Literary Devices, Organized by the Effect You Want to Create
Discover 50 literary devices organized by the effect you want to create. With examples from Toni Morrison, Kazuo Ishiguro, and Shakespeare.

Discover 50 literary devices organized by the effect you want to create. With examples from Toni Morrison, Kazuo Ishiguro, and Shakespeare.

Literary devices are the deliberate techniques writers use to convey meaning, create effect, and evoke emotion beyond the literal meaning of words. The term covers more than 250 catalogued figures of speech (from alliteration to zeugma), but knowing 136 definitions by heart matters less than knowing which device a specific moment calls for. This guide covers 50 essential literary devices, organized not alphabetically, but by the effect you want to produce.
It's written for working writers, not students scanning for a test. Each section answers one question: you want your scene to create tension, convey character, slow time, or land a joke. Which device does that, and how do you deploy it without forcing it?
This is the hub article for the literary devices topic cluster on Best Writing. For deeper exploration of individual devices, see the guides on what is foreshadowing, how to write descriptively, and what is irony.
A literary device is any technique a writer uses deliberately to shape how a reader experiences a text. It governs how meaning is constructed, how emotion is triggered, how time is manipulated, and how characters reveal themselves without exposition.
The term is an umbrella. Grammarly's taxonomy draws the most useful practitioner distinction: literary elements pervade the entire work (theme, setting, mood, narrator, allegory), while literary techniques are applied at specific moments (metaphor, alliteration, hyperbole, onomatopoeia).
Both are literary devices. The distinction tells you where in a manuscript to look for them and what revision layer they belong to.
Academic rhetoricians have catalogued more than 250 figures of speech, from Henry Peacham's numerous figures in The Garden of Eloquence (1577) to the 136 in LitCharts' current glossary. Writers.com's list of 116 and Grammarly's 105 cover the working range for most fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. This guide focuses on 50 that appear most frequently in publishable work, including the advanced tier that other guides skip.
The primary keyword "literary devices" draws 90,500 searches per month in the US, and the query "what is literary devices" is showing breakout growth on Google Trends. Most of that traffic comes from students looking for definitions. Definitions aren't where the craft lives.
Good literary devices do five things plain language cannot: they convey meaning beyond the literal text, sustain reader attention through pattern and surprise, and build emotional resonance through comparison and contrast. They also establish connections between disparate concepts and control the pace, tone, and voice of a work.
A sentence that works almost always has a literary device at its core: a metaphor that rewires the frame, an asyndeton that accelerates pace, an allusion that activates context the reader already carries. Learning to use these deliberately separates competent writing from craft.
Every major resource on literary devices organizes them alphabetically or by type (figurative, sound, structural). That's useful for lookup. It's less useful when you're mid-scene and something isn't working.
The more practical question is: what effect do you want to create? The table below maps desired effects to the devices that produce them.
No top competitor in the current SERP for "literary devices" organizes this way. Use it before you open an alphabetical list.
Desired effect | Primary devices to reach for |
|---|---|
Emotional resonance | Extended metaphor, multisensory imagery, personification, anaphora |
Sustained tension | Foreshadowing, dramatic irony, suspense (withheld information), cliffhanger |
Scene-level microtension | Subtext, competing character wants, ironic contrast between dialogue and action |
Pacing (fast) | Asyndeton, short sentences, cliffhanger |
Pacing (slow or weighted) | Polysyndeton, polyptoton, extended imagery |
Character revelation | Direct characterization, foil, soliloquy, allusion to archetype |
Thematic development | Symbolism, allegory, motif, epigraph |
Wit and intelligence | Zeugma, litotes, metalepsis, oxymoron |
Rhythm and authority | Tricolon, parallelism, epistrophe, anaphora |
Immersion | Metaphor (vs. simile distance), stream of consciousness, multisensory imagery |
Identify the effect first, then select the device.
These appear across Reedsy, Grammarly, MasterClass, and Writers.com as the most-referenced devices in publishable fiction and nonfiction. They're the foundation. Everything in the advanced tier below builds on command of these 15.
A metaphor declares that something IS something else, collapsing the distance between tenor (what you're describing) and vehicle (what you're comparing it to). Nalo Hopkinson's TED-Ed talk illustrates the difference precisely:
"Not 'quiet as a ghost,' which would put a distancing layer of simile between the reader and the experience. Instead, 'ghost quiet': the metaphor for an implied rather than overt comparison."
Use metaphor when the comparison IS the core of what you're saying. Shakespeare's "All the world's a stage" doesn't describe the world; it restructures the reader's interpretive frame for everything that follows. The best metaphors reframe rather than decorate.
Extended metaphor expands the initial comparison through more elaborate parallels, weaving it through passages or entire works for emotional resonance. Ocean Vuong's On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous uses extended metaphor at the structural level: the letter-to-a-mother conceit carries the book's emotional weight from first page to last.
A simile announces the comparison with "like" or "as," creating a useful degree of separation. This is not a deficiency. Use simile when the comparison is supporting or qualifying rather than central, when you want description rather than immersion.
The gap between simile and metaphor is a craft choice, not a hierarchy.
Imagery uses language that activates the senses, all of them, not just sight. Smell, taste, proprioception, kinesthetic sensation, and organic experience are literary material that film and audio cannot fully access. Cherryh's line (cited by Hopkinson): "The world was ghost-quiet except for the crack of sails and the burbling of water against hull."
Simultaneous hearing, touch, motion, and abstraction in one sentence. That's multisensory imagery at full range.
Toni Morrison's Beloved delivers horror through physical sensation that no adaptation can fully replicate, because the prose IS the sensation. Full sensory access is a medium affordance unique to written language.
A symbol is an object or element that represents something beyond its literal meaning. Symbolism evolves across a work rather than operating as a single-use device. It creates the thematic weight that readers carry for years.
"The plot is what you remember for a week. The theme is what you carry for years." (Reedsy on LinkedIn, April 2026)
Three types: verbal (saying the opposite of what you mean), dramatic (the reader knows something the character doesn't), and situational (outcome contradicts expectation). Dramatic irony creates the most sustained tension through a simple mechanism: the reader watches a character approach something they already know is dangerous. For a deeper look at this device, see the guide on what is irony.
Hints embedded in the narrative for future payoff. The practical calibration that r/writing contributors have converged on: roughly 20% of readers should predict a twist just before the reveal.
Fewer than that and the twist feels unearned; push past 50%, and the foreshadowing becomes obvious. The goal is "surprising yet inevitable."
Most effective foreshadowing isn't designed in the first draft. Find it in revision: identify accidental seeding, then sharpen it deliberately.
Repetition of initial consonant sounds in a sequence of words. Alliteration creates rhythm and memorability in prose and poetry. Alliteration draws 246,000 searches per month as the highest individual device keyword, but it's also the one writers most often confuse with assonance and consonance.
More on that distinction in the Common Mistakes section below.
Attributing human qualities to non-human things. The distinction worth knowing: personification is a deliberate device; pathetic fallacy (a narrower form) attributes emotion specifically to the natural world, often to mirror a character's emotional state.
Pathetic fallacy is what Brontë does in Wuthering Heights. Personification is what everyone else does.
Deliberate exaggeration for emphasis or humor. Hyperbole reads as sincere when isolated; in context, the excess is the signal. Use it for emotional intensity, comedy, and characterization, particularly for characters whose self-perception is distorted.
An unexplained reference to a text, historical event, or cultural artifact. Allusion activates context the reader already carries, creating resonance without exposition. The key word is "unexplained": an allusion that requires a footnote to work is a failed allusion.
Zadie Smith's White Teeth is built on allusion; readers who catch more of them get a richer text.
An extended narrative in which characters and events represent abstract ideas or moral qualities. Unlike symbol (which can appear once), allegory operates at the level of the whole work. Orwell's Animal Farm is the canonical example: every character maps to a historical figure, every plot event to a historical moment.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Purple Hibiscus uses allegory at the family-as-nation level.
Contrasting elements placed side by side for tension or irony. The contrast operates as a cognitive puzzle: readers interpret what the friction between two frames means.
Kazuo Ishiguro uses juxtaposition structurally in The Remains of the Day: what Stevens says and what he actually means diverge enough to constitute the novel's entire emotional argument.
Repeated phrase at the opening of successive clauses. "We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields..." creates rhythm and forward momentum. Anaphora is one of the fastest routes to emotional weight; the repetition builds anticipation, and the reader expects each new clause to arrive.
Structural devices that manipulate narrative time. Flashback interrupts the present with the past; frame story embeds one narrative inside another. These operate at the architecture level and require revision-layer decisions, not first-draft sentence work.
Onomatopoeia names sounds phonetically (crack, buzz, rustle, hiss). Parallelism creates syntactic balance across two or more clauses, producing authority and memorability. Both are surface-level devices with deep psychological effects: onomatopoeia bypasses the visual imagination entirely; parallelism creates the sensation of inevitability.
These devices appear in sophisticated literary writing and are absent from most introductory guides. Purdue OWL's handbook, Grammarly, and Reedsy surface them in advanced discussions; the SERP top 10 largely omits them. They're the vocabulary that separates craft writers from competent ones.
Device | What it does | Canonical example |
|---|---|---|
Word at end of one clause repeated at start of the next | "Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate" (Yoda, Star Wars: The Phantom Menace) | |
Metalepsis | Indirect reference combining multiple meaning layers | "I've got to catch the worm tomorrow" (layered allusion) |
Same root word with different inflections in close proximity | Shakespeare Sonnet 116: "Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds" | |
Synesthesia | One sense described in vocabulary of another | Oscar Wilde: "The silence that dwells in the forest is not so black" |
One verb applied to two nouns in logically different ways | "She broke his car and his heart" | |
Litotes | Understatement via double negative | "Not bad" (meaning: impressive) |
Series of three parallel elements | "Veni, vidi, vici" | |
Conceit (metaphysical) | Extended metaphor between vastly unlike things | John Donne: lovers as compass legs |
Epistrophe | Repeated phrase at END of successive clauses | LBJ: "There is no Negro problem. There is no Southern problem. There is no Northern problem." |
Ekphrasis | Literary response to another work of art | Keats: "Ode on a Grecian Urn" |
Vignette | Poetic scene outside the main plot for emotional texture | MasterClass: the zoom-in that main plot cannot show |
Zeugma is one of the most useful tools for characterization and wit. When one verb applies to two nouns in logically different ways, the ironic gap between them reveals the speaker's relationship to both objects at once. "She broke his car and his heart" tells you more about the speaker in five words than two sentences of exposition would.
Anadiplosis builds momentum through chain repetition: each clause picks up where the last left off. It's a spoken-word device with deep literary history that rarely appears in contemporary fiction, which is exactly why it lands when deployed.
Synesthesia is underused in contemporary literary fiction. Oscar Wilde was a masterclass practitioner: "The silence that dwells in the forest is not so black" crosses auditory absence with visual darkness, activating both senses simultaneously. Ocean Vuong uses synesthesia extensively in his poetry and prose.
Tricolon creates a sensation of completeness and authority. Three-part structure appears in rhetoric from Julius Caesar to Abraham Lincoln. The reason it works is psychoacoustic: three parallel elements feel resolved in a way that two don't and four can't sustain.
A recurring conversation on r/writing asks: what narrative devices exist in books that film cannot replicate? The list is specific and documented.
Unreliable narrator with identity concealment. A film requires a face and a voice. In prose, a narrator can conceal their identity entirely; readers believe they're reading one character's perspective and discover mid-work they're not.
No clean cinematic equivalent exists. You cannot cast an anonymous face.
Anonymized dialogue. In prose, a character can speak without the reader knowing who is speaking, even when other in-scene characters do. Film cannot do this without deliberately obscuring the actor's face and voice, which announces itself as technique rather than operating invisibly.
Footnotes as parallel narrative. Terry Pratchett and Jasper Fforde both use footnotes not for citations but as a second narrative voice running counter to the main text, comedically, philosophically, sometimes with their own storyline. There's no cinematic equivalent. The footnotes aren't a supplement to the text; they are the device.
Temporal flexibility in unreliable narration. Film manages time with cuts, dissolves, and title cards, all visible to the audience as manipulation. Prose can move time without any marker, leaving the reader unable to locate when they are.
The Remains of the Day uses this to reveal Stevens's self-deception: the unreliable narrator doesn't know his own timeline, and neither does the reader. The confusion IS the characterization.
Full sensory access beyond sight and sound. Film is primarily visual and auditory. Prose can deliver smell, taste, kinesthetic sensation, and proprioception. Toni Morrison's Beloved builds the horror of Sethe's past through physical sensation that no film adaptation can replicate, because the prose IS the sensation.
These medium affordances are the reasons to write prose rather than adapt to another medium: the literary device IS what the medium can do that others can't.
The most useful insight practitioners share about literary devices isn't which one to use. It's when in the writing process to use them.
The failure mode is treating device use as a first-draft obligation. Writers who try to write literary prose at the sentence level while managing structure, character, and plot simultaneously produce forced, self-conscious writing.
The devices are visible because they don't arise naturally; they're installed. The result is prose that sounds like it's trying.
Jane Friedman, citing C.S. Lakin:
“The greatest and most understated ingredient of a commercially successful novel is microtension," says @CSLakin. Learn how to use it in your fiction: https://t.co/g7E8KJpihx #amwriting https://t.co/gSQSv0v1BD
"The greatest and most understated ingredient of a commercially successful novel is microtension. And few writers understand what it truly is."
Microtension (competing character wants, contradiction between what a character says and what they do, subtext) operates at the scene level. It's a literary device. And it belongs in revision, not the first draft.
The professional framework: structure first, then continuity, then voice, then language. Devices like metaphor, imagery, and alliteration belong in the voice and language passes (drafts 4 and 5).
Knowing this reduces anxiety. You're not supposed to write with literary precision on the first pass.
The theatrical framework adds precision at the scene level:
“One of the most important skills an actor learns is never to walk onstage without knowing what their character wants in that scene. The same goes for fiction: Before you begin writing a scene, know what 'want' your character enters with." —@foxprinted #amwriting #nanowrimo
"One of the most important skills an actor learns is never to walk onstage without knowing what their character wants in that scene. The same goes for fiction: Before you begin writing a scene, know what 'want' your character enters with."
That character want is itself a literary device: the tension generator that makes every other device land harder. Dramatic irony works because the reader knows what the character wants and can see how badly the situation is about to go.
Foreshadowing seeds that doubt earlier: will the character get what they want at all? Microtension operates where the character can't simply ask for what they want in the room they're in.
"Show, don't tell" is the most over-applied rule in writing communities. Applied without nuance, it creates a more serious problem than the one it's meant to solve.
Both direct characterization (explicitly stating a character's traits) and indirect characterization (showing those traits through action, dialogue, and consequence) are literary devices. They exist on a spectrum. Experienced writers choose between them deliberately rather than treating "showing" as an absolute obligation.
Reedsy addressed this directly (April 2026):
"Most writing advice says show, don't tell. The best authors know when to break that rule. Direct characterization (explicitly stating a character's traits) is one of fiction's most underused tools. Used well, it sets the stage for everything that follows."
The practical case for direct characterization: it reduces cognitive load at scene openings. Anchoring the reader's perception of a character with a direct statement ("Emma was ruthless about her time") creates stability before the writer switches to action-level showing. Writers who avoid it entirely produce scenes where readers can't track whose motivation is whose.
The deeper distinction is device-as-structure vs. device-as-decoration. A metaphor that IS the argument (Shakespeare's "All the world's a stage") functions differently from a metaphor that decorates a point already made in plain language. The decorative metaphor is redundant.
The structural metaphor IS the meaning. The same principle applies to characterization: telling that sets up a scene is structural; telling that restates what the action already showed is decorative and should be cut.
One unexpected image lands harder than five stacked comparisons. Beginning writers discover metaphor and immediately overuse it, producing prose that sounds like a thesaurus audition.
Restraint signals mastery. The best literary devices feel invisible in finished work: the reader experiences the effect, not the technique.
Foreshadowing, symbolism, and metaphor work best when they emerge in revision, not when they're engineered into a first draft. Writers on r/writing report that their most effective foreshadowing was accidental, seeded in a first draft without intent, discovered in revision, then sharpened deliberately.
Intentional first-draft device use sounds forced. The multi-pass approach solves this.
"Red as a rose" is a failed simile. Familiarity kills the reader's imagination: the comparison no longer requires resolution, so no cognitive engagement happens. Kindlepreneur identifies this as the root failure of most novice device use: the best devices require the reader to actively resolve the comparison.
"Ghost quiet" works. "Quiet as a mouse" doesn't.
As Chris Brennan explains: "Assonance is for vowel sounds, alliteration is for initial consonant sounds, and consonance is for consonant sounds that are close together. This is where many writers find confusion." All three create musicality and rhythm. Confusing them in your own work produces mismatched effects: you reach for the sound you want and accidentally deploy the one adjacent to it.
r/writing identifies the exact failure condition for conflict built on miscommunication: the device fails when resolving the misunderstanding would end the story in one sentence, and the conflict serves no character-revealing purpose.
The fix is to root the misunderstanding in an established psychological flaw (insecurity, trauma-driven secrecy) so the conflict scale matches the character's established behavior. Conflict that could be resolved by one honest conversation in the first scene is a craft failure, not a device problem.

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