Knowing Where We Are — and When Getting Lost Matters

Lately I’ve been wondering about the skills Dimitri and I both carry with us from our years in animation.

Some of them are obvious — story, pacing, performance, rhythm.

And some of them seem small at first.

Like orientation.

Geography.

Simply knowing where we are in a scene.

But the more we work, the more I realize this isn’t small at all.

“Clarity creates trust.”

And I think the reason it feels so fundamental is because this is exactly where we always begin.

In animation, and later in editing, one of the earliest questions is always the same:

Where are we?

Do we understand the space?

Has the sequence earned its movement?

If that foundation isn’t clear, the audience starts working to follow the story instead of feeling it.

“We don’t start with the action — we start with how the audience will travel.”

That instinct has carried directly into how we build our graphic novel.

When I’m looking at Dimitri’s roughs and thumbnails, we don’t just talk about what happens.

We talk about how the sequence plays.

How the eye travels.

Whether the reader has time to arrive before the moment shifts.

Sometimes we’ll sit with a sequence for hours until the layout feels inevitable.

It’s very close to animatic editing.

We’re shaping rhythm.

Testing clarity.

Making sure the story guides the reader.

And the more I think about it, the more I realize orientation sits underneath everything.

Not just where characters are standing — but where we are as readers.

What kind of space we’ve stepped into.

What the room feels like before anything happens inside it.

Before dialogue.

Before action.

Before story moves forward.

I want to know where I am.

When I’m looking at a scene, the first question isn’t what happens next.

It’s where are we?

Is this space open or enclosed?

Is it calm or unstable?

Does it feel safe, busy, quiet, watchful?

Those answers live in the layout long before they live in the words.

Often the sequence needs to begin with a wide panel — not to impress, but to orient.

A wide frame gives the reader a foothold.

It establishes geography, scale, and mood in one breath.

It says: you’re here now — take a moment.

From there, everything else has context.

“A reader shouldn’t have to work to understand where they are.”

There are moments when getting lost is the point.

When a character is overwhelmed.

When certainty fractures.

When emotion matters more than geography.

In those moments, you can choose not to orient the audience.

Remove context.

Tighten the frame.

Let the space fall away.

Disorientation, used deliberately, becomes part of the storytelling.

But this only works if the reader was grounded first.

Because when you take an audience somewhere they don’t understand, they disconnect.

Sometimes disorientation is intentional.

Sometimes it’s powerful.

But you have to know the difference between choice and confusion.

“You can lose an audience on purpose — but never by accident.”

So today’s pondering is about balance.

Before plot.

Before pacing.

Before anything else.

Make sure we know where we are.

Because once the audience feels guided, they’re willing to follow anywhere.

And when the time comes to let them get lost —

do it with intention.

Because clarity builds trust.

And trust is what lets an audience stay with you,

even when the map disappears.