istryj
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- Nov 29, 2024
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There are two perspectives on any work: how it is seen by the reader, and how it is seen by the author. A person who decides to write their own work while remaining mentally in the position of a reader can genuinely burn themselves out trying to entertain another reader by meticulously developing their world.
Let us imagine a black box containing some kind of mechanism. We cannot see how it is constructed, but we can observe the stable results of its operation: press a button and a light turns on; pull a lever and a bell rings. For the user, this is sufficient—the mechanism is hidden, but the system’s behavior is predictable and meaningful.
This principle can be directly applied to storytelling.
Consider the classic riddle of the Sphinx: “Who walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?” The answer is a human being. The riddle is phrased obscurely, yet once we know the answer, we accept it as correct: the phenomenon exists, and the signs genuinely describe it. Here the following scheme applies: {phenomenon} → {signs}.
Now imagine a different riddle: “What is red in the morning, liquid at noon, and jumping in the evening?” The reader attempts to solve it, proposes hypotheses, searches for hidden logic. But in the end it turns out that no answer exists. There is only a set of {signs}, behind which there is no {phenomenon} at all.
And yet, the process of trying to solve it can still be engaging.
From this follows an important conclusion: a work does not necessarily need to reveal its internal mechanism in order to function. Moreover, it does not always need to have a fully formulated and internally consistent concept. It is enough for the text to demonstrate the signs of a concept: recurring motifs, hints, symbols, stable reactions of the world, a sense of hidden logic.
The reader is inclined to construct the phenomenon on their own if they are given convincing signs—or simply to enjoy the spectacle.
That is why many works function as black boxes. They captivate, intrigue, and create a sense of depth—until the reader begins to demand that the mechanism be opened. Examples are easy to find in anime, such as Ne... sorry, I mean - Darker than Black. These stories captivate through atmosphere, symbolism, and the promise of meaning, but when one attempts to obtain definitive answers, it becomes clear that the mechanism is either fragmented or absent as a whole. Darker than Black is a particularly illustrative example, since the continuation of the franchise was built upon an unspoken promise to explain what was happening in the first season. In the end, we were shown another black box, inside the first one.
The “black box” principle is not a justification for emptiness. It is a tool.
Thus, the author’s perspective lies not in the mandatory presence of a “great concept,” but in controlling the fact that the work’s black box always remains closed—while the great concept forms in the reader’s mind.
“There is no spoon.”
Let us imagine a black box containing some kind of mechanism. We cannot see how it is constructed, but we can observe the stable results of its operation: press a button and a light turns on; pull a lever and a bell rings. For the user, this is sufficient—the mechanism is hidden, but the system’s behavior is predictable and meaningful.
This principle can be directly applied to storytelling.
Consider the classic riddle of the Sphinx: “Who walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?” The answer is a human being. The riddle is phrased obscurely, yet once we know the answer, we accept it as correct: the phenomenon exists, and the signs genuinely describe it. Here the following scheme applies: {phenomenon} → {signs}.
Now imagine a different riddle: “What is red in the morning, liquid at noon, and jumping in the evening?” The reader attempts to solve it, proposes hypotheses, searches for hidden logic. But in the end it turns out that no answer exists. There is only a set of {signs}, behind which there is no {phenomenon} at all.
And yet, the process of trying to solve it can still be engaging.
From this follows an important conclusion: a work does not necessarily need to reveal its internal mechanism in order to function. Moreover, it does not always need to have a fully formulated and internally consistent concept. It is enough for the text to demonstrate the signs of a concept: recurring motifs, hints, symbols, stable reactions of the world, a sense of hidden logic.
The reader is inclined to construct the phenomenon on their own if they are given convincing signs—or simply to enjoy the spectacle.
That is why many works function as black boxes. They captivate, intrigue, and create a sense of depth—until the reader begins to demand that the mechanism be opened. Examples are easy to find in anime, such as Ne... sorry, I mean - Darker than Black. These stories captivate through atmosphere, symbolism, and the promise of meaning, but when one attempts to obtain definitive answers, it becomes clear that the mechanism is either fragmented or absent as a whole. Darker than Black is a particularly illustrative example, since the continuation of the franchise was built upon an unspoken promise to explain what was happening in the first season. In the end, we were shown another black box, inside the first one.
The “black box” principle is not a justification for emptiness. It is a tool.
Thus, the author’s perspective lies not in the mandatory presence of a “great concept,” but in controlling the fact that the work’s black box always remains closed—while the great concept forms in the reader’s mind.
“There is no spoon.”
