Why Most Openings Lose the Reader
And what great writing does instead
10X Writer #85
Welcome to 10X Writer, the weekly newsletter designed to help writers, copywriters, and freelancers achieve 10X results with expert insights and actionable strategies.
Walter White is standing in the New Mexico desert in his underwear.
He’s holding a gun he doesn’t know how to use. Two bodies are sliding toward him in an RV. Sirens are getting closer. He’s recording a goodbye message for his family on a camcorder propped against a cactus.
You have no idea who this man is. You don’t know how he got here. You don’t know what he did or why he did it or whether he survives.
And you cannot look away.
That’s the opening of the Breaking Bad pilot. Fifty-eight seconds of screen time. By the time it ends, you are locked in — not because you understand what’s happening, but because you desperately need to.
This is what television learned that most writing courses never teach: a good opening doesn’t introduce the story. It drops you into a problem already in motion.
What you were taught instead
Most writers learn to open with context.
Set the scene. Introduce the situation. Give the reader enough background so they understand what they’re about to read. Warm them up. Then, once they’re comfortable, get to the point.
This feels logical. It’s also why most content gets abandoned in the first paragraph.
Here’s what’s actually happening when a reader hits your opening line: they’re making a decision. Not consciously, but their brain is asking — is this worth my attention? That decision takes about three seconds. Maybe less.
Context doesn’t answer that question. Context is asking the reader to trust you before you’ve given them a reason to.
The Breaking Bad pilot does the opposite. It gives you maximum stakes, zero explanation, and a character in maximum jeopardy — before you even know his name. Your brain doesn’t get to decide whether to pay attention. It’s already paying attention.
The mechanism behind it
Television writers call this in-medias-res — dropping into the middle of the action. But the technique isn’t really about action. It’s about creating a gap the reader needs to close.
When Walter White appears in the desert in his underwear, a gap opens instantly. How did he get here? What happened? Does he survive? Your brain locks onto those questions the way a tongue finds a loose tooth. You can’t stop.
The gap doesn’t require explosions or car chases. It requires one thing: a situation that raises a question the reader hasn’t answered yet.
That situation can be a man in the desert. It can be a conversation already happening. It can be a confession with no context. It can be the result of a decision before you’ve shown the decision. What it cannot be is an explanation of what you’re about to tell them.
How to steal this for your writing
The writers’ room has one test for every scene opening: Does this raise a question? If the opening can be understood completely on first read, without anything unresolved, it’s too early to start the scene. Cut forward.
You can apply this test to every piece of writing you produce.
Before you write your opening line, ask: What’s the most interesting moment in this piece? Not the setup for that moment — the moment itself. Now start there.
Then let the reader catch up.
In practice, this looks like:
Starting with a result, not a setup. “I lost a client last week because my copy was too good.” That’s a gap. The reader needs to know what that means.
Starting mid-conversation. “She looked at my draft and said, ‘This reads like a textbook.’” You’re already in it. Who is she? What draft? Why does it matter?
Starting with a claim that creates tension. “Most writing advice makes writers worse.” The reader either agrees and wants validation or disagrees and wants to argue. Either way, they keep reading.
What you’re not doing: “Writing is one of the most important skills a professional can develop. In this piece, I want to share...”
That’s context. That’s asking for trust before you’ve earned it.
The 90-second rule
Television lives or dies in the opening minutes. Streaming made that unforgiving — the remote is within reach, the next show is one click away.
So writers work with a simple constraint: you have a short window to create need, not interest.
Not “this looks good.”
Not “I’ll give this a try.”
But: I have to know what happens next.
That’s what the Breaking Bad pilot does. It doesn’t earn your attention gradually. It puts you in a situation your brain wants resolved.
Because the moment a question is opened, your mind starts trying to close it.
That’s the real rule:
If nothing is unresolved, there is no reason to continue.
Your reader doesn’t need more context.
They need a reason to stay.
So, here’s what to do.
Go back to the last three pieces you wrote — newsletter, article, LinkedIn post, doesn’t matter. Read only the opening paragraph of each.
Ask: Does this paragraph raise a question, or does it provide context?
If it provides context, find the first moment of genuine tension in the piece. Something specific, something unresolved, something that creates a gap. Now cut everything before it.
That’s your new opening.
You’ll lose some words you worked hard on. The piece will be better for it.
Television figured this out decades ago. Your readers have been trained by it. They expect to be dropped in, not eased in.
You don’t need a better introduction.
You need a later starting point.
If your opening can be understood completely on first read, without anything unresolved, you started too early.
Cut forward.
Start where the tension begins.
Not where the explanation does.