Choosing Big vs. Small Words for the Right Impact

Okay. I’m writing this more for my benefit than yours, so bear with me. I have a lot of anxiety around this topic, as — my frequent readers would know — I love myself a $5 word.

The $5 Word

As writers, we have a vast toolkit of words — some simple and familiar, others long or archaic. The English language has around 1 million words — though estimates vary based on how you define “word.” This figure includes words from dictionaries, technical terms, regional dialects, slang, and historical and archaic terms no longer commonly used. The Oxford English Dictionary, for instance, a publication that aims for comprehensive coverage, includes around 600,000 entries, while more general dictionaries contain fewer, typically 200,000 to 300,000 words. English continues to grow as new words emerge from technology, culture, and science, and it borrows liberally from other languages, which means the count is constantly expanding!

Fantasy authors like me have a smattering of go-to $5 words that look cool on paper.

• Ensorcelled – meaning enchanted or bewitched. “The sorceress’s spell ensorcelled the knight.”

• Fain – meaning gladly or willingly, often used to convey desire. “He would fain take up his sword to defend his homeland.”

• Perdition – meaning a state of eternal punishment or ruin, often with a dark, ominous feel. “The cursed treasure would lead any who sought it to perdition.”

• Aegis – meaning protection or sponsorship, originating from mythological usage. “The hero fought under the aegis of the goddess herself.”

• Gloaming – meaning twilight or dusk, with a mystical, atmospheric connotation. “They journeyed through the forest in the fading light of the gloaming.”

Ooo! Aren’t they cool words?

Tiny Treasures

Maybe you might feel as I do.

Writers, as wordsmiths, often delight in unearthing obscure words — those hidden gems of language that carry shades of meaning, history, or emotion not easily captured by everyday vocabulary. Using a rare word is like sharing a small, shimmering treasure with readers; it invites them into a deeper layer of the story’s world or the writer's fascination with language.

When writers select words like “ensorcelled” instead of “enchanted,” it’s not just about vocabulary — it’s about evoking a certain mood, transporting the reader somewhere unusual and captivating. These words hint at secrets within the story, carrying connotations that enhance the setting, enrich the tone, or even deepen a character’s personality.

Obscure words give writers a chance to play with language, savor its texture, and share that joy with readers, who, in turn, get to enjoy the rare thrill of learning a word or being reminded of one.

It’s a subtle way for writers to connect with readers, offering them a gift that feels intimate, like a wink or a whispered secret. Like, “Here’s a cool word! Love this word! I love this word!” In that way, each rare word becomes more than just vocabulary — it becomes a shared experience, a tiny treasure passed from one lover of language to another.

Stroking Our Ego

Now, using one of these “$5” words, like “ensorcelled” or “gloaming,” can make an author feel chuffed (see what I did there?) because these words bring a certain depth, flair, and old-world charm to the writing.

Sliding a rich, archaic word into a fantasy story can feel like adding a secret ingredient that only enhances the setting, adding an atmosphere that feels special and immersive. Plus, using language that resonates with the tone of fantasy allows authors to create a unique voice and style that feels as magical as the worlds they’re building.

But when is it better to keep it simple? Is there a risk of alienating your readers if they don’t know or understand the word? It’s all about choosing the words that best serve your story and connect with your readers.

The Modern Reader

Hi.

My name’s Russell. I’m a writer. I’ve been on the sauce for forty years, and I, er, have an unrealistic perspective of the modern reader: I assume they’re like me.

I believe when readers encounter my cool $5 word, they’ll right-click it (please see the multiple layers of assumptions here) and ask for a definition. Because they’re curious, right? They, too, collect tiny treasures and want to know what they mean. They want to hold them in their palm, stare at them for a while, and coo, telling them what a pretty word they are.

Ensorcelled! You’re such a pretty word! Aren’t you a pretty word?

While exact figures vary, some surveys suggest that around 15-20% of readers will pause to look up a word immediately. In contrast, others will make a mental note and return to it if it significantly affects understanding. Generally, readers are more likely to look up words if they feel it will enhance their experience — like grasping a key concept in a fantasy novel or a mystery. This behavior suggests that 20 percent of readers are genuinely curious and appreciate language, significantly when the word enriches the story or setting.

Please note: the other 80% don’t.

Oh, the horrific feedback I’ve received from judges in writing contests that boil down to:

I didn’t know what this word meant, so I skipped it.

[Grasping my chest.]

I don’t know what’s going on. I’m sorry.

[Running my nails down the side of my cheeks.]

Couldn’t you have just said, ‘tie’ instead of ‘ascot’? Or ‘sword’ instead of ‘scimitar’?

[Silent screaming. No, really: there’s a difference!]

The Reality of the Modern Reader

Newspapers and most mainstream publishers aim for a reading level around 8th to 9th grade. This level ensures that content is accessible to a broad audience and balances readability with clarity and sophistication.

Writing at this level keeps language direct and engaging, making it easier for readers to understand quickly. That’s important for news, which readers typically consume in brief sittings.

Using big or unusual words can add flair and style, especially in fantasy or historical fiction, where specific terms create atmosphere.

Words like “empyrean” or “maelstrom” evoke images and sounds that bring a unique texture to your work. But there’s a catch: if readers constantly reach for the dictionary, they may lose focus and feel distanced from the story. Heck, it may even throw them out of the story.

Here’s an example from a recent contest entry, Sēng of Titan.

Its metallic features shadowed by a wide-brimmed dǒulì,
the robot’s crescent kick sent Rex Thorne crashing to the parched earth.

The word dǒulì is easily Googled. It’s a conical Asian hat. It’s a specific thing. I love that word! And in this contest, I used one word for “conical Asian hat,” so it’s quite economical, too. But guess what my feedback was like?

Yeah.

I really wanted to use that word, but in the end, 80 percent of my readers glossed over it. Without additional context in the sentence, they had no idea what it meant, disengaging them from the story in the opening sentence.

[Facepalm.]

On the other hand, small, straightforward words are easy to read and digest, letting readers focus on the plot and characters. For action scenes or emotional moments, small words keep the pace fast and accessible.

The Voice of the Author

I’ve also been accused of this one. A judge will say my voice as an author rings in a character's dialogue.

That’s not how the character would speak; you’re speaking through them.

[Ugh. But I was writing from the 1st personal perspective of a 19th-century steampunk scientist, you jerk! Am I a 19th-century Steampunk scientist?!]

Ahem. I digress.

Ensuring my characters aren’t parroting what I would say is an ongoing challenge. Would my character use a $5 word? It's hard to say, but I probably don’t want to make a frequent habit out of it. It dampens the believability of my character.

Talking Above the Reader

This was another lesson I took away from Sēng of Titan. It turns out people don’t know the moons of Saturn like I do. Titan’s in the title (yes, one of Saturn’s moons), but some of my readers didn’t see or understand it. So when I started talking about “the moon’s surface,” they thought I was suddenly referring to Earth’s moon and were seriously confused.

Even better, this line:

… the robot’s crescent kick sent Rex Thorne crashing to the parched earth.

My readers didn’t understand the term “crescent kick” and conflated “earth” with “Earth,” like they didn’t understand I was referring to the ‘ground’ and not the planet.

[WTF.]

And this line:

The robot lifted a bamboo dizi to play a breathy, drifting melody that stirred dormant nanoparticles suspended in the atmosphere.

Beautiful, isn’t it? Yeah, I was rather enamored by it, too. By context, the reader could tell a dizi is a Chinese flute if they didn’t look it up, and indeed, everybody knows what “dormant nanoparticles suspended in an atmosphere” are. Right? It’s so science fictiony!

[No.]

I mean, a part of me just wanted to lash out and blame peer-based judging for handing me ignorant, brainless people to judge my awesome science fiction story. Where’s the critical thinking? The locale is in the title! Look up what you don’t know! I didn’t capitalize ‘earth,’ so it’s not the planet? Don’t you understand what nanoparticulates are?! Duh?!

Responding like this would be a good way of missing the point by comforting my ego, wrapping myself in self-righteous indignation, and assuming all readers are like me.

This is a wrong assumption. It doesn’t serve me, and it won’t help me write better. I alienated my readers by talking above them, sending them down a road of confusion.

This was a peer-judged contest. I needed to convey meaning by writing the lowest common denominator.

It’s taken me decades to crawl out of my skin to realize this.

What’s the Best Approach?

I’ve come to feel the best approach is simplicity and balance.

Write in short, concise sentences with 8th-grade words.

Use short, stabby sentences to convey immediacy.

Use long, flowing sentences to create a sense of movement, something ethereal drifting in the wind, an idea that must have buoyancy.

Use vivid, specific words when they add something essential to the story, but don’t be afraid to lean on more straightforward language for clarity and flow.

And if an archaic word tempts you, make sure it adds to the scene without overshadowing it.

Experiment with your word choices and read your drafts out loud. No, really: read them out loud or have an AI read them back to you.

If it sticks in the mouth or chewy, something’s wrong. Your ideas aren’t fully baked yet. Sometimes, you may have to tuck your tiny treasures away for another day. They’re just not going to work to convey meaning.

Finally, I’ve learned that it’s not the reader’s job to divine meaning — that’s my job. You must prepare your manuscript for your intended audience and be mindful of talking above them. It would be best to meet them where they are instead of dragging them along like I wanted to.

You’ll soon find your voice and know when to go big or keep it small.

R