The worlds seems full of examples of outright reader-hostile writing, especially on the Internet and/or by journalists.
Here, I will in due time discuss some of the more common problems.
As I often write about general impressions gathered over years, I will not usually have specific examples at hand.
Note that the below does not include the many, many examples of reader- and/or user-hostile acts that Internet users can be exposed to in relation to a text that are not actually part of that text. (For instance, that the actual text is interrupted by messages to “Subscribe now!” or by provided-by-the-site links to various un-, or only tangentially, related texts.)
An ever-recurring scenario in my own readings is that I want to do something, search the Internet for how to do it, find a page entitled “How to [whatever applies]”, begin to read said page—and am met with three paragraphs detailing why I should want to do what I already want to do and which the title claims that the page will tell me.
This is not only a waste of my time, it also considerably increases the risk that I will go somewhere else for information. This, in part, out of annoyance; however, the more important issue is that quality problems tend to stick: the writer with a poor attitude tends to keep it throughout, the writer who uses great amounts of filler at the beginning of a text usually does so in the continuation too, etc. (Quality problems also often come in clusters, e.g. in that a poor attitude is paired with a poor grasp of language.)
At a minimum, the page should have a title like “Why and how to [whatever applies]”, in order to allow the searcher to filter better and/or to allow the eventual reader to come into the page with the correct expectation. With sufficiently strong search-engines, it might even reduce the risk that the page is served to the “how” searcher over pages more dedicated to that “how”. (Note that I do not deny that “why” can be an important topic in its own right. The point is that it is not the same topic as “how”.)
In a bigger picture, many texts seem to contain more filler than information. (Something that will likely be given a longer discussion at a later time.) The above might often be a special case.
I particularly suspect that someone is given the job to write a text of a certain word count, that he only has material to fill up, say, a quarter of that, and that he then digs into the irrelevant to reach the word count—even at the cost of actually making the text worse.
Another common scenario is that I read a text (including some printed books) that goes to great lengths to tell me why I should read the text that I am already reading. However, because I am already reading the text, the default assumption should be that I am already sufficiently interested in the topic—and by delaying the time until I actually get to that topic, the value of the text is diminished. Moreover, my interest in continuing to read the text that I am already reading is diminished—not increased.
With reservations, something similar applies to texts that go to great lengths to explain why the topic of the text would be important. The end result is often the same, but the potential legitimacy of the discussion, if held within limits, is larger. That a textbook on topic X begins with a chapter that shows how X has an important influence on this-and-that might be outright laudable. However, the proportions are often poorly chosen, and I have (partially) read some books that seemed more like propaganda for X than works on X. (The “partially” limits my ability to give specific examples, but books on business methodologies, “movements”, health, and psycho-this-and-that have often given me reason to give up fast, including, some months ago, a book on Pilates that treated the topic more like a religion than e.g. a training system.)
The border between the two previous paragraphs is not always clear. However, consider attitudes like (p1) “This book gives a revolutionary view of topic X and will change how you view X forever!!!”, (legitimate p2) “The topic X is of great importance to anyone who wants to A, B, or C.”, and (illegitimate p2) “The topic X is revolutionary and will change your life forever!!!”.
Many texts assume that the reader is not just uninformed on the topic at hand—but that he is outright stupid. Ditto, that the writer is not just more knowledgable—but that he is outright superior to the reader. At worst, we might have claims (in texts directed at adults!) like “This seems hard, but do not worry! If you just work hard, you will manage!”. This while claims like “Let me explain to you [...]” and “Think about it: [...]” abound.
Of course, many readers are quite stupid. However, this does not justify the assumption that the reader at hand is one of them. Worse, the writers who display this type of attitude often, themselves, give great signs of stupidity. A decent guideline is to assume that the reader is as intelligent as the writer, but might happen to be less knowledgable on the topic or sub-topic at hand; a better guideline is to focus on the topic, while making as few assumptions as possible about the reader.
What is wrong with:
“Let me explain to you [...]”: Firstly, a respectful writer might present facts, thoughts, and reasoning, but he also recognizes that true understanding comes from within, from the thought processes of the reader. Secondly, the formulation stinks of the wrong attitude. The best approach is to just lay out the facts and arguments without such a phrase, at all. (If one is used, it must be much more respectful.) Off the top of my head, I see only one scenario in which the phrase is warranted, namely, when the writer is aware that something in his prior words is confusing and he, effectively, says “That was a mess. Let me explain what I actually meant.”. Such cases, however, are much rarer. To boot, the better solution for a writer (as opposed to someone discussing a topic orally) is to revise the previous words.
“Think about it: [...]”: The implication is that the reader does not usually think about what he reads and/or lacks the judgment to know when he should think. Moreover, the phrase is rarely or never used to imply e.g. “what follows is particularly thought-worthy”, instead it indicates the beginning of some arguments from the writer. (And often weak and unconvincing arguments at that, which makes me suspect that the phrase sometimes has a rhetorical purpose, to trick the reader into agreeing despite the weakness of argumentation.) Of course, if the intent is “what follows is particularly thought-worthy”, that is the better formulation to begin with.
More generally, if somewhat off-topic, there are many illogical formulations used that presume to make statements about the level of knowledge and understanding (if not necessarily intelligence) of the reader. Consider headlines like “What you have misunderstood about [whatnot]”: How does the writer know what I, someone he has never met, have or have not misunderstood? (A neutral and factual version would be e.g. “Common misunderstandings about [whatnot]”.)
One of my pet-peeves is the pseudo-scholarly and -factual “In this chapter you will learn [this-and-that].”. (Something the more likely the more elementary the book and the more limited the writer. A much better and much more logical formulation would be e.g. “In this chapter we will cover [this-and-that].”.) Notably, this pseudo-factual claim could be entirely detached from reality, as there is no guarantee that the reader actually will learn the “this-and-that” (if he lacks prior knowledge of it) and the guarantee that he will not, if he does have sufficient prior knowledge. Notably, readers of the chapter at hand often include the likes of repeat readers (who, ideally, have already learnt the material); reviewers (who, ideally, are similarly or more knowledgable than the writer); readers trying to figure out whether the book is worth reading (who might or might not already know the “this-and-that”); and readers who are comparatively new to the subject but use several sources (of which another might already have covered the “this-and-that”).
Over-use of “you” and “I” (and their other forms) is a common problem; another, excessive “human interest” or whatnot angles that lead to the inclusion of irrelevant and/or overly detailed claims. In their overlap, an outright atrocity is sometimes found—that a journalist tries to put himself at the center of the story.
Note the difference between an intrusive journalist, like below, and more legitimate cases of “I” formulations, as when an author relates material with a natural personal angle, differentiates more absolute claims from personal opinion, makes an observation or reservation of a self-referential nature, or similar. Contrast e.g. “I have often been annoyed by X” (often, with an implied “which is why I am about to write something on the topic”) with “As I sat down on the newly mowed grass with a cup of coffee, I pondered X”. (Such more legitimate examples are common in my own texts, including this one.)
Also note that other types of writing (most notably and indisputably, autobiographical writing) might leave legitimate room for the “I” centric, even when journalism does not.
The Telegraph is a common offender. Consider some quotes from the first half of the article that triggered this section:
“We were only closed for about two months,” he said, pouring me a glass of coffee-flavoured porter. [...]
Such nonsensically and irrelevant details as what was poured during an interview, let alone the details of its flavour, have no place in a newspaper (not even in interviews, where many poor writers seem to consider such trifles more important than what was said during the interview). Indeed, it is hard to find any case, at all, where such detail is justified without there being some actual relevance. As to the interviewer, he should have the common sense to focus on the other party and, especially, what the other party has to say.
With his ponytail and hipster beard, Smith didn’t strike me as a likely Republican voter. But, like everyone I met travelling through Florida, he has a grudging respect for its no-nonsense Right-wing governor, Ron DeSantis.
Again, irrelevant details and “I” statements. To boot, personal prejudices or opinions of the author enter in an un-journalistic manner: it might or might not be that ponytails and hipster beards correlate with voting habits, but, if so, mention should be based in statistics—not what strikes or does not strike the author. As is, neither is relevant. The mention of a specifically “grudging” respect is a particular oddity, which casts great doubts on the author’s judgment and shows how important factual statistics would be—why would “everyone” that the author met have a “grudging” respect? (The claim could conceivably make sense if limited to Democrats, but here “everyone” is the word of choice.)
However, some similar constellation might otherwise be relevant. For instance, if it is found that DeSantis has a popularity, or even just respect, that crosses party borders or goes against demographic expectations, this might be worthy of mention, e.g. by a claim like “DeSantis has a higher approval rating in groups X and Y than any other Republican governor” or “DeSantis seems to be met with a respect among Democrats that Trump lacks”. (Both examples are hypothetical.)
Even then, this hinges on an observation being sufficiently relevant to the text at hand. As is, one of the many deficiencies of this particular article is that the author is too unfocused, which likely would have made such an observation more of distraction from than an asset. (I acknowledge that the same might be said about some of my ow writings.)
[...] I joined the throng to find out what’s luring so many holidaymakers.
A personal investigation of this type might be legitimate, but, if so, a better introduction must be found. Moreover, a much better approach would be to actually talk to the holidaymakers, ask what motivated them to come, etc.—and then to report that with a clear focus on the holidaymakers and their claims, without mentioning “I” at all.
Universal’s existing parks are also being crammed with extra rides, with a new DreamWorks-themed zone opening at the original Universal Studios Florida just weeks before my arrival. It’s aimed at kids rather than those in their 30s, but I couldn’t resist. I haven’t been to Universal since I was 16, so almost all the attractions are new to me, from the neck-craning ramparts of Hogwarts (opened in 2010) to the neck-jarring VelociCoaster in the Jurassic Park section (opened in June 2021).
Extra rides might well be relevant, but the relevance of their relation to the arrival of the author is nil. It would be much better to speak of e.g. “June 2024” (or whatever might have applied)—if in doubt, because the reader will have a hard time to know when the arrival took place.
I am not innocent of similar formulations, but there is often a more legitimate personal angle to my writing. For instance, if I write about some particularly poor newspaper article, then “[Recently/Yesterday/Earlier today/whatnot], I encountered [...]” often seems like a reasonable start. Even so, I have often regretted such formulations and increasingly (if I use them at all!) find it worthwhile to add a specification of the time of writing or the date of the encounter. Generally, relative statements of time are rarely a good idea. For instance, Swedish papers occasionally identify suspects in a crime with phrases like “the 34 year old” (“34-åringen”), which can lead to no end of confusion once his next birthday comes around. For instance, the Parisian “Pont Neuf”, this alleged new bridge, was built around 1600 and is now the oldest bridge crossing the Seine in the city.
What the author’s motivations to visit (take a ride, whatnot) were is usually irrelevant—and that he could not resist would, on the outside, be relevant if a particular strength of attraction was important to the text (as with an encounter with a mythological siren and its song). Who cares how old the author was at his last visit or that the attractions were new to him?
However, with a different text, where the author might be expected to explain his own behavior or such an explanation might benefit the reader, this is different. Here the motivation appears to be something very different, e.g. a “I, the JOURNALIST, is at the center of the story” or a wish to push an un-journalistic human-interest angle to a certain type of reader.
[...] Orlando itself is unfairly overlooked, full of low-key dining and drinking districts such as North Mills Avenue and the North Quarter, where I enjoyed Brazilian food and a late-night kayak safari (from £45pp) just a 20-minute drive from the parks.
Again, the “I” angle is entirely beside the point, as is whether Brazilian or Chinese food was enjoyed or disliked. The kayak safari is not only irrelevant but gives the impression of an outright plug. (“You should visit! After just a 20-minute drive, you can get a late-night kayak safari for only £45pp!!! And they have Brazilian food! Yay! And, no, I do not receive a kickback for writing this—honest!”)
Wherever I went I found signs of robust economic health. [...]
And yet another spurious “I” angle. If personal observations should be included, then better in the form that (hypothetically) “official statistics point to a robust economic health, which well matches my own observations when comparing Florida’s X with the California’s Y”.
Books (respectively, their authors) often take unnecessarily long to get to the point—and often to the detriment of both the books and the readers.
I would recommend doing it better, but I would not go as far as calling this “user-hostile” in a blanket manner. It might or might not be, depending on how an why the delay arises. (For some types of delay, I am also not in a position to throw the first stone.)
There are many examples of clear negativity, as with the first hundred-or-so pages of “Untergang des Abendlandes”, the many books that have more filler than content or that contain more specific errors discussed above, whatnot.
However, many of these delays are unproblematic and/or understandable. For instance, a book might begin with copyright and title pages, a foreword, a preface, a “thanks” or “acknowledgements” section, a discussion of various typographical and other conventions used, and, of course, a table of contents—all of which moves the beginning of the actual contents of the book further from the start of the book. (Roughly, this corresponds to the formal division between front matter and main/body matter. There is also back/end matter for non-core contents that follow the main matter.)
A first observation is that these are usually clearly marked and can with some ease be skipped in a blanket manner and without actually spending time reading them—much unlike, say, deadwood at the beginning of an article with no formal structure, where at least some reading is necessary to even find out what can be skipped. This, even alone, makes them less harmful.
If some fool gets bogged down reading too much of the front matter, he usually has himself to blame. I, e.g., know very well from experience that reading the preface (let alone foreword) of a work of non-fiction, nine cases out of ten, is a complete waste of time—but I still often find myself halfway through it before I give up. Even in the tenth case, it usually pays to read more of the main contents before the foreword, so I have no real excuse. If in doubt, the preface hardly ever gives a true indication of whether the book is worth reading, while the actual contents, almost tautologically, do. One should then read enough of the actual contents that a decision can be made whether the book is worth the trouble, before bothering with e.g. the preface. (Exceptions: This does not apply when it is a near-foregone conclusion that the book will be read, regardless of quality and value, as with the designated textbook for a college course. Reading the table of contents can be worthwhile for the decision.)
With fiction, the variation can be much greater and the preface (but rarely a foreword) can often bring value. Even here, reading the preface after the main contents often brings more value.
Moreover, these often serve a specific purpose, and a purpose that might dictate that the section at hand precedes the actual contents. For instance, a copyright statement should come very early, so that no-one can feign ignorance about it. For instance, “thanks” and “acknowledgements” do not just serve to express genuine gratitude, but also to give the recipients an official pat on the back, to give them a chance to see their names in print, maybe even a chance (or the perception of a chance) for future opportunities, and similar. (How many of them truly care and whether any positive effects truly follow, I do not know. I do know that there is a certain type of person who feels gratified by an early mention and/or slighted when a mention is absent or delayed.) For instance, a discussion of typographic conventions naturally belongs at an early place of the book.
I still usually skip these conventions: It is very rare for a convention to be so unexpected that knowing or not knowing about it changes my understanding of the text during reading, and if I read the conventions today, I am highly unlikely to remember them tomorrow. Nevertheless, within reasonable limits on length, it is better to err on the side of caution and to give the reader some way to check the conventions, if and when needed.
Problems, however, can occur when the publishers have too much to say, with e.g. multiple title and blank pages, imprint pages, “about the author(s)”, lists of other books from the same publisher and/or in the same series and/or by the same author(s), and various other material/filler/whatnot that is either better left out entirely or kept at the back of the book.
In the case of magazines, it can be far worse yet. I once read a “GQ” and found that no real/non-advertising contents worthy of mention appeared before page 21 (table of contents) respectively 29 (actual contents)!
This with the additional paradoxical problem that someone might need a table of contents to find the table of contents, which, in a magazine, should follow immediately after the cover, to make navigation easy—no exceptions, no excuses. (Note that a magazine is far more likely to be read eclectically or in another order than the page numbering would dictate than a book is.)
For books, this might provide a good heuristic: if the table of contents cannot be found and opened within just a few seconds, the book has too much front matter. (But, unlike a magazine, the table of contents need not be at the very beginning.)