In the landscape of contemporary writing, the first-person perspective dominates—and it is a disease more than a feature. From debut novels to viral personal essays and autofictional memoirs, the “I” has become the axis around which much of modern storytelling revolves. But what does it reveal—not just about the stories themselves, but about the writers? The storytellers?
This essay argues that first-person writing is more often than not the hallmark of two distinct groups: the inexperienced and the narcissistic. The former lack the maturity to inhabit the interior lives of others, which comes from the lack of living and experiencing; the latter refuse to acknowledge anything outside their own. In both cases, the self becomes the measure of the universe, to the detriment of literary depth.
The inexperienced writer, often young or unseasoned, gravitates toward first person because it offers familiarity—safety. It demands no imaginative leap into other consciousnesses, no architectural blueprint for an expansive narrative world. Instead, it allows the writer to transpose lived experience directly onto the page, often with little transformation, making the story naïve and unbelievable. This approach is not inherently a flaw—many great writers began this way—but it becomes a constraint when never transcended. The young author may sincerely believe they are capturing something universal, when in truth they are only echoing the narrow confines of their own emotional vocabulary inside the small garden or backyard of their existence.
Perspective-taking—the ability to inhabit viewpoints not one’s own—is a psychological skill that develops with time, exposure to life, and effort. In early writing, the lack of this capacity manifests as a default to the self: the first person is not a stylistic choice, but a default setting. Without years of observing, reading, and living, the writer may find the inner lives of others too opaque—or worse, irrelevant. This is not an artistic stance; it is a symptom of narrative immaturity, an early creative handicap.
On the other side lies the narcissist. Where the inexperienced writer lacks the tools, the narcissist lacks the will. For them, the self is not merely a starting point—it is the destination. There is nothing beyond it. They write in the first person not because it is accessible, but because it is central. This mode becomes a shrine to the ego: the “I” is not an observer but a protagonist whose gaze defines reality. In such writing, the world does not exist unless the narrator beholds it. Other characters are not independent beings but foils, satellites orbiting the sun of the narrator’s consciousness.
Think about grey-haired men (like me) writing erotic stories where the protagonist is always a ladies’ man who never needs Viagra. The writing is often a wishful-thinking narrative or a confessional of past regrets. This logic can be transposed to anyone, so please do unto yourself the same examination—ask if you, too, are one with regrets.
And this kind of writing is not rare—it is everywhere. In an age of curated identities, influencer culture, and therapeutic oversharing, the narcissistic first person not only thrives—it is required. Literature mimics the logic of social media: every story must be a personal brand, every sentence a revelation of the self. The danger is not just aesthetic, but philosophical. When the world is only real insofar as it is seen by “me,” literature ceases to be a vessel for empathy and becomes a stage for self-confirmation. People begin offering opinions and dispensing judgments on matters that don’t belong to them. The moralism of the puritan self—worse than the inquisitorial priests of the darkest ages—leaks onto the page and makes even well-written narratives unreadable, repulsive.
The literary consequences of this trend are profound. Imagine, for instance, if The Hunger Games had been filmed strictly in the first-person perspective of the book—restricted entirely to Katniss’s sensory and emotional field. Every camera angle would reflect only what she sees, hears, or understands. No glimpses into the Capitol’s machinations, no reactions from Gale or Peeta unless she’s in the room, no panoramic view of the arena’s brutality. The audience would be trapped inside her perception—vivid, but incomplete. The result would likely feel claustrophobic, fragmented, and emotionally one-note. While this device serves a specific narrative effect in the novel, in visual storytelling it risks stripping the story of tension, dimension, and complexity. The richness of polyphonic narratives, the moral ambiguity of third-person omniscience, the elegance of shifting perspectives—all are sacrificed at the altar of authenticity. But authenticity, as it is commonly understood, is overrated. It is self-censored, blacklists words and subjects, and drowns in moralism. It is too often confused with unedited experience, with rawness rather than refinement. The belief that first-person writing is more “honest” or “true” is a modern superstition—it is the opposite of truth.
Yet, first-person writing is not inherently flawed. In the hands of writers like Dostoevsky, Camus, or Baldwin, it becomes a tool for philosophical inquiry, existential doubt, or moral confrontation. Dostoevsky’s Notes from Underground is a quintessential example: the narrator’s tortured self-consciousness is not a plea for sympathy, but a vehicle for exposing the absurdities and contradictions of modern man. Camus’ The Fall presents a first-person monologue that is as much an indictment of the narrator as of the society he inhabits—revealing the moral paralysis of post-war Europe. And Baldwin, in The Fire Next Time, transforms personal experience into a searing meditation on race, religion, and national conscience. The unreliable narrator, the confessional voice, the stream-of-consciousness monologue—these are not symptoms of egocentrism, but stylistic strategies deployed with precision. These writers earn the right to write in the first person because they do not confuse it with self-indulgence. Their “I” is porous, vulnerable, often untrustworthy—a construct, not a confessional.
If you intend to write with “I,” you must recite every night: “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa” before bed and again when you wake up. You must be brave enough to confess all the human dirt lying around your I’s house. If you cannot do that, I don’t want to read anything you write.
So, to write well in the first person requires more than experience; it requires detachment. One must be able to step back from the self, to see the “I” as a dramatic persona rather than a diary entry. This demands a kind of literary asceticism—a willingness to question one’s own perceptions, to fragment the self rather than elevate it. You must accept the risk that readers will think there is something wrong with you, because it is in human nature to assign merit or guilt to the confessor.
So, first-person writing should be approached with caution. It is a powerful lens, but a narrow one. You should ask yourself why you default to it: is it a choice, or a limitation? If the latter, you might consider that the world—rich with other minds, voices, and lives—offers more than a single vantage point can ever contain. Perhaps the self is not the most important story there is. Perhaps it is merely the easiest to tell.
