How to Know If a Scene Deserves to Exist
Have you ever written a scene that feels… fine? The dialogue flows, the setting’s vivid, maybe you even nailed a killer line or two. But something’s off. It doesn’t move anything. Doesn’t reveal, haunt, or ripple forward. It just kind of… exists. Sits there like a placeholder that never got replaced.
This blog is for that scene.
Because technically fine isn’t the same as emotionally necessary. And when a scene isn’t working, we need to take a step back and ask: What changes here? What does this moment reveal about the character? Why does this scene have to be here? And what would fall apart if it wasn’t?
Let’s talk about what gives a scene weight, movement, and meaning—and how to recognize when a scene’s just taking up space.
How to Know If a Scene Deserves to Exist
A scene is a unit of storytelling—a single moment in time where something specific happens. It’s the building block of your narrative. Multiple scenes form a chapter. Chapters form arcs. But scenes are where the story moves. Where characters act, react, and reveal.
A scene is made up of: Description. Dialogue. Action. Interiority. These elements combine to ground the reader in time and space, track a character’s experience, and create forward motion.
A well-structured scene tells us where we are, who’s here, what’s happening, and why it matters right now.
But scenes often fail—even when they’re well-written—when they answer those questions without actually doing anything.
The writing might be strong. The dialogue might even sparkle. But if nothing shifts—if no new decision is made, no tension introduced or resolved, no emotion deepened—then it’s not a functioning scene. It’s a placeholder. A stall. A very pretty bridge to nowhere.
So Here’s Your Gut-Check Checklist:
What shifts here?
Emotionally. Relationally. Internally. Even slightly. Something—anything—should be different by the end of the scene. A relationship dynamic. A belief. A plan. A piece of information. Even a small shift matters, as long as it creates forward momentum. If the character ends the scene with the same mindset, same goal, and same emotional state they started with, the scene probably isn’t doing enough.
What is risked or revealed?
Tension drives story. And tension comes from desire—when characters want something, and their wants either align or collide.
Is someone putting something on the line here?
Is there a secret getting closer to the surface?
Is a boundary being pushed, a choice being forced, a mask starting to crack?
If no one is at risk of losing, learning, or being seen in a new light… then there’s probably not enough pressure in the scene to make it matter.
What is this scene echoing—or interrupting?
Stories are built from rhythm: emotional pulses, character patterns, thematic threads.
Is this moment reinforcing a pattern—or breaking one?
Does it call back to something earlier in the book?
Does it challenge a character’s usual behavior—or double down on it?
A good scene doesn’t just fill space. It speaks to the story around it.
Each scene doesn’t just move the plot. It moves the character.
A character arc isn’t one big, dramatic shift. It’s a series of small ones—each moment nudging the character toward (or away from) who they’re becoming. Which means your scenes are the scaffolding of that transformation.
“What happens?” is the least interesting question you can ask about a scene.
The real questions are:
What does this moment teach the character?
What belief is being tested here?
What needs to shift in this scene to make the ending emotionally inevitable?
Take The Hunger Games, for example. By the end of the book, Katniss makes a radical, defiant choice—threatening to eat the nightlock berries. But that moment only works because of everything that came before:
Her instinct to protect Rue, which forces her to see the other tributes as human.
Her complicated dynamic with Peeta: trust, mistrust, loyalty, performative affection.
Her growing awareness that survival alone isn’t enough—she wants integrity, she wants agency.
That final scene works because we’ve watched the arc accumulate—scene by scene, decision by decision. The end feels inevitable, because the story has earned it.
So here’s your next step: Make a list of the emotional or psychological shifts your character needs to make by the end of the book.
Then ask: What has to happen before they can get there?
Break each shift down into smaller, scene-sized movements: Moments of resistance. Of doubt. Of softening. Of risk.
Then go back to your draft. Are those moments actually showing up on the page? Are they building off each other? Does each scene earn its place in the character’s transformation—not just the plot?
That’s how a scene becomes more than a placeholder. That’s how it becomes necessary.
Still not sure? Try this:
Cut it. See what breaks. If the absence leaves a hole—emotional, structural, or thematic—you’ll feel it. That absence tells you what the scene is meant to hold.
Remember: the goal isn’t to write a checklist of “what happens.” It’s to write the heartbeat of transformation.
Now go look at your latest scene. What is this moment really doing? And does it deserve the space it’s taking?
