And you’ll love every second of it. Why Writers Love Unreliable Narrators

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There is an ancient story from the Indian subcontinent. A group of blind men are brought to an elephant.

One feels the broad side and declares the elephant is a wall.Another touches the tusk—clearly a spear.The trunk? Obviously a snake.The leg? A tree.The ear? A fan.The tail? A rope.

Each of them is partly right. None of them is completely right.
And they argue like bloodthirsty barristers, each convinced he alone has the truth.

That parable is often used to talk about philosophy or theology, but it’s also a perfect primer on the unreliable narrator.

Because most stories aren’t told by omniscient gods handing down objective facts. They’re told through eyes and minds, through characters who think they know what’s going on. Sometimes they’re wrong. Sometimes they lie. Sometimes they don’t even realize they’re lying to themselves.

That’s where the fun comes in.

Why use an unreliable narrator?

Hide a twist. The narrator’s version blinds us to what’s really happening (Fight Club, The Usual Suspects).Create dramatic irony. Readers notice the cracks before the character does, which adds tension.Deepen character. The mistakes, obsessions, and blind spots of the narrator show us who they are.Add layers. A second story runs beneath the first, the “real” version the reader pieces together.

How to write one

The trick isn’t to withhold information, it’s to filter it through bias. Ask yourself:

What does this character notice first? A thief will clock the exits. A romantic will see the candlelight. A soldier might count weapons. All of them are describing the same room, but the room will look different depending on who’s talking.What assumptions do they bring? Do they believe everyone’s out to get them? That colors every interaction. Do they think they’re irresistible? Then every smile is a flirtation.What do they ignore? Silence in the description can be just as revealing as what they dwell on. A parent might skim right past the fact there are no kids around. A grieving character might “forget” to mention the wedding ring on someone else’s hand.Are they lying, or just mistaken? Decide whether your narrator is consciously shaping a story (lying to the reader) or simply trapped in their own flawed worldview. Both can be powerful—just be consistent.

Practical tips

Use specific detail. The little things your narrator notices should feel true to them, even if the big picture is skewed.Drop cues. Give the reader hints that the version they’re getting isn’t the whole story.Balance the reveal. Don’t hold everything back, that just frustrates. Instead, let the reader feel clever for spotting what the narrator missed.Remember the elephant. Each perspective is partial. Stack them through different characters seeing the same things, and the reader sees more of the truth.

Bias in action: Remi vs. Annie

Let’s make this concrete.

Take two characters from my current work in progress:

Remi: a vampire who has lived on Earth for hundreds of years and has sworn off drinking human blood directly from humans. To him, space stations are suffocating cages that reek of humanity. The recycled air carries a hundred thousand heartbeats, a thousand perfumes, a fog of temptation he refuses to touch. The place is a walking reminder of what he denies himself. To him, every docking arm looks like a cage and every corridor smells like confinement.Annie: grew up a Spacer. To her, space stations mean shore leave, bright lights, markets, music, sex, and maybe sneaking into a poker game. A station is a carnival. The air smells like possibility.

Put them both on Jenay Station’s promenade, and you’ll get two utterly different truths:

Remi’s version (example not actually taken from the story):

Too many heartbeats, all crowding in, brushing against him with every step. The concourse reeked, sweat and perfume and fried food, all useless cover for the copper tang that clung to everything. He fixed his gaze forward. Don’t look. Don’t breathe too deep. Every inhale a dare, every exhale a reminder of promises he couldn’t afford to break. Part of him wanting nothing more than to pull one aside into an alley and drain them dry.

Annie’s version:

Neon, spice smoke, fried dough, same old backdrop. What stood out was the new sleepover on the frontage, its holo-sign pulsing bright like it owned the concourse. Shore-leave crowd would pack that place in no time. Stations still carried that buzz, a kind of holiday energy, the promise of fun tucked behind every closed door.

This is subjectivity, and it’s where unreliable narration shines. By filtering a scene through a character’s personal lens, what a character notices, what they emphasize, what they can’t stop smelling or seeing, all of it reveals as much about them as it does about the world.

Writing prompt: Pick an ordinary event, say, a market theft or a bar fight. Write it three times:

From the point of view of someone honest but mistaken.From someone who’s deliberately lying.From someone who doesn’t realize they’re lying to themselves.

Then step back and look at what each version reveals, not just about the event, but about the character doing the telling. That’s the magic.