How to Pace Your Plot with Strategic Highs and Lows
We all know pacing is important. But too often, it gets talked about like it’s just a matter of slowing down or speeding up scenes—like turning a dial. For me, pacing is design. It’s how we shape the reader’s emotional experience over time. It’s not just about when the action happens, but why the quiet moments matter just as much.
Think of it like breathwork in acting or music.
The pauses carry weight. The silences are not empty—they’re charged. In storytelling, the highs aren’t just there to thrill; they distort expectations, reveal character, or expose contradiction. The lows aren’t downtime—they’re the beat where subtext gets loud.
And here’s the kicker: expert-level pacing isn’t about balance—it’s about contrast. It’s not smooth; it’s sculpted.
Let’s get into the why behind those highs and lows—and how they’re doing way more than just keeping readers “engaged.”
Why Emotional Highs and Lows Actually Shape the Story (Not Just Support It)
Okay, here’s the truth I wish more writers talked about: plot highs and lows aren’t just about rhythm—they build meaning. You know this intuitively if you’ve written a scene that felt flat despite the stakes being technically high. It’s because pacing isn’t about the event, it’s about the effect.
Let’s break this down a bit.
Why Highs Aren’t Always “Big Moments”
So many writers chase the idea of the big moment—the twist, the reveal, the dramatic fight or confession. But a high doesn’t mean a climax in the traditional sense. A high is any moment where emotional or narrative tension peaks, where energy hits a sharp note.
Think of the moment in The Godfather when Michael closes the door on Kay. That’s a high. No explosions, no yelling—just emotional finality. It’s a pacing peak that feels like a punch because we’ve been waiting for that moral tipping point.
The key is contrast. That scene hits hard because the previous moments gave us space to absorb Michael’s transformation. Without the lows—the quieter, reflective beats—it wouldn’t land the same.
The Lows Are Where the Story Actually Talks to the Reader
I’ll be honest, I used to rush through low points. I thought they were bridges between the “real” scenes. Total rookie mistake.
But now, I treat low moments like pressure chambers. They compress subtext. They’re where a character processes trauma, reorients their motivations, or lies to themselves in a way that the reader notices. These are the scenes that actually give context to the highs.
In Breaking Bad, there’s a painfully quiet scene in season 2 where Jesse lies on the floor after Jane’s death. No big speeches, no plot progression. But that emotional valley sets up his later breakdowns—and gives his small wins massive emotional weight. You need that bottoming out so you can feel the altitude later.
Highs and Lows Create Narrative Memory
Here’s something you might not have considered: readers remember stories based on the emotional peaks and troughs, not the full arc. This isn’t a theory—psych studies on memory back it up. The “peak-end rule” shows we remember the most intense moment and the ending far more than the rest.
So pacing your story with intentional highs and lows doesn’t just shape the story—it shapes how it will be remembered.
Want to make your story unforgettable? Make sure your emotional peaks mean something, and your lows linger. That’s what stays with people.
Why Subtle Pacing Beats Constant Action
There’s a tendency—especially in commercial genres—to think of pacing as “how fast can we get to the next exciting thing.” But that’s a shortcut. Experienced readers (and viewers) burn out fast on constant motion. We crave modulation. Like music, if everything’s fortissimo, it stops feeling loud.
A great example: Fleabag. It’s quick and witty, but the most powerful moments are the quiet ones. That long pause in the confessional booth before the priest touches her face? That’s a pacing low, and it’s devastating because of the restraint. We feel the tension snap because the show has earned it with quiet.
The Takeaway for Us as Storytellers
If we want to pace like pros, we’ve got to stop thinking of highs and lows as scene types and start thinking of them as emotional states. Every scene should either raise tension or complicate it. Even your slowest moment can be a low that deepens the story’s charge.
So next time you’re mapping a story, don’t just plan the big beats. Ask:
- Where will my reader need to breathe?
- Where should they feel uncertain?
- When do I want them to think they understand what’s happening—right before I twist the knife?
Because pacing isn’t just keeping them hooked. It’s how we move the story through their body.
Where to Put the Highs and Lows—A Tactical Breakdown
Let’s shift gears from theory to tactics.
This is where your structural instincts and your storytelling gut have to work together.
Here’s a breakdown of key moments in your narrative where you can deliberately shape reader experience using highs and lows. I’m not giving you a formula—because we all hate formulas—but these are strategic touchpoints that work across genres and forms.
1. The Controlled Rise (Right After the Opening Hook)
The beginning is not the place to sprint. After your opening hook (which might be sharp and high-energy), you need a controlled rise—early tension that invites rather than overwhelms.
Example: In The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood doesn’t throw readers into chaos. She builds tension slowly, layering fear with curiosity. That controlled rise builds dread more effectively than an immediate flood of action.
Pro Tip: Let your readers find their footing inside the world before you start shaking the ground beneath them.
2. The False High (Act I Climax or Early Act II)
This is a “fake win” or deceptive peak—where things seem like they’re going one way, and then they don’t. It gives readers the satisfaction of momentum, while setting you up to undercut expectations later.
Think: The Dark Knight, when Batman believes he’s captured the Joker early. It feels like a major success—but it’s actually the turning point where everything begins to unravel.
3. The Strategic Trough (Post-Reveal or Midpoint)
Don’t rush past your big reveals. Readers need a place to metabolize new information. This is where you go deep—character reflection, moral fallout, re-orientation of goals.
Literary fiction thrives in this space. Look at Never Let Me Go—the midpoint reveal about the characters’ fate isn’t followed by action. It’s followed by silence, sadness, and internal conflict. That’s not slow pacing—that’s precision.
4. The Midpoint Shift
The midpoint is often treated like a narrative fulcrum. It doesn’t need to be explosive, but it must redefine the stakes.
In Gone Girl, the midpoint is the moment when Amy’s true intentions are revealed. The story doesn’t just escalate—it transforms. That’s a high, yes, but it functions more like a pressure flip than an explosion.
5. The Compounding High
This is one of my favorite tools. It’s when small emotional peaks stack on top of each other until they hit a critical mass. These work especially well in character-driven stories.
TV writers use this a lot—look at the end of BoJack Horseman episodes where emotional moments keep layering until a single, small gesture hits like a gut punch.
6. The Pre-Climax Drop
Right before the final act, pull the rug out. This isn’t just the “all is lost” beat—it’s the quietest moment. Let it breathe.
In Children of Men, there’s a calm just before the final escape. It’s emotionally devastating—because the characters (and we) have no idea what’s coming next. The silence is louder than gunfire.
7. Echo Peaks (Resolution That Resonates)
Don’t end on noise. The best endings echo earlier highs and lows. Think callbacks, emotional symmetry, or poetic repetition.
Pixar is brilliant at this. In Up, the final scene mirrors the beginning—but everything’s changed. That’s an echo peak. It reinforces what the journey meant, not just how it ended.
The magic of pacing isn’t just about when to press on the gas—it’s knowing when to ease off, and why the silence can be louder than the bang. Use these tactical moments as tuning forks, not rulebooks. Feel the shape of your story—and then sculpt the emotional ride accordingly.
How Genre and Form Change the Rules of Pacing
Now let’s get a bit more advanced. Because if we’re honest, what works for a thriller will absolutely fall flat in a slow-burn family drama. Genre isn’t just a setting—it’s a rhythm. And pacing? That’s how you dance to it.
Here’s how pacing strategy shifts depending on genre, structure, and even medium.
Thrillers vs. Dramas: Tension vs. Weight
In a thriller, pacing often hinges on external tension. You’ve got ticking clocks, chase scenes, reversals. Here, highs come fast—but the challenge is making them feel earned. Constant action leads to emotional numbness unless you layer character into it.
Compare that to a drama, like Manchester by the Sea, where the highs are almost anti-peaks—moments of suppressed emotion that finally leak out. A drama’s pacing is all about accumulation—letting sadness or memory build until it becomes unbearable.
Tip: In thrillers, play with tempo. In dramas, play with density.
Serialized Storytelling (TV, Web Series)
Pacing over episodes introduces a new challenge: micro-highs and macro-lows. You need little wins to justify the next episode, but you’re also building toward long-term emotional collapse or resolution.
Succession is a masterclass here. Every episode has tiny spikes—backstabs, reveals, humiliations—but across seasons, the lows compound until the emotional crash is seismic.
Nonlinear Structures
When you ditch chronological order, pacing becomes less about progression and more about placement. You can engineer emotional highs by controlling what the audience knows and when they know it.
Think of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Scenes bounce in time, but the emotional journey is tightly paced. We experience longing, loss, and revelation in carefully sequenced beats—even if the events are out of order.
Takeaway: With nonlinear pacing, control emotional cause and effect, not just plot.
Experimental or Literary Fiction
Here, pacing becomes thematic. The highs and lows often don’t align with plot at all—they echo internal shifts. You can withhold resolution or flatten tension intentionally to mimic dissociation, confusion, or isolation.
Toni Morrison’s Beloved plays with narrative tempo like music—slowing down for poetic weight, then accelerating through traumatic memories. The pacing reflects memory itself: chaotic, lurching, deeply personal.
Visual Mediums (Film, Comics, Games)
Visuals change the pacing toolkit. A single image or edit can do what paragraphs of prose might accomplish. Long takes, framing, silence, jump cuts—these all become part of emotional pacing.
Games take this a step further. In something like The Last of Us, gameplay slows to let players absorb trauma, then yanks them into combat. That oscillation is the story’s pacing—and it’s player-controlled.
Audience Expectations Matter
You can break pacing conventions—but you’d better know the rules first. Literary readers are fine with ambiguity and slower burns. YA readers expect punchier sequences and fast emotional feedback. A horror audience lives for the dread-filled pause before the monster shows up.
Point is: Pacing isn’t just technical—it’s cultural. It’s shaped by genre norms, audience literacy, and even marketing.
So, if you’re writing across genres or trying something formally bold, ask yourself:
- What’s the reader expecting—and when do I want to deliver or subvert that?
- How does my form limit or expand emotional pacing tools?
- Am I building my pacing to reflect content—or just riding a template?
Because once you start treating pacing like a language, not just a lever, you get a lot more control over the emotional narrative you’re telling.
Before You Leave…
If there’s one thing I hope you take away, it’s this: pacing isn’t just how fast your story moves—it’s how deeply it lands.
You don’t need every beat to scream. You need it to matter. Strategic highs and lows aren’t just structure—they’re storytelling language. They shape how your readers feel, what they remember, and when they lean in.
So go sculpt your story’s rhythm with intention. Surprise them. Let them breathe. Then break their hearts.
And hey—if you ever wonder whether a scene is “too slow” or “too much,” ask instead: What emotion is this beat asking the reader to hold? If it’s something true, it’s probably the right pace.
Let your pacing carry meaning—not just momentum.
Catch you in the next one.