very story begins with an implicit promise: that the narrator knows what they’re talking about. But what happens when they bend the truth? Suddenly, you’re in the hands of an unreliable narrator—part trickster, part confessor. They might exaggerate, misremember, or even outright deceive. And yet we follow along, because their skewed account is often more entertaining (and in its own way, revealing) than the “truth” could ever be.
But writing an unreliable narrator isn’t as simple as letting your character fib their way through a plot. Here are six tips to help you pull it off, with examples to show you how it’s done.
1. Decide how (and why) your narrator is unreliable
Not all unreliable narrators are liars. Some misinterpret reality; others are blinded by naïveté. Only certain kinds of narrators deliberately manipulate those around them. Before you dive in, ask yourself:
Why is this narrator unreliable, and what does that unreliability add to the story?
Take The Catcher in the Rye, for example. Its teenage narrator, Holden Caulfield, doesn’t set out to deceive anyone—but his cynicism and emotional immaturity inevitably color everything he tells us. He often contradicts himself, calling everyone “phony,” yet admitting that he’s “the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life.” Even his erratic recounting of events (like claiming he’s leaving Pencey right away, then lingering) shows how his emotional turmoil skews his version of the truth.
Now compare that to a book like Gone Girl. Amy Dunne’s narration is entirely calculated, every diary entry crafted to mislead. At the book’s halfway point, this diary—the one painting her as a terrified wife—is revealed to be a fabrication. Every romantic confession and description of Nick’s temper was designed to frame him for her disappearance. The twist instantly reframes the first half of the novel and exposes Amy as a master manipulator. Unlike Holden, she knows exactly what she’s doing—which makes her an especially dangerous storyteller.
Both these approaches work well, but for different reasons. Knowing why your narrator is unreliable—whether it’s innocence, bias, or pure manipulation—will help you build more believable characters and a much stronger narrative overall.
2. Anchor the reader with truths
Think of a friend who can spin a wild yarn with such conviction you believe them… until one little detail makes you pause. Wait, is that really what happened?
That flicker of doubt is what makes unreliable narrators so irresistible. But be careful not to overdo it; if everything feels slippery, the story can quickly collapse.
That’s why every plot needs reliable touchpoints—i.e., details your unreliable narrator can’t distort. These might be concrete elements like the setting, consistent behavior from secondary characters, or certain facts that remain fixed no matter how warped the narration gets. These anchors give readers sufficient footing to follow along without feeling totally lost.
In Rebecca, for example, Daphne du Maurier uses point of view and imagery (two common literary devices) to strike this balance. The unnamed narrator—a young, insecure woman—is clouded by self-doubt, which distorts her understanding of Manderley and her husband, Maxim. Yet du Maurier keeps readers anchored in tangible, sensory details: the cold grandeur of the estate, the scent of azaleas, the morning mist by the sea, and the ever-menacing presence of Mrs. Danvers.
These details contrast with the narrator’s emotional misreadings—such as when she mistakes Maxim’s brooding guilt for indifference—acting as “reality” landmarks for readers. No matter what kind of unreliable narrator you’re writing, try to use similar landmarks in your own story!
3. Play with what’s unsaid
One of the most delicious tricks of writing an unreliable narrator is giving readers just a brief glimpse through the cracks. Maybe your narrator insists they’re calm, but does so with a tense jaw and clenched fists. Or maybe they “forget” to mention something important, only for another character (or a later twist) to pull the rug out from under us. That tension between what’s said and what’s left unsaid helps keep readers hooked.
At the start of Atonement, thirteen-year-old Briony Tallis witnesses a charged moment between her older sister Cecilia and Robbie, a family friend. When Cecilia strips down to her slip and plunges into a fountain to retrieve something, Briony’s limited, childlike grasp of adult desire makes her misread the act as something shameful or coercive. This single misunderstanding sets off the novel’s tragedy—Briony’s later “testimony” about Robbie’s supposed guilt is based on small misunderstandings, but destroys multiple lives in its wake.
What makes McEwan’s use of unreliability so brilliant is how it evolves. Much later, we discover it isn’t the thirteen-year-old Briony narrating at all, but an older Briony looking back, trying to rewrite what she can’t undo. Rather than confessing outright, she does what she knows best—she tells another story. The “happy ending” she gives Cecilia and Robbie isn’t truth but fiction, her final act of atonement delivered through yet another layer of unreliable narration.
McEwan shows how omission, misinterpretation, and retrospective storytelling can all work together to create a deeply unreliable narrator. What Briony says (and crucially, what she leaves unsaid) becomes the core of the novel’s tension.
4. Let voice do the heavy lifting
With unreliable narrators, how the story is told often matters just as much as what is told. Voice can convey bias, denial, or fear. Even subtleties like rhythm, word choice, humor, or repeated phrases and thought patterns can hint at unreliability.
Mike, the narrator of Sebastian Faulks' Engleby, recounts the disappearance of a fellow student in a detached tone that makes him seem calm and rational. His dry, almost academic narration—“I remember thinking how cold it was that night”—paints him as an objective observer. But then small cracks begin to surface: his obsessive fixation on the missing girl, his jarring memory gaps, and his vague allusions to violence. These cracks eventually reveal that he’s not merely recounting events, but also concealing his own role in them.
Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle works differently, but with the same effect. Merricat, our teenage narrator, draws readers in with her whimsical tone—but over time, her obsessive rituals, secretive behavior, and flashes of cruelty begin to erode our trust in her version of events. At one point, her vision of the villagers dying (“I wished they were dead. I would have liked to come into the grocery store some morning and see them all, even the Elberts and the children, lying there crying with the pain and dying”) gives us a vivid glimpse into the malice beneath her sing-song voice.
In both cases, the narrator’s voice does the heavy lifting: it guides the story and keeps readers off balance without having to spell everything out.
5. Use misdirection and plant red herrings
Deliberate misdirection is, of course, a quintessential tactic and a surefire way to make your narrator unforgettable. Plant clues that feel relevant, but turn out to be distractions; craft a persona your readers trust, only to later challenge that trust.
In Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk, misdirection works on multiple levels. The narrator guides us through a gritty, disillusioned view of modern life—all while concealing the truth that Tyler Durden is a just manifestation of his own fractured psyche.
Throughout the novel, he recounts his friendship and rivalry with Tyler as if they’re two different men. Tyler holds conversations, gives orders, even sleeps with Marla—and because the narrator’s perspective feels so grounded, we accept these interactions as real. Only in the final act does the truth surface: Tyler never existed apart from him.
Every “clue” we missed (from their never being seen together by others to Tyler’s eerie omnipresence) suddenly snaps into focus, revealing that the greatest red herring was Tyler himself. This sleight of hand shocks the reader and also underscores the narrator’s inability to perceive himself clearly, making the reveal startling yet thematically sound.
6. Balance technique with purpose
Finally, on the note of thematically sound: remember that an unreliable narrator should never be a gimmick! Every detail, omission, and misdirection should serve the story’s emotional or thematic arc.
For example, Patrick Bateman’s distorted reality in American Psycho isn’t meant to create shock value (or at least, it’s not exclusively for shock value). Rather, it’s part of Bret Easton Ellis’s critique of consumerism, moral decay, and alienation. Bateman’s own blurred perception exposes the moral vacuum and soulless excess of 1980s capitalism. In a world where everyone’s superficial and interchangeable, even murder becomes meaningless.
Similarly, Mike Engleby’s matter-of-fact narration in Engleby reflects his fragmented sense of self. His calm recounting of horrific acts—presented as if they were ordinary events—isn’t just deception; it’s a psychological portrait of alienation and suppressed guilt.
The trick to getting ahead of an unreliable narrator is to always plan your payoff. The best unreliable narrators obviously shouldn’t leave readers feeling cheated. Instead, they lead them through a carefully constructed puzzle so that by the end, every move feels purposeful.
Final thoughts: handle with care
Unreliable narrators are among the most magnetic storytellers because they make us question everything we think we know. And they aren’t confined to a single genre! From fantasy to psychological thrillers to romance, they can add complexity and emotional depth to any story.
But crafting one must be a careful, deliberate act. Misuse your unreliable narrator and it can leave your story feeling confusing or contrived. But write a great one, and it’ll keep readers guessing, reflecting, and appreciating how every twist feels earned—transforming a good story into a hauntingly amazing one.
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Shweta Deshpande writes for Reedsy about all things storytelling. Her background spans brand marketing, podcast production, and editorial work. She holds a Bachelor's degree in Psychology with a minor in Film Studies, which probably explains her love for horror films and complex character arcs. When she’s not working, you'll usually find her tinkering with a creative side project or playing chess badly, yet determinedly.
