Why your story needs visible and invisible narratives
Stories are rarely just about what happens on the surface. The best narratives work on more than one level—they have an external plot that keeps us turning pages or glued to the screen, but underneath that is a deeper, often invisible emotional journey. This is what I call the heart of your narrative.
I can’t claim credit for the idea of visible and invisible narratives—it comes from writer, filmmaker, and script consultant Dr. Stanley D Williams who coined the term in his book The Moral Premise: “A good way to conceive of movie stories, like Die Hard and Love, Actually,” he says, “is to think of the visible story as the metaphor for the invisible story.”
Dr. Williams, you had me at Die Hard.
If you’ve ever taken one of my classes, you’ll know that I have a tendency to wax lyrical about John McTiernan’s 1988 Christmas movie classic (fight me). And it’s not just me who reads Die Hard as a near-perfect example of how to get everything right in a narrative—the movie is regularly taught on film studies degree courses and by film theory experts. It’s an incredibly useful touchpoint to look at an incredibly useful observation about narrative, and I’ll be returning to it throughout this post. (Not so much Love, Actually, by the way—Dr. Williams and I disagree on that one.)
Anyway, the idea of visible and invisible narratives is a brilliant way to understand why some stories just feel richer than others and stick with us long after we’ve finished them, while others… kind of disappear into obscurity. So let’s explore what these two types of narratives are, why they matter, and how you can use them to make your own writing more engaging.
Contents
What are visible and invisible narratives?
Let’s start by defining our terms. The visible narrative is what you usually think of when you picture a story—the external events that happen. It’s the action, the plot twists, the obstacles thrown in your protagonist’s way. For example, in Die Hard, the visible narrative is where we see John McClane trying to save his wife and her colleagues from a hostage situation after terrorists take over the skyscraper in which she works.
The invisible narrative, on the other hand, is subtler but every bit as important—arguably more so, in fact. This represents the internal journey your protagonist must undergo in order to succeed against both the external threat and the internal obstacle that’s holding them back from what they truly want. This journey involves their emotional growth, moral struggles, or psychological transformation. While McClane is physically fighting terrorists (visible) in order to save his wife, he’s also confronting his own fears and failures (invisible) in order to save his marriage. Not all stories will intertwine the visible and invisible narratives so intricately, or make them reflect each other so perfectly, and that’s okay. (It’s also why Die Hard is so special.)
Williams suggests that we think of the visible story as a metaphor for this invisible story, so that every external obstacle your protagonist faces symbolises some internal obstacle that they must also overcome.
Why both narratives matter in storytelling
You might wonder why we need two layers at all. Can’t a thrilling plot be enough? Shouldn’t a deep character study be able to carry its story alone? Usually, the answer is… no, not really. And that’s because of what the invisible narrative brings to the table.
The external conflict (visible narrative) gives your story momentum and structure. It provides clear goals and stakes: Will your hero save the day? Will they win or lose? There’s something tangible at risk, an obvious escalation of difficulty, and the character’s actions have visible, measurable results. If the readers are invested in this character, this external conflict or visible narrative will be what keeps them engaged and reading on, because they’re committed to discovering the outcome of the character’s journey.
But without an internal struggle, those external battles risk feeling superficial. One classic way of looking at it is to follow the character development principle of goal + hidden need. At the start of a narrative, the protagonist has a stated goal (e.g. Alicia’s goal might be to go on a date with Jamie from Marketing). But they also have a hidden need that prevents them from achieving this goal—often, this is something they’re not even aware of (e.g. Alicia’s hidden need might be to believe she’s loveable, because her negative self-image is what’s preventing her from asking Jamie from Marketing out on a date). A romantic comedy structured around Alicia’s efforts to woo Jamie from Marketing needs both of these layers. Without this internal struggle (Alicia’s hidden need), we’re left with a series of set-pieces that, at best, feel only superficially connected. Alicia’s hidden need provides the change that powers the narrative and makes her progression towards the climax feel earned and supported.
The magic happens when these two narratives balance each other—when external events force internal change and vice versa. That interplay creates stories that resonate deeply: readers see not only what happens but why it matters on a human level.
“The magic happens when visible and invisible narratives balance each other—when external events force internal change and vice versa. That interplay creates stories that resonate deeply.”
Examples from Hollywood
Let’s have a look at how this plays out in action. I’ll try to avoid spoilers as much as possible, but honestly…? The most recent movie I’ve referenced below came out in 2004. So I reckon we’re well out of the spoiler-free-zone.
I’m using movies rather than books, by the way, because anything narrative or structural is usually easier to observe in a movie—which you typically consume in one sitting—than in a book—which you typically consume over multiple sittings (except for that one time I binge-read The Girl on the Train in one night and regretted it for many bleary-eyed days).
Die Hard (dir. John McTiernan, 1988)
On the surface, Die Hard is a classic action thriller: John McClane, a New York cop, fights terrorists who have taken hostages in a Los Angeles skyscraper. The visible narrative is packed with explosions, shootouts, and tense cat-and-mouse games—all the adrenaline-pumping stuff that keeps audiences on the edge of their seats. And, to be clear: this would be an awesome movie on its own. But…
Beneath this high-octane plot lies the invisible narrative: McClane’s personal journey towards self-knowledge and redemption. At Opening Status Quo, he’s estranged from his wife (Holly) and is angry, bitter and resentful towards her, holding her responsible for the breakdown of their marriage. He clearly still loves her but can’t forgive her for leaving their New York home for a job opportunity in LA.
When terrorists take over the building, holding Holly and her colleagues hostage, McClane fights to save her. But as he battles external enemies, he’s also confronting his own feelings of failure and guilt—the more afraid he becomes that he can’t rescue Holly, the more he opens up to understanding the part he played in their relationship difficulties. This culminates in his emotional confession to Sgt. Powell that he wishes he could apologise to Holly for failing to support her dreams, which is the moment of epiphany that allows McClane and his wife to reconcile at the end of the narrative. It’s also—not coincidentally—the quiet moment that immediately precedes the ramp-up towards the climax, which is where McClane saves the day.
This layering elevates Die Hard above the rank and file of action movies. At its heart, this is a story about emotional restoration (with a backdrop of exploding elevator shafts and machine gun shoot-outs). The visible narrative propels the story forward, while the invisible narrative gives it heart.
The Shawshank Redemption (dir. Frank Darabont, 1994)
On the surface, The Shawshank Redemption is about Andy Dufresne’s struggle to survive brutal prison conditions and ultimately escape. The visible narrative follows Andy’s clever manoeuvres within the oppressive environment—from managing finances for the guards to digging his way out over years.
But beneath this is a profound invisible narrative centred on Andy’s internal transformation: from despair to hope, from resignation to empowerment. When he first arrives in prison, Andy is a broken man, crushed by injustice and stripped of freedom. His external fight to survive mirrors his inner battle against hopelessness.
Over time, Andy learns to reclaim control over his mind and spirit despite physical captivity. His acts of kindness and determination to improve prison life are metaphors for nurturing hope in a place designed to crush it. The invisible narrative culminates in Andy’s daring escape—not just a physical breakout but a symbolic rebirth into freedom and self-actualisation.
In short, the visible challenges represent Andy’s need to change internally: he must shift from victimhood toward agency if he is ever to be free. He must see himself as worthy of redemption.
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (dir. Michel Gondry, 2004)
At first glance, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind offers a visible narrative centred around Joel and Clementine undergoing a procedure to erase memories of their painful relationship. The story unfolds through surreal sequences as memories are literally deleted.
But beneath this sci-fi premise lies a deeply metaphorical invisible narrative about memory, identity, and emotional growth. The external act of erasing memories represents the internal struggle to come to terms with love’s pain and the human desire to forget hurt while holding onto connection.
Joel’s journey through his fading memories mirrors an internal process of confronting loss, regret, and ultimately acceptance. The invisible narrative is about learning to embrace imperfections in relationships rather than trying to erase them—recognising that pain and joy coexist in love.
The film’s structure itself plays with visibility: some emotions and truths are hidden in memory’s shadows, only becoming clear as Joel fights to preserve fragments. This layered storytelling beautifully illustrates how our internal emotional lives can be complex and unseen even when external actions seem straightforward, and invites viewers to reflect on how we process love, memory, and healing.
How to use visible and invisible narratives in your own writing
Okay, let’s take a look at how you can bring visible and invisible narratives into your own work:
- Identify your visible narrative first: What’s the main external conflict? What challenges does your protagonist face? This gives your story shape and stakes—and suggests some possible avenues for “mirroring” the visible conflict with an “invisible” need (e.g. Die Hard’s save the wife | save the marriage structure).
- Identify the invisible narrative: Ask yourself what your character needs to learn or change internally. What beliefs, fears, or flaws are they wrestling with beneath the surface? KM Weiland refers to this as “the lie your character believes,” which is a fantastic way to bring this slightly ephemeral concept into focus.
- Make them mirror each other: Wherever possible, and as closely as possible, use the visible story as a metaphor for the invisible one. For example, if your protagonist is a brilliant detective on the hunt for a serial killer, maybe she’s also battling a few internal demons too. A difficult childhood that showed her the worst of humanity and now allows her to get inside the mind of a brutal killer—but leaves her unable to trust others, even when she’s reliant on their expertise to help her solve a case? Hinge her ability to make that final, critical deduction on whether or not she can address her hidden need… and you’ve got yourself a layered narrative.
- Show growth through conflict: Let external obstacles force your character to confront their internal issues—this helps you create meaningful tension and makes their victories feel earned.
- Don’t forget subtlety: This is pretty important, because nobody wants to feel lectured by a narrative. You don’t need to explain or explicitly spell out your invisible, and in fact its effect usually stronger if you leave it to the reader to discern for themselves. Die Hard works perfectly well as a (Christmas) story about a guy trying to rescue his wife from a bunch of terrorists with guns and C4—the invisible narrative adds depth, but the visible narrative loses nothing if a viewer misses these deeper layers. Often, it’s what’s hinted at through character choices, dialogue, or symbolism that adds richness to your visible/invisible narrative’s duality.
Final thoughts
Understanding visible and invisible narratives is a game-changer for storytelling. No matter what genre you’re writing, weaving the visible and invisible together in this way roots your plot firmly in human experience—which is where deeper connections emerge between the reader and your text.
Next time you’re reading a book or watching a film, try keeping an eye out for these two layers. See if you can spot how the external story reflects what characters are going through inside. And when you’re writing, remember: it’s not just what happens on the page that counts but what those events mean to your characters’ hearts and minds. To write a story that resonates on multiple layers, think about what’s happening on the surface… and how that mirrors what your protagonist really needs underneath.
Happy writing!
Can you identify the visible and invisible narratives in your favourite film or book? Let me know in the comments!
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