One of the best movies of the past few years is The Menu. Its opening scene delivers a great lesson for storytellers:

It perfectly captures the essence of show, don’t tell.

You could explain everything about the exclusive restaurant the characters are visiting via having the characters talk about it. You could have a narrator describe the incredible menu awaiting the guests in the intro. But the film doesn’t do that—it shows it to us instead.

The scene begins with Hoult’s character being visibly upset when the female protagonist lights a cigarette. He tells her that smoking will dull her sense of taste—just before they experience a highly refined meal. That single moment tells us everything about both characters: he is the passionate food connoisseur, deeply invested in the experience; she’s the indifferent plus-one, just along for the ride.

Moments later, Hoult’s character spots a famous food critic and is instantly impressed. Most people wouldn’t recognize a food critic on sight—even if he’s the most renowned critic in the industry. This tells us that Hoult’s character is not just interested in fine food—he’s obsessive about it.

In just 90 seconds, the film establishes the setting and the dynamic between the two main characters. And it does so without a single line of direct narration—it shows us everything we need to know instead.

This is excellent writing to learn from.

In 1995, a big-budget dystopian comic action movie was released, featuring one of the most iconic characters ever created: Judge Dredd. It starred Sylvester Stallone at the height of his career and boasted an impressive supporting cast including Armand Assante, Jürgen Prochnow, Diane Lane, Joan Chen, and Max von Sydow. The score was awesome. The effects were top-notch for their time. It even featured James Earl Jones as the narrator.

So, what could possibly go wrong?

Apparently, a lot. The movie bombed at the box office, costing the studio at least $60 million. Adjusted for inflation, Judge Dredd may have lost around $130 million—making it not only Stallone’s biggest flop, but also one of the most notorious box office disasters of the 1990s.

Critics and fans didn’t like it either.

When I first saw it as a kid, I actually enjoyed it. It’s a typical ’90s action flick with sci-fi elements. Since I wasn’t familiar with the comic’s lore, I had no expectations and could just enjoy the ride.

Only later did I discover the comics—and that’s when I understood why so many fans disliked Stallone’s version. A general rule in filmmaking is this: when you’re working with great source material, don’t try to “improve” it. Your job is to adapt it faithfully, staying as close to the source as possible.

But there’s another important lesson to be learned from this film. It’s delivered in the very first scene.

So what’s wrong with this opening?

It breaks the most fundamental rule of storytelling: show, don’t tell. And it breaks another major one: it repeats information unnecessarily to make sure the audience “gets it.”

The real opening begins right after James Earl Jones’ narration, where we see Judge Dredd navigating the megacity and sentencing a criminal to prison.

So why include the narration at all if the next scene shows everything we need to understand the world?

The filmmakers didn’t trust the audience to grasp the setting through storytelling alone. So they added narration to explain the world—just in case even the least attentive viewer didn’t miss the point.

That’s not just insulting to the audience—it’s boring. And boring is the ultimate sin in storytelling.

If you feel you need a narration segment to explain your world, chances are you haven’t shown your world well enough. And if your narration simply repeats what is being shown on screen, it sends the message that even you, the storyteller, don’t believe your scene is strong enough to deliver.

If you don’t believe in your own work, why should your reader or viewer?

When the NWO debuted in WCW, it was one of the most exciting moments in wrestling history. It changed the sport forever. I remember watching it as a kid—Kevin Nash and Scott Hall appeared live on WCW Nitro, and wrestling was never the same again. The moment reached its peak when Hulk Hogan made his heel turn, and fans littered the ring with anything they could throw.

As the NWO storyline progressed, it became too convoluted – I lost interest. And as I grew older, I never returned to watching wrestling.

Yet, twenty years later, I still remember it vividly. But why?

I think it’s because it was the first time for me reality and entertainment blurred so heavily that you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Looking back, it’s obvious that wrestling was scripted and staged. However, I wanted to believe it was real so badly that I ignored the obvious.

I believe those are the best kinds of stories—the ones that pull you in so deeply that you forget it’s “just” entertainment.

When I found out that James Bond author Ian Fleming had actually worked for British intelligence, it gave his stories a similar effect. Sure, much of what Bond does is fiction, but knowing that Fleming might have been a real spy makes you wonder: what parts are more than just fiction?

That’s what you want to achieve when creating stories. You want your work to be fictional, but only to the extent that readers (or viewers) can believe it might be real—even if it’s not.

Art imitates life. But only if your art feels real enough to be life-like.

I like Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Jack Reacher—and most of all, James Bond. Writing my own stories has made me think more deeply about why I’m drawn to these characters. Every year, millions of crime thriller stories are published, featuring millions of new characters and plotlines. So why, to me, is James Bond the most compelling of them all?

The answer might lie in the details that surround Bond’s life. In Ian Fleming’s first novel, Casino Royale, Bond doesn’t do much besides playing cards. The story isn’t only about that, but the central plot revolves around a high-stakes card game called Baccarat. I had never played it and didn’t know the rules before reading the book—yet I enjoyed every page.

Trying to understand why, I realized it was precisely because I didn’t know the game that I found it so enjoyable to read about. Fleming introduced it with such clarity and detail that I understood it bit by bit. Casino Royale became a doorway into a new world for me.

The same applies to the details of Bond’s eating, drinking, and lifestyle habits. He knows how to properly smoke a cigar, which tailored suit to wear, which shoes to choose, and what fish swim in the waters around Jamaica. Every Bond story feels like a journey to places I’ve never been and experiences I’ve never had.

The details of his work and hobbies set him apart. Nothing about Bond is generic. There are small details that everything he does and is interesting. What he eats, how he drinks, the gimmicks provided by Q, the relationship with M, his license to kill, and the back and forth between him and Moneypenny.

This is the essence of a strong character: he knows his craft inside and out – at work, in his apre time, and in his relationships. Bond is a master of his world, living the kind of life readers dream about. And that mastery is best conveyed through specific, unique details—like superiors with one-letter names, an elite double-O license to kill, or an expert’s knowledge of playing Baccarat.

With Bond, we get the thrilling life of a spy. But the same principle applies to less glamorous professions. A carpenter’s life can be just as engaging—if it’s described as vividly and authentically as Bond’s world. In fact, if done well, a character can be fascinating no matter how unusual their job or hobby might be. Imagine an undertaker as your protagonist, or someone working on an oil rig, a ghostwriter, or even an ostrich breeder. As long as you can describe their world deeply, your character will captivate readers—even if those readers know nothing about undertaking, oil rigs, or ostrich farming.

The same goes for hobbies. Why does Sherlock Holmes play the violin?

Because it gives him depth. It opens a window into his mind and adds dimension to his personality. With a few well-placed details, even something like playing the violin becomes a unique experience for the reader—one most people will never have firsthand.

To Conlcude: If you want to design a great character, design a detailed world around him and his habits. If you can do that, you can even make a familiar story feel fresh and exciting. Ian Fleming’s Bond is the best example for it.

I love James Bond. Watching Goldfinger on TV is one of my earliest cinematic memories. Sean Connery was the coolest guy imaginable—he had incredible gadgets, a beautiful car, and even more beautiful girls. Gert Fröbe was the perfect villain and Oddjob terrified me for weeks.

For me, Goldfinger is the best Bond film.

Over the years, I’ve watched every Bond movie countless times. Some come close to Goldfinger. Some fall short—way short. But even the bad ones (Die Another Day, for example) can’t stop me from eagerly awaiting the next Bond adventure.

It’s strange, really. When you’ve seen them all multiple times, read a dozen books, explored the comics, and learned about Ian Fleming, the cars, and the film locations… you understand how formulaic Bond is. Almost every film follows the same structure:

• Megalomaniac villain
• Bond girl
• Cool car
• Special gadget
• Opening stunt scene
• Car chase
• The classic “Bond meets villain at dinner” moment
• Final explosion, villain dies, Bond escapes

That’s every single movie. And yet—I can’t wait to see the next one follow the exact formula.

Amazon now has creative control over the franchise. I’m not thrilled about that. Amazon (and streaming services in general) aren’t exactly known for quality storytelling. Barbara Broccoli, on the other hand, did a great job preserving the Bond essence. Still, when the next Bond film drops, I’ll be watching.

But why?

Thinking about it, I realized that the real reason I love these movies is simple: it’s the character. Bond is the kind of man every guy wants to be. We want his adventures, his cars, his women… maybe even his license to kill.

Even through some underwhelming eras—Pierce Brosnan was a fantastic Bond, but aside from GoldenEye, he was handed weak scripts—the character endures. Ian Fleming created a timeless figure who can survive bad plots and forgettable villains (remember Diamonds Are Forever?).

The big lesson here?
If you want to write great stories, start by creating a great character. When you build someone as compelling as James Bond, even a formulaic plot can become a crowd favorite. Readers (and viewers) will keep coming back—not for the structure, not for the stunts, or the explosion, but for the character.