I assume this happens to everyone, but I often find myself spending way too much time staring at instructions that seem to have been written by someone who assumes the reader can read minds. The most recent encounter with this phenomenon involved recipes, which, for better or worse, provide the most immediate example of this peculiar tendency to assume everyone shares the same context.
This evidently happens everywhere, but this particular rceipe was infuriating. Look at these instructions I was reading:
5. Depois deixe ferver até ficar quase seca
5. Then let it boil so it’s almost dry
What are they talking about here? Even with context, it’s unsure which of the ingredients selected are supposed to be boiled. And what has to be dry? Come on, have some common sense! I could repeat this for every section of the recipe:
9. Deixe ferver até dourar o açúcar (cor de caramelo)
9. Let it simmer until the sugar turns golden (caramel-colored)
Do I let everything simmer, or just the sugar? There’s other stuff in the pan, too! This may seem trivial, but it highlights a common flaw in how instructions are given. It’s called the curse of knowledge: when deeply acquainted with a process, it’s natural to skip over what is considered “obvious” steps. This is why technical documentation often suffers when experts write as if every reader shares their deep familiarity with a given subject, forgetting that clarity requires explicit context.
Interestingly, the Romans seemed to grasp this principle well. In cooking manuscripts like De Re Coquinaria, there were precise measurements and detailed instructions. For them, clarity wasn’t about simplifying, but rather about respecting the reader’s time and attention.
As mentioned earlier, technical writers are among those who have grappled the most with this issue. John Carroll’s “The Nurnberg Funnel” (1990) introduced minimalist instruction theory, arguing that people learn better from shorter, action-oriented instructions. I can figure the root cause of this lies in the general approach to writing conducted by educational systems worldwide — it’s taught to be elaborate, to demonstrate a vocabulary, to sound “professional”. But clarity often requires the opposite: stripping away unnecessary complexity.
Clear writing reflects clear thinking.
The digital age has made this worse. Paradoxical? Might be. Now, there are more tools for writing than ever before, yet the ability to communicate clearly seems to be degrading. Maybe it’s precisely because there’s more writing than ever, but less thinking about how to write. The immediacy of digital communication has turned people into both lazy writers and readers.
For instance, in technical documentation for software development, despite styles guides and best practices, there’s still gems like “ensure the system is properly configured” — a phrase that manages to sound important while realistically saying nothing. It’s the literary equivalent of a shrug. The solution, I suspect, lies in developing empathy for readers: before writing instructions, the writer can imagine explaining them to someone sitting next to us. Would crucial context be skipped in person? Would the other party be left guessing what “almost dry” in a recipe means? If you have ever helped your parents set up a new phone in a video call, you know well what’s the answer.
Every ambiguity or assumed context is a potential point of failure. Clear writing isn’t just an act of generosity; it’s a gift that makes understanding possible without struggle. The irony isn’t lost on me: here I am discussing clear writing, while possibly failing to follow my own advice at times. And yet, this is precisely the point — clear writing is difficult. It requires constant vigilance to resist the natural tendency to assume that others know what we know.
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