The Miscommunication Trope: When It’s Bad, and When It’s Great
Miscommunication is as old as time. We can trace it all the way back to Adam and Eve, when Eve was enticed by the serpent and ate the fruit she was told not to.
Serpent: Did God really say you can’t eat from any tree?
Eve: We can eat fruit. Just not from the one in the middle. God said we must not eat it, or touch it, or we’ll die.
Serpent: You will not surely die.
Now here’s the thing—God never said anything about not touching it. That added line? That was Eve’s own understanding of the rule. Whether it came from Adam, fear, or her own interpretation, that tiny distortion set everything into motion.
We’re all prone to this flaw. And in fiction, it shows up all the time.
Definition of Terms
Miscommunication – happens when information is delivered, but it’s not received accurately. There was an attempt to share something—through words, actions, or implication—but something got distorted along the way. It could be that someone jumped to conclusions. Maybe someone didn’t tell the whole story. It could also be that the communicator thought they were being clear but actually weren’t.
Misunderstanding – is what happens when something isn’t perceived clearly. It’s assumptions. Jumping to conclusions (again). It’s filling in the blanks like a college student answering exam papers without reviewing. Sometimes it starts from miscommunication. But other times, it’s just the mind putting two and two together… and somehow getting five.
When the Miscommunication Trope Is Just… Bad
I won’t name names. If you know, you know. But the trope flops when something so simple becomes the entire plot. And it’s especially common in romance.
Like:
- The love interest overhears a very obvious half-conversation (you know the one) and storms off in tears because apparently staying five more seconds wasn’t an option.
- Someone finds a photo or message and immediately assumes betrayal… even though everything about the situation screams “wait, ask first.”
- One person says something vague out of fear or pride, and the other takes it completely the wrong way, then they go on to ignore each other for 10+ chapters instead of, I don’t know, talking like functioning people.
Worse? When the characters involved are supposed to be smart. Because, you’re telling me this thousand-year-old immortal, CEO, or military strategist suddenly forgets how to ask basic questions and spends chapters brooding over something they never bothered to clarify?
It’s neither tension nor suspense. It’s lazy conflict that insults the character’s intelligence and honestly? Ours too.
It’s when we go, “Oh, no. Not this again.”
The worst part? The “problem” is already solved in the reader’s head the second it appears. We’ve figured it out. We know the answer. And now we’re just stuck watching the characters flail through chapters of angst for no actual reason.
Writing has a rule: if the story could do without it, get rid of it.
If your entire plot is hinged on a flimsy miscommunication that could’ve been cleared up with one question… then maybe it’s not a plot. Maybe it’s just filler.
When Miscommunication Works
Miscommunication isn’t the problem. It’s the handling of it. It can fuel tension in a way that feels real, not manufactured.
Take The Girl Who Drank the Moon.
The entire premise is built on layers of misunderstanding: the villagers believe they’re sacrificing babies to a wicked witch. The witch, meanwhile, thinks these babies are abandoned and takes them to safer cities. The cities don’t question where the babies come from and just accept them as blessings.
And no one talks about it… because no one can.
The elders keep the village terrified on purpose, and the witch has no idea there’s even something to question.
It’s brilliant because every party believes they’re doing the right thing. The miscommunication (or near-complete lack of communication resulting in a huge misunderstanding) makes sense. It’s cultural. Systemic. And the payoff, when the truth starts unraveling, is earned.
Or take Briony Tallis from Atonement.
She misinterprets what she sees between her sister and Robbie, and that one moment of misunderstanding becomes an emotional wrecking ball for years. And you can’t even hate her fully because she was young, scared, and working off the limited understanding she had of the adult world. It’s painful, but it’s believable.
Then there’s the ending of The Boy in the Striped Pajamas.
Bruno doesn’t understand what the camp is. He thinks it’s a farm. He doesn’t know what the striped clothes mean—he just wants to help his friend. So he puts on a pair of “striped pajamas” to sneak into the camp and look for Shmuel’s missing father.
And… he never comes back out.
It’s a misunderstanding born from childlike innocence, not stupidity. And that’s what makes it hurt even more.
So you see, miscommunication and misunderstandings as a trope are actually good. But the key is this: these very human flaws need to mean something. Because when they do, they resonate. And when done well, they don’t even feel like tropes at all.
I’m still smiling at how it was the entire premise of The Girl Who Drank the Moon, because I think it was so cleverly written. Meanwhile, I still call Briony a “little shit” in my head, because Atonement hurt.
So if you’re a writer thinking of using this trope, ask yourself: “Is this necessary for the plot, or is it just for the word count?” Because adding entire arcs of bad communication for no reason other than filler might just miscommunicate your entire story to the reader.
Again, if the story could do without it, get rid of it.
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