Make Your Reader Squirm
Who Knows What, and When: Using Point of View to Shape Suspense, Mystery, and Irony
Writers often think of point of view as a question of proximity: first-person for intimacy, third-person for distance, omniscient for scope. But just as important is what each point of view allows you to withhold—and from whom.
The emotional texture of a scene changes dramatically depending on who knows what, and when. Give the reader exactly the same information as the protagonist, and you create suspense. Let the protagonist know more than the reader, and you produce mystery. Let the reader know more than the character, and you open the door to dramatic or even comedic irony.
These effects—suspense, mystery, irony—are not by-products of genre or tone. They are the result of careful control over the distribution of information between the reader, the narrator, and the characters. In this article, we’ll break down how different configurations of knowledge can be used to manipulate emotion, control pacing, and shape the reader’s experience of a story.
The tool is point of view. The technique is information control. The outcome is tension, humour, or dread
The Art of Information Control
Every story involves a pattern of information flow. Who knows what, and when, is not just a matter of plotting—it determines how the reader feels. You can evoke tension, curiosity, pity, or laughter simply by shifting the alignment of knowledge between the characters, the narrator, and the reader.
There are three core effects that arise from this manipulation:
Suspense, where reader and character share information and dread what might happen next
Mystery, where the character knows more than the reader, who must piece things together
Irony, where the reader knows more than the character—either to tragic or comic effect
These effects depend on the timing and distribution of narrative knowledge. The same scene can provoke fear or amusement, simply by adjusting who has access to the truth.
These effects—suspense, mystery, irony—arise from what Robert McKee, in Story, identifies as the strategic control of information between character and audience. Though often treated as secondary to plot or theme, the management of knowledge is one of the writer’s most potent tools. The same event can generate dread, curiosity, or laughter, depending entirely on who knows what, and when.
In the sections that follow, we’ll examine each configuration in turn—how it works, when to use it, and why point of view is the lever that makes it possible.
Suspense: Shared Ignorance, Shared Dread
Suspense arises when the reader and the viewpoint character know the same thing, at the same time—and both are waiting for the outcome. Neither knows what will happen next, but both understand enough to be afraid of it.
This effect depends on synchronised knowledge. The protagonist hears a noise upstairs; the reader hears it too. The character sees a shadow move; so does the reader. No one has the full picture, but everyone knows enough to sense danger.
Suspense builds tension by delaying resolution. The threat has been recognised, but not yet realised. In horror, this often takes the form of physical proximity to danger—footsteps, whispers, something moving in the dark. The audience can’t warn the character, but they don’t need to: they’re in lockstep.
Example: The Tell-Tale Heart (Poe)
Both the narrator and the reader know a murder has occurred. The suspense lies not in what happened, but in when the consequences will arrive. The sound of the heartbeat grows louder—but only in the narrator’s mind. The tension comes from shared knowledge and the unbearable wait for discovery or breakdown.
Writer’s Toolbox: Creating Suspense
To create suspense through point of view:
Use first-person or close third-person narration
Ensure the reader knows exactly what the protagonist knows—no more, no less
Introduce a known threat whose consequences have not yet played out
Stretch time: delay the outcome to deepen the reader’s anticipation
Suspense works best when the threat is visible but unresolved. Its power lies in the shared wait.
Mystery: Reader in the Dark
Mystery arises when the character knows more than the reader. The reader senses there is missing information—something unsaid, something concealed—and is drawn forward by the need to uncover it.
This technique depends on asymmetrical knowledge. The protagonist sees the significance of a letter, recognises a face in the crowd, or reacts sharply to a name. The reader witnesses the reaction, but not the reason behind it. The character acts with purpose; the reader, with curiosity.
Mystery delays explanation. The reader is aware that they are being kept in the dark, and the narrative becomes a puzzle. In crime fiction, the detective often withholds deductions until the end. In psychological fiction, a character’s motives may remain opaque until the truth finally emerges.
Example: The Adventure of the Speckled Band (Doyle)
Holmes observes details and draws conclusions long before the reader or Watson understands their meaning. Suspense arises in later scenes, but the initial effect is mystery: the reader is intrigued because Holmes knows more than he’s saying.
Example Technique: The Withheld Letter
A classic device is the character who receives a letter or phone call at the end of a scene. The reader sees only the reaction—a pale face, a curse, a hurried departure—but not the contents. This can verge on cliché, but when used sparingly, it leaves just enough of a gap to pull the reader into the next chapter.
Writer’s Toolbox: Creating Mystery
To create mystery through point of view:
Use third-person limited narration, but hold back on the viewpoint character’s thoughts
Allow the protagonist to act on knowledge the reader doesn’t yet have
Let the reader observe consequences without explanations
Use implication, not evasion—suggest meaning without revealing it too soon
Mystery works best when the reader knows they’re missing something—and trusts the story to reveal it in time.
Dramatic Irony: Reader Ahead of the Curve
Dramatic irony occurs when the reader knows more than the character. This imbalance creates tension, often of a tragic or ominous kind. The reader sees what the character does not—and can do nothing but watch.
This is the inverse of mystery. Where mystery withholds information from the reader, dramatic irony withholds it from the character. The result is a creeping sense of inevitability. The reader understands the meaning of events while the protagonist misreads or ignores them.
Dramatic irony can be used to provoke pity, dread, or even frustration. It’s most effective when the reader is waiting for the character to realise the truth—about themselves, another person, or their situation.
Example: Oedipus Rex (Sophocles)
The audience knows Oedipus has killed his father and married his mother long before he does. His determination to uncover the truth becomes painful to watch, because the reader already sees where it leads.
Example: Romeo and Juliet (Shakespeare)
In the final act, the audience knows Juliet is alive, but Romeo believes she is dead. His suicide is not a surprise—it’s a tragic inevitability, made worse by our helpless awareness.
Dramatic Irony in First-Person: The Naïve Narrator
Even in first-person, dramatic irony is possible. If the narrator is naïve, biased, or inexperienced, the reader may interpret events more accurately than the narrator does. This creates a subtle but effective irony.
Example: Rebecca (Daphne du Maurier)
The second Mrs. de Winter misreads every social signal at Manderley. She believes everyone adored the late Rebecca and that Maxim still mourns her. The reader, however, notices signs of repression, avoidance, and concealed tension, and suspects there’s more to the story. When the truth emerges, the narrator is shocked—but the reader is not.
Writer’s Toolbox: Creating Dramatic Irony
To create dramatic irony through point of view:
Use third-person omniscient, or a limited narrator with clear blind spots
Let the reader see signs or facts that the character ignores or misinterprets
Use foreshadowing to hint at outcomes the character doesn’t yet suspect
In first-person, allow the narrator’s limitations—youth, pride, denial—to obscure the truth
Dramatic irony works best when the reader sees the fall coming—and the character walks straight into it.
Comedic Irony: The Clueless Narrator
Comedic irony emerges when the reader understands more than the narrator—often much more—and the gap is played for humour rather than tragedy. The narrator’s blind spots become the joke.
This is a close cousin of dramatic irony, but the emotional tone shifts. Instead of dread or pity, the reader feels amusement, superiority, or fond exasperation. The narrator misinterprets events, stumbles through misunderstandings, or draws absurd conclusions. The pleasure lies in watching them get it wrong.
Comedic irony works best in first-person, especially when the narrator is innocent, uneducated, or culturally naive. The key is that the narrator is unaware of their error—and remains so.
Example: The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Mark Twain)
Huck is an excellent example of the unintentionally funny narrator. His moral instincts are good, but his understanding of the adult world is warped by upbringing and circumstance. He interprets religious metaphors literally, fails to grasp sarcasm, and misunderstands social norms.
At one point, Huck reflects on the concept of Providence and decides he’d rather go to hell than betray his friend Jim—an act of moral courage that he narrates as if it were wicked. The reader sees the nobility in his actions; Huck sees only sin. The irony lies in his sincerity.
Writer’s Toolbox: Creating Comedic Irony
To create comedic irony through point of view:
Use first-person narration with a naive or underinformed voice
Let the reader spot the gap between what is happening and what the narrator thinks is happening
Play the misunderstanding straight—don’t wink at the audience
Allow other characters to react perceptively while the narrator remains oblivious
Comedic irony works best when the reader isn’t laughing with the narrator, but at what the narrator cannot see.
The Unreliable Narrator: Deliberate Distortion
An unreliable narrator knows more than they admit—or sees less than they claim. Unlike the naive narrator of comedic irony, who is sincere but mistaken, the unreliable narrator withholds, deceives, or distorts. The gap between their version of events and the actual truth is intentional, and central to the narrative’s effect.
This technique is often used to generate mystery, suspense, or late-stage revelation. The reader trusts the narrator at first, only to discover that the story they’ve been told is incomplete, biased, or actively misleading. The effectiveness of the device depends on timing: the reveal must be earned, not arbitrary.
Example: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (Agatha Christie)
Christie’s most controversial novel uses first-person narration from a seemingly neutral observer—Dr Sheppard. Only at the end does the reader discover he is the murderer. The shock lies not just in the plot twist, but in the breach of convention: Christie made the narrator, whom readers had trusted implicitly, the very person hiding the central truth.
The book provoked outrage when first published. Some critics accused Christie of cheating; others admired the audacity. But structurally, the twist is fair. The narrator never lies—he simply omits. The manipulation is technical, not textual. It remains one of the boldest uses of unreliability in modern fiction.
Secondary Example: American Psycho (Bret Easton Ellis)
Patrick Bateman’s narration is cold, polished, and increasingly unhinged. As the story progresses, the reader begins to suspect that not everything he reports is real. Are the murders happening at all, or are they fantasies? The uncertainty is never resolved—which is precisely the point. The reader is left trapped inside Bateman’s disconnected perception, unsure what, if anything, is true.
Related Form: Withholding Narrators
Some first-person narrators aren’t openly deceptive, but they leave out key information. They may be ashamed, afraid, or simply unwilling to tell the whole truth. This type of narrative often reveals its gaps late in the story, forcing the reader to reassess what they’ve read.
Caution
Unreliable narration demands discipline. If the concealment feels arbitrary—or if the final reveal doesn’t justify the withheld information—the reader will feel manipulated rather than intrigued.
Writer’s Toolbox: Crafting an Unreliable Narrator
To use unreliable narration effectively:
Establish trust early, then introduce small cracks in the narrative
Reveal unreliability gradually, through contradiction or external cues
Ensure the final revelation reframes the narrative meaningfully
Avoid springing the twist too late, or without groundwork
An unreliable narrator changes the terms of the story. The key is to make the reader feel complicit, not cheated.
Foreshadowing: Hints the Reader Sees, but the Character Misses
Foreshadowing is not an emotional effect in itself. It is a technique—one that plants narrative cues in advance of a revelation, turn, or catastrophe. It is most often used to generate tragic irony: the reader spots a threat long before the character walks into it.
What matters is asymmetry. The reader picks up the clues; the character does not. The result is not mystery, where the reader lacks information, but a slow-building dread. Foreshadowing tells the reader that something is coming—it just doesn't say when.
Foreshadowing works across all points of view. In omniscient third, the narrator may drop subtle asides, ironies, or warnings. In limited third or first-person, the character may describe something innocently that the reader correctly interprets as a bad omen.
Example: Hereditary (2018 film)
A model house appears early in the film, mirroring the family’s own home. It’s visually neat, but emotionally sterile. As events unfold, it becomes clear that the family is being manipulated like figures in a dollhouse. The film doesn’t say this outright—it lets the set design whisper it.
Example: Romeo and Juliet (again)
Romeo dreams of death. The lovers speak of omens and fate. The language of doom runs throughout the play. The reader is never surprised by the ending—they’re bracing for it.
Writer’s Toolbox: Foreshadowing as Technique
To use foreshadowing effectively:
Plant details that are visible but not emphatic
Let the reader sense a pattern the character does not
Avoid heavy-handed prophecy or melodrama unless stylised
Use foreshadowing to build anticipation, not just justify later events
Foreshadowing is the soft echo of the ending, heard before it arrives. It turns coincidence into inevitability—and narrative into fate.
Sidebar: Chekhov’s Gun Is Not Foreshadowing
Writers often confuse foreshadowing with Chekhov’s gun, but they are not the same.
Foreshadowing creates anticipation through subtle suggestion.
Chekhov’s gun is about narrative efficiency: nothing irrelevant should be introduced.
The famous dictum—“If you show a gun on the wall in Act One, it must go off in Act Three”—is not a demand for suspense or irony. It’s a principle of narrative discipline. Don’t include a detail unless you intend to use it.
In horror, the two often overlap. A boarded-up door might foreshadow a hidden room—but if the room is never opened, you’ve violated Chekhov. Likewise, if you introduce a strange symbol on the protagonist’s skin and it never comes up again, you haven’t foreshadowed—you’ve cluttered the story.
Rule of Thumb
Chekhov’s Gun: Every element introduced must serve a purpose.
Foreshadowing: Hints should create emotional or thematic echoes before the event arrives.
Foreshadowing plays with the reader’s perception. Chekhov’s gun is a promise. Break it, and you lose trust.
Recap: The Power of Knowing Who Knows What
Point of view is more than a stylistic choice. It is a strategic tool for distributing information—deciding what the reader knows, when they know it, and how that knowledge compares to what the characters and narrator know.
By manipulating this triangle, you generate not just plot, but emotional texture:
Suspense relies on shared ignorance. Reader and character wait together.
Mystery conceals facts from the reader. The character acts; the reader follows.
Dramatic irony lets the reader see the truth before the character does.
Comedic irony uses a naive narrator to create humour from misunderstanding.
Unreliable narration distorts the story from within, leaving the reader to reconstruct the truth.
Foreshadowing hints at outcomes through implication, not assertion.
Chekhov’s gun demands that nothing be included without purpose.
Whether you’re writing horror, comedy, crime, or psychological fiction, these configurations of knowledge are among the most powerful tools at your disposal.