"
"If I choose to read it a third time because I discovered something fascinating...
good."
"And if I have to?"
"Problem."
Another hand.
"What about the fourth?"
The room laughed.
The writer smiled.
"If I'm reading it four times because I WANT to...
the author may have done something very right."
"And if you're reading it four times because you still don't know what happened?"
"Then somebody needs an editor."
More laughter.
I asked:
"Can the same chapter produce both reactions?"
The laughter stopped.
"Yes."
"Then which reader determines whether it worked?"
...
Nobody answered.
Another traditional writer raised his hand.
"I worry about the real-time aspect."
"What worries you?"
"Synchronization."
"Why?"
"Because it's seductive."
"How?"
"Imagine two stories releasing alongside each other.
One chapter changes another.
0.13 connects somewhere.
0.14 continues something.
0.15 makes another scene look different.
Special chapters appear between them.
Questions cross stories.
Readers begin discussing connections in real time."
"Is that bad?"
"No."
"Then why call it seductive?"
"Because eventually the author might start writing for the experiment instead of the story."
"What would that look like?"
"The question becomes:
'How can I make these chapters connect?'
instead of:
'What should happen to these characters?'"
"Can both questions have the same answer?"
"Yes."
"And if they don't?"
He answered immediately.
"Choose the characters."
...
Another hand rose.
"Always?"
The traditional writer looked at him.
"Almost."
"Why almost?"
"Because sometimes structure IS part of the story."
I asked:
"How would you know?"
He smiled.
"That's the problem, isn't it?"
...
Another writer raised her hand.
"I have some advice."
"What is it?"
"Give readers levels of understanding."
"What levels?"
"The first reader asks:
'What happens next?'
The second asks:
'Why did that happen?'
The third asks:
'Wait... haven't I seen this before?'
The fourth goes back fifty chapters and says:
'You bastard.'"
The room laughed.
I asked:
"Which reader is correct?"
"All of them."
"Which one should enjoy the story?"
"All of them."
"Which one should understand enough to continue?"
"All of them."
"Which one should discover everything?"
She smiled.
"None of them.
Not yet."
...
Another hand rose.
"What about THE SPOILERS YET TO BE SPOILERS?"
I looked toward him.
"What about them?"
"If the reader doesn't recognize the spoiler when they first see it...
isn't that the point?"
I asked:
"Must they remember it consciously?"
"No."
"Then what happens when its meaning finally arrives?"
"They remember."
"And if they don't remember?"
"The story can remind them."
"Would reminding them ruin the reveal?"
"Not if done correctly."
"Then is the purpose to test the reader's memory?"
"No."
"What is it?"
He thought.
"To change the meaning of something they already experienced."
...
Another hand.
"That's important."
I turned.
"The reader is not taking an exam."
"What are they doing?"
"Experiencing a story."
"Then should missing a clue be a failure?"
"No."
"Should finding one be rewarded?"
"Yes."
"Can both exist simultaneously?"
"They should."
...
A writer who had been listening from the corner finally raised his hand.
"I have a warning for experimental writers."
"What warning?"
"Don't mistake confusion for mystery."
"What's the difference?"
"Mystery makes me ask:
'What does this mean?'
Confusion makes me ask:
'What is happening?'"
"Can 'What is happening?' ever be intentional?"
"Of course."
"Then what's the difference?"
"Trust."
"Trust in what?"
"That the author knows."
"How does the reader know that?"
"They don't."
"Then why trust?"
"Because previous questions received meaningful answers."
"So every payoff buys trust for another mystery?"
"In a way."
"Can that trust run out?"
"Very quickly."
...
Another hand rose.
"I'd add something."
"What?"
"Don't hide weak writing behind:
'You'll understand later.'"
The room became quiet.
I asked:
"Can 'later' be legitimate?"
"Absolutely."
"When?"
"When the present is still satisfying."
"And when isn't it?"
"When the only reason the present chapter exists is to promise a future chapter."
"Can Chapter 50 save Chapter 20?"
"Sometimes it can recontextualize it."
"Can it make Chapter 20 enjoyable when the reader originally hated reading it?"
"Much harder."
"Then what does Chapter 20 owe the reader?"
"A reason to read Chapter 21."
...
Another writer raised his hand.
"That's the wisdom I'd give any author attempting something this large."
"What wisdom?"
"Don't ask readers to admire what you're going to do."
"What should you ask them?"
"Nothing."
I looked at him.
He continued.
"Write it."
"Then?"
"Let them decide."
"What if they misunderstand?"
"Write better."
"What if some still misunderstand?"
"Accept it."
"What if they understand something the author never intended?"
He smiled.
"Welcome to literature."
...
Another hand.
"Can rereading be part of the experience?"
I looked toward her.
"What do you think?"
"I think the best stories sometimes become better the second time."
"Why?"
"Because the reader changed."
"Or because the information changed?"
"The words didn't."
"Then what changed?"
"Their meaning."
"Can meaning change without changing the words?"
"Constantly."
"Then could a story be designed so the first reading and second reading feel different?"
"Yes."
"Would that make the first reading incomplete?"
"Not necessarily."
"What would make it incomplete?"
"If the first reading doesn't work on its own."
...
Silence.
Another hand rose.
An older writer.
"I think that's your answer."
I looked at him.
"What answer?"
"The first journey must work."
"Why?"
"Because there may never be a second."
"What if the reader never investigates Sirna?"
"Safsan must still matter."
"What if they never understand THE AUTHOR'S TRAP?"
"Safsan must still matter."
"What if they never recognize a spoiler before it becomes a spoiler?"
"Safsan must still matter."
"What if they never read Nafsan Story?"
"Safsan Story must still matter."
"What if they never understand ??????"
He looked directly at me.
"The person standing in front of it must still matter."
...
Another hand rose.
The traditional writer from earlier.
"So here's my question."
I waited.
"Can you build an interactive puzzle around a compelling fantasy story?"
I asked:
"Why around it?"
He paused.
Another writer raised her hand.
"Can the puzzle BE part of the story?"
I asked:
"Must the story become the puzzle?"
She stopped.
Another hand.
"Can the reader ignore the puzzle?"
I asked:
"And still reach the end?"
Another.
"Can the reader solve everything?"
I asked:
"Should they?"
Another.
"Can synchronized stories reward the most dedicated readers?"
I asked:
"Without punishing everyone else?"
Another.
"Can metafiction make immersion deeper?"
I asked:
"Without making the characters smaller?"
Another.
"Can an infinite cosmology remain human?"
I asked:
"Can one human remain important inside infinity?"
Another.
"Can an author actually control something this large?"
I asked:
"Does he need to control everything at once?"
Another.
"Then what should he control?"
I asked:
"What is directly in front of him?"
...
No answer.
Another hand rose.
"What is directly in front of him?"
I looked beyond the writers.
Beyond the questions.
Beyond Sirna.
Beyond Reality Door.
Beyond THE AUTHOR'S CORE.
Beyond every diagram.
Beyond every synchronized chapter.
Beyond every argument about storytelling.
Something much simpler remained.
A story.
A character.
A road forward.
So I asked:
"What comes after Odania?"
Someone whispered:
"BAAČ."
"What does BAAČ mean?"
"The Continent of Burden."
"Why?"
Nobody answered.
"What should the reader do?"
No answer.
"Study?"
...
"Create a timeline?"
...
"Read four times?"
...
"Or..."
The room began disappearing.
The writers faded.
Their raised hands vanished.
Their advice vanished.
Their warnings vanished.
Their theories vanished.
Their arguments vanished.
Their questions...
remained.
Then even those became quiet.
Mist.
Trees.
A forest.
No explanation appeared.
No diagram.
No timeline.
No footnote.
No special chapter telling the reader what to understand.
Only mist.
And somewhere inside it...
movement.
A figure.
One step.
Another.
I asked:
"Who is that?"
...
"Where is he?"
...
"Why is he here?"
...
"What happened before he arrived?"
...
"What is waiting beyond the mist?"
?????
"Why does the Continent of Burden look so peaceful?"
?????
"Should that make you feel safe?"
...
"Do you need four readings to understand what happens next?"
...
"Or only one reason to turn the page?"
The figure moved deeper into the mist.
So I asked the simplest question of the night.
"Has SAFSAN arrived in THE MIST FOREST?"
...
?????
— GAAFATAA
THE QUESTIONER