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For most people, depth in fiction sounds like a good thing, right? Just as we conflate vivid descriptions or rich vocabulary with high-quality writing, having a deep narrative must be a great thing, right? Right?

The thing is, there are so many fluid variables in the statement “Depth in fiction is a good thing” that it’s impossible to answer that in any sense-making manner before we truly focus on what it is we’re talking about.

That’s what I’m planning to do in this post.

I’ll first offer some definitions and reflection points on what constitutes depth in fiction and whether it’s always a good thing (sneak preview: it ain’t), and then I’ll list some ways that could add depth to your narrative – if you decide you need it.

Why Should Depth in Fiction Always Be Good?

When we examine the oversupply of writing advice on the internet (I have a meta- sense of humor, what can I say…) we discover an interesting detail: Much of it focuses on easy, one-size-fits-all, simple answers. The problem with fiction, however, is that it’s often complex. And you can’t assign simple answers to complex concepts.

I mean, as I mentioned above, having a vivid description or a rich vocabulary should be a great thing, right? The same goes for realistic characters.

And yet – as you perhaps remember from the linked posts – my answer is: It depends. We’ll come back to this in a while, after we see what depth in fiction actually is.

What Is Depth in Fiction: Definitions

In the introduction I argued that the statement “Depth in fiction is a good thing” consists of fluid variables. What is “depth” or “a good thing”? Hell, what is fiction?!

Of these, the easiest to define (perhaps ironically, since it’s in a way… the hardest) is “a good thing”. The reason it’s the easiest is because, I argue, the author is always the final authority on their work. If you like something you’ve written – and, especially, if you still like it some time later – then it’s “good enough”.

I leave the question of what is fiction aside for our purposes (also because I’ve talked about it extensively in the linked post), so that I can focus on depth. And so, I would define it as follows. First I will offer a necessarily more complex definition, and then a simplified version:

Depth in fiction is the propensity of a text to indirectly explore various probabilities and follow them to appropriate narrative lengths.

In simpler words: A deep narrative is one where there can be various stuff happening at once.

Some Necessary Meta-Definitions

I immediately need to explain a couple of things; define parts of these definitions. As you might suspect, they have to do with the italicized words.

When I say that a deep narrative would indirectly explore probabilities, I mean that it only needs to offer the idea of such explorations. The notion of appropriate narrative lengths also applies. Or, to use the simplified version, depth in fiction means that you can suggest (without necessarily following them all) the presence of multiple explanations, endings, character motivations, etc. “Stuff” refers to much more than plot points.

In other words, whereas a shallow, superficial narrative would involve a what-you-see-is-what-you-get plot (or plots; we’ll get to this in a moment), characters, and motivations, a deep narrative is all about potentiality and ambiguity, offering narratively solid alternatives for a story’s possible outcome, a character’s inner world, a symbol’s possible weight.

As examples (albeit, a bit extreme ones, for demonstration purposes), think of the pulp romance fiction involving a woman ready to be wooed by an arrogant man. There is no depth there (indeed there shouldn’t, for reasons we’ll discuss), because there is one predictable path the story will follow, one simplistic set of motivations, and virtually no symbolism.

Contrast that with, say, Ryū Murakami’s Popular Hits of the Showa Era, in which – as you can see in my review – there is a vast set of potential explanations, motivations, and symbolism. For an even better example, see my review of South of the Border, West of the Sun by the… other Murakami, Haruki.

The key word here is potentiality – it’s in the same boat as indirectly, earlier. Not only is a deep narrative not required to follow up on all these options, it actually shouldn’t.

Here’s where the relation between depth and width comes into play.

The Relation Between Depth and Width

Once upon a long time ago, when I still had Android apps on Google Play, I got a message asking advice about Narrative Nods, particularly how to use the types of fiction characters in it. The person asked for help because they had, and I paraphrase, 30 wizards, 15 kings, each with their own 20 knights, belonging to 4 clans, each with 5 dragons and 10 druid priests.

I’m actually leaving more than half of it out.

Whether there is a place for such width in a narrative – that is, a broad numerical expanse of characters, plots, settings, etc. – is another matter. What is more important is this:

A narrative that has great width cannot possibly also have depth.

There is one extreme like the one above, and all the power to you writing it. But you can’t have any remotely adequate in-depth exploration of the characters’ inner worlds.

Similarly, the other extreme would be to only have one character (I’d advise at least a protagonist and an antagonist, but they can be the same person). Such a narrative would offer the chance to go really deep into that character’s psyche, but obviously it wouldn’t be as wide.

Is there right and wrong? It depends on what you want.

Choose, Understand, Be Consistent

Basically, there is no right and wrong in art. But there are approaches that are inconsistent with what you’re trying to achieve. Depth in fiction is good on some occasions, irrelevant on others, harmful on yet others.

Are you writing a historical novel set in the Byzantine Empire and revolving around the intrigue of the palace? You like need width more than you need depth, since you need to mention a vast number of interconnected characters with complex relationships, as well as detailed events.

If, conversely, you’re writing a literary-fiction novel exploring the doubts, fears, and traumatic past of a middle-aged woman (sorry, couldn’t resist linking to that particular example), then you need depth and virtually no width.

• Choose your context. This first and foremost alludes to choosing whether you’re writing for art or money. To be sure, there is a vast continuum there, but the closer you lean toward either side, the more you need to understand what’s involved.
• Understand what you’re writing. This might sound silly, but there are many authors who don’t quite focus on the requirements of their context. And so we have writers who think they’re writing science fiction whereas they’re writing something between sci-fi and fantasy, or writers who think they’re writing gothic whereas they’re writing horror. Genre is the key concept here, but there are other variables, too.
• Be consistent with your choice. Once you decide you’re writing focusing on depth, you “can’t” abandon it and start going off on tangential characters or settings. Well, of course you can, but this will take you out of your context, as I mentioned above.

Ultimately, keep in mind that depth in fiction – as everything else – is a choice. There are ways to help you do what you want in a more “efficient” manner (in lieu of a better word), but nothing is set in stone.