Why Every Scene You Write Needs a Purpose and Tension

Writing a “good” scene isn’t hard once you’ve got your reps in. You’ve got the voice, the rhythm, the imagery.

But if you’re anything like me, you’ve also had the nagging feeling that some scenes—despite being technically solid—just don’t do enough. They read well but feel hollow. That’s not an execution issue. It’s a purpose issue.

Every scene in your story should be pulling weight, and not just in a vague thematic way. It needs a job.

And beyond that?

It needs tension—some kind of friction that keeps us leaning forward, even if it’s just a conversation over breakfast.

Without those two ingredients, the scene might still be “good writing”… but it won’t be necessary.

And that’s the line that separates seasoned storytellers from great ones: knowing how to make every scene earn its place.

Scenes Need Purpose Like Arcs Need Change

Here’s a hard truth I wish I’d learned earlier: if a scene doesn’t serve a specific function, it doesn’t belong in your story. And I don’t mean that in a vague, “it’s part of the vibe” kind of way.

I mean clear, story-level purpose. If you pulled the scene out, something vital should break—a plot beat collapses, a character arc derails, a theme loses its spine.

Let’s unpack what that actually looks like.

So What Counts as “Purpose”?

Scene purpose falls into a few core buckets—think of them like different jobs a scene can be assigned:

Driving action forward: Something concrete changes. The heist goes wrong. A plan is set in motion. Stakes shift. This is the backbone of plot-driven fiction.
Revealing something: Not in a “dump some backstory” way. I’m talking about strategic reveals—things that shift our understanding of a character or situation. Like when we realize Walter White isn’t just a desperate man with cancer, but someone who likes the power. That moment in Breaking Bad doesn’t explode the plot, but it reframes everything.
Forcing change: A decision gets made, a belief cracks, an illusion dies. These are often quiet scenes, but they’re pivotal. Take The Godfather, when Michael visits the hospital and finds no guards outside his father’s room. That tension-filled pause? It’s the pivot where Michael starts turning into the man he swore he’d never become.
Thematic anchoring: This one’s sneaky. It’s when a scene echoes or challenges your core theme. Toni Morrison does this all the time—Beloved is loaded with scenes that don’t “move the plot” but force us to grapple with legacy, identity, and trauma. You don’t forget them because they mean something, even if it’s quiet.

But What If the Scene Just Feels Good?

We’ve all had that scene that feels great on the page—maybe the banter’s sharp, the setting’s vivid, the dialogue crackles.

But ask yourself: if you cut it, what would actually change? If the answer is “not much,” you’ve got a showcase, not a scene. And showcases are for portfolios—not narratives.

I’ve had to murder more than one scene like that. Recently, in a thriller I was working on, there was this slick interrogation scene. It had great rhythm, strong character dynamics… but when I zoomed out?

It didn’t move the story. The info could be folded into a more functional scene. I cut it, painful as it was. The draft got tighter. The pacing snapped into place. And no one missed it.

Purpose Isn’t Always Obvious—And That’s Okay

Not every scene needs to hit you over the head with its purpose. Sometimes, it’s embedded in subtext.

A couple arguing about the laundry might actually be negotiating power in the relationship. If you’re layering well, the scene carries multiple functions: surface activity, emotional development, and thematic echo.

Just don’t confuse subtext with vagueness. Purpose doesn’t have to be loud, but it does need to be there.

Bottom line?

A purposeful scene changes something—what we know, what we feel, what the characters understand, or where the story is heading. Without that, no amount of clever prose or stylish dialogue will save it. Readers might not be able to articulate what’s missing, but they’ll feel it.

So will agents.

So will editors.

Next up, we’ll dig into tension—the lifeblood of keeping those purposeful scenes from falling flat.

Why Tension Is the Lifeblood of a Scene

Let’s talk about tension. Not “explosions” tension, not “shouting match in the rain” tension—though, sure, those can work. I mean the feeling that something is unsettled and could tip at any moment. That sense that we’re watching a rubber band stretch. That we can’t quite look away.

Here’s what I’ve learned over years of writing and editing fiction: you can have a perfectly structured scene that still falls flat if it doesn’t have tension. You might have great dialogue, solid pacing, even character movement—but if it all feels too safe, too even? The scene just doesn’t land.

What Tension Actually Is (Spoiler: It’s Not Just Conflict)

A common misconception is that tension means conflict. Two people yelling at each other?

Sure, that’s conflict. But it’s not inherently tense.

Sometimes that kind of scene just feels noisy. Real tension is a state of uncertainty, where the audience senses something’s at stake—but doesn’t know exactly how or when the shoe will drop.

Take Parasite, for example. There’s a scene where the wealthy family returns home unexpectedly while the poor family is secretly occupying their house. Nobody’s yelling. Nobody’s fighting.

But the tension?

Through the roof.

Why?

Because the stakes are huge, the characters are out of their depth, and the audience knows things could unravel in seconds. That’s what I mean by tension.

Types of Tension That Keep a Scene Alive

You don’t need to use all of these in every scene, but you’d better have at least one.

1. Interpersonal Tension

This is the most common kind: two characters want different things, but neither is backing down. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. In Mad Men, Don and Peggy have loads of scenes where the tension comes from withheld respect, unspoken admiration, or clashing pride.

That simmering tension makes every interaction meaningful, even when it’s “just a conversation.”

2. Situational Tension

This is about external circumstances putting pressure on the characters. A ticking clock. An awkward dinner party. A character trying to hide something. Think about the dinner scene in Get Out. Everyone’s being polite, but the tension is unbearable. The surface is smooth, but something underneath is wrong.

3. Internal Tension

Now we’re inside a character’s head. They’re torn between two choices, beliefs, or desires. Ever watched The Crown? A lot of its tension isn’t from what people say, but from what they can’t say. Elizabeth constantly struggles between her public duty and private emotion. That contradiction hums through every scene she’s in.

4. Thematic Tension

This one’s big-picture. It’s when the scene forces your theme to play out in micro. In The Handmaid’s Tale, even routine scenes—shopping, praying, folding laundry—become charged, because every act is rubbing against the world’s oppressive rules. Tension lives in the contradiction between what is and what should be.

5. Contextual Tension (aka Dramatic Irony)

You, the writer, get to weaponize information. If the audience knows something the character doesn’t? That gap is a tension goldmine. A character walking into a trap. A missed clue. That classic horror scene where we scream, “Don’t go into the basement!” That’s contextual tension doing its job.

6. Structural Tension

This one’s advanced, but powerful. It’s when the scene order manipulates payoff. You cut away before a question’s answered. You withhold a reaction. You cross-cut between scenes to delay resolution. Game of Thrones did this a lot—jumping to another subplot just as something big was about to happen. Frustrating? Sure. But effective? Absolutely.

How to Layer Tension Without Overwriting

You don’t need melodrama. Sometimes, all it takes is a single loaded line, an uncomfortable pause, or one unspoken thing hanging in the air. If a scene’s too smooth, ask:

What does each character want that the other won’t give?
What’s being avoided, hidden, or faked?
What would the reader dread seeing happen next?

That’s your tension trigger.

Remember: Tension Doesn’t Scream. It Vibrates.

It’s the strain under the surface. The glance that lasts a beat too long. The offer that sounds generous but has a trap underneath.

So when you’re editing, ask yourself not just what your scene does, but how it feels. If there’s no pulse—no undercurrent of pressure—your scene might just be passing time. And time, in storytelling, is a luxury none of us can waste.

How to Pressure-Test Your Scenes (And Know What to Cut)

Okay, let’s talk about something uncomfortable: you might need to cut that scene you love. You know the one—it’s clever, well-written, maybe even funny. But deep down, you suspect it’s dead weight.

Here’s the truth: editing is where good storytelling becomes great storytelling. And knowing how to pressure-test a scene is one of the most valuable skills you can have.

The 6-Question Scene Audit

Use these questions like a diagnostic tool. They’ll help you spot scenes that don’t belong—or ones that need a boost to earn their spot.

1. What changes from the beginning to the end?

If the answer is “nothing,” that’s a red flag. Change can be small—a mood shift, a decision made, a new piece of info—but something has to evolve. Static scenes are forgettable scenes.

2. What is this scene doing for the story structurally?

Ask: if I pulled this scene out, what breaks? Plot progression? Character arc? Theme? If nothing collapses, the scene’s probably not doing its job.

In The Social Network, nearly every scene either pushes the lawsuit plot forward, reveals Mark’s internal state, or reinforces the theme of isolation through success. Nothing’s ornamental.

3. Where’s the tension coming from?

Is there tension? If not, why not? Even scenes of reflection or setup should have internal or interpersonal tension—doubt, desire, contradiction. Think of a quiet scene in Normal People where Connell can’t express what he’s feeling. There’s no argument, but the emotional static is intense.

4. What’s the character goal, and is it opposed?

If a character wants something, someone or something should be pushing back. That’s narrative friction. A scene where a character gets what they want with no resistance? That’s fan service, not storytelling.

5. Is the purpose explicit or discoverable?

You don’t have to telegraph the scene’s purpose. But on a second read, a sharp reader should be able to go, “Ohhh, that’s why this scene matters.” Subtle is fine. Ambiguous is not.

6. Would a reader miss this scene if it vanished?

The gut check. If your beta readers never mention a missing scene, guess what? It wasn’t pulling its weight. Scenes should leave an echo behind.

Upgrade or Delete: Two Paths Forward

If a scene isn’t working, ask yourself:

Can I raise the stakes or sharpen the tension?
Can I combine it with another scene to make both stronger?
Can I move it to a better spot where it pays off differently?
Or… do I just need to let it go?

Cutting is brutal. But I’ve never regretted a cut after the fact. The story always breathes better once the clutter is gone.

One Final Tool: The “Cut & Save” Folder

This one’s simple, but it’s saved my sanity more than once. Whenever you cut a scene, don’t delete it—save it. Make a folder of your darlings. It makes it emotionally easier to let go. And you might find a use for those scraps in future drafts.

Before You Leave…

Scenes are the building blocks of storytelling, but not all bricks are equal. If you want your story to hold up—and hit hard—then every scene needs to have a clear purpose and a current of tension running through it. Otherwise, you’re just stacking well-written moments that don’t move the narrative forward.

So the next time you’re revising, ask: Does this scene earn its place? If the answer’s no, don’t fix the prose. Fix the purpose. Or cut it.

See you on the rewrite.