As a writer, I have an unquenchable desire to put as many words to paper as possible. The resulting stories are often painstakingly overwrought, swollen by details that overshadow everything within: the narrative, the characters, and even the world.

Every one of the novels I’ve crafted has been plagued by this surplus of words. But, through the editing process, I excise thousands. In most cases, those cut from the final product were extraneous noise, filler that detracted from the novel’s intention. They filled in blanks, to be sure, but to questions that were never asked in the first place.

This whirlwind of description is the writer’s boon. And curse.

Exposition.

There was a time, of course, when exposition was a staple in fiction; when concepts were so bizarre, that the writer had no other choice than to make the reader understand what was meant.

I grew up reading a lot of fiction written in this way, laden to the point that there would be no mistake about the characters, or the world they inhabited. I was always struck by the amount of detail the writers employed and how vividly I was able to see their respective worlds because of it. I found the style inspiring, and, for better or worse, it informed my opinion of what science fiction and fantasy should be.

Because of this, my earliest work was written in a way that relied on a reader’s patience and ability to tolerate paragraphs, and pages, of extraneous information. According to what I knew to be true, this was acceptable.

But I was sorely mistaken.

From that first trio of novels, I learned a few very valuable lessons. First, that the beginning of a story sets the pace for what is to come. If a reader isn’t interested in the beginning, there is no hope for the rest of the work. Second, that pages of information, even if they’re relevant to the world the story is set in, won’t incite a reader to continue. In most cases, too much information will drive the reader away. Third, that there is always a better way to keep the reader in the know. Finding alternate routes to provide the reader information is the best way to avoid dumping too much information on them all at once.

And, finally, that all this points to one overarching fact: there is no such thing as a right to exposition.

Despite this, even the most popular novels can reach a tipping point where the reader’s fatigue outweighs the pull of the story. It is at this point that the reader typically abandons the novel, or takes a prolonged break.

I first experienced this while reading The Lord of the Rings. In general, the series is fantastic, but I always have trouble getting through the large section of the book where Frodo and Sam are marching towards Mordor. Typically, there is so much going on in the books that it’s fun to skip from one group of characters to another, but when Tolkien focuses down on the journey of these two Hobbits, I can’t help but want to take a step back. Though, this plodding section never stood in the way of me finishing the trilogy.

I felt similarly about The Wheel of Time series, but my difficulty began when the book did. While I was interested enough in the story to push through the first novel in the series, I gave up around half-way through the second. For me, the sheer amount of extra information foisted on me by the author made it difficult to want to forge onward. And, when discussing the series with a fan, I was told a few of the later books took the author’s penchant for exposition to a point where one (or two) of the books could be skipped without missing much of the overall story.

But I was most disappointed in The Song of Ice and Fire. The first three books in the series contained their fair share of exposition, but I was able to give George R.R. Martin a pass because of how excellent the story was. Book four, however, changed everything for me. Martin’s shift in focus from main characters to supporting characters killed the momentum for me. Pair this with how painstakingly detailed his chapters are, and I couldn’t finish the novel. And I tried three times to get through it, to no avail.

The point I’m trying to make is that, regardless of skill, writers don’t have the luxury to expect a reader to wade through pages of details that they aren’t invested in.

Perseverance has taught me that, instead of relying on exposition, I should find more engaging ways to impart information to the reader. Framing it in a conversation, or presenting it within the context of the fictional world, is far more tenable than encyclopedic paragraphs.

Faithful application of this lesson goes a long way in making sure that finished manuscripts are what readers want to see.

But, perhaps more importantly, it’s what agents want to see.

Writer’s often look at agents as unreasonably strict gatekeepers into the realm of publishing, but I’ve come to the conclusion that they are necessary. When I compare the books I grew up reading to the ones I’ve read more recently, I can see a shift in the type of content being favored.

Of course, the markets have changed, but there is a distinctive lack of exposition in modern offerings (with exceptions, of course). In lieu of plodding chapters, works of fiction tend to be snappier. Books capture interest far earlier, and hold it longer, because of an inexorable drive forward.

This drive, something I haven’t quite mastered, marks the difference between a good book and a great one. In the past, I’ve fallen short of the quality I strive towards, but each new manuscript takes me one page closer to where I’d like to be.

Sometimes, it takes an agent to nudge a writer to the next level. The most impactful edits to Aiko’s Dive were made due to feedback from an agent. It’s ultimately why I tweaked the opening chapters, removing nearly 10,000 words of fluff in order to bring the main hook to chapter three.

Those changes were difficult to make, but without that small push, I would have never realized just how much of the manuscript’s opening was exposition.

And how much I gained by removing it.