It probably started with the Marvel movies. Not references themselves, but the relentless, in your face, Easter eggs that constitute a meaningless dog whistling. “Hey fellow nerds,” this little pop culture reference seems to say, “remember this cool thing? Only serious fans remember this obscure piece of ephemera!”

With Disney’s permission via example, pop culture easter eggs suddenly became something I started tripping over, especially in the fiction of the last decade or so. Not just in movies and tv, but in books.

For the first few years, I appreciated having my nerdy ego stroked. I liked that I was more familiar with Hawkeye than my friends, I liked that I could smugly explain the significance of a clunky piece of written dialogue, I liked that I could state “that’s from Dungeons and Dragons.”

But, as I got older, the charm wore off.

The clumsy, often non-sequitur references felt less like a wink and a nod and more like a slap to the face. Not someone hinting at me that they enjoy the things I enjoy, but more like a corporate apparatchik with no interest in the thing I’m interested in trying to convince me that they don’t hold me and very reference itself in contempt.  

I can’t take a reference and by extension the writer who makes it, seriously anymore.

Take, for example, the Wilhem Scream of cinema fame. What started out as a piece of cost-saving sound design, Star Wars turned it into a “pop culture icon,” and now has become so ubiquitous it’s in approximately 400 films. As an inside joke, it’s bereft of any meaning. It breaks tension, it breaks the cohesion—it calls attention to itself.

Whenever I hear the Wilhem Scream, I think “oh yeah, that’s right. I’m watching a movie.”

When you’re writing a story, this breaking of immersion can be disastrous.

The willing suspension of disbelief is an unspoken contract between the reader and the writer. In exchange for a good yarn, the reader willingly suspends their skepticism. They simply accept faster-than-light travel, magical talking swords, or healing crystals, despite that logic and reason dictate those things as impossible. A good story doesn’t have to be realistic, but the logic of your constructed world must be internally consistent.  

Constructed being the operative word—all written stories are, by the nature of story, contrived.

A written story must follow certain laws. The laws of grammar, spelling, and language, the rules regarding structure, character typology, typeface, cultural mores, etcetera.

When a reader opens a book and escapes into the world that a writer has created, the last thing the writer wants is to slam on the brakes and make the reader remember “oh yeah, that’s right. I’m reading a book.”

Do not call attention to your grammar. Do not call attention to your clever typeface. Do no call attention to a piece of media they might very well rather be enjoying than your story.

When I read a book, I don’t want to be taken out of your story, not even to laugh, not even to feel smug. I’m giving you my attention, respect my time and give me a good story.

Regarding Video Games

The term Easter Egg comes from the world of programming. It’s tempting the call them a “tradition.” I would be the first to admit that I enjoy the occasional references that I’ve found in my favorite games.

Most of the time, the references must be hunted down, hence “Easter egg.” The player can choose to actively look for them or not. Engagement is optional. That doesn’t mean I’ve never stumbled upon an obvious reference and had to look it up in order to understand it, but it does mean that I can choose not to participate in the hunt itself.

Unlike video games, books are wholistic. By reading, I must engage with the totality of the work, references, grammar, structure, and all. A cringy, out-of-place pop culture reference takes up precious space, both in the reader’s imagination and in the physical work.

Easter eggs can be stumbling blocks, or worse—an assault on the good tastes of a reader, who, out of the all the stories in the world, picked yours. Respect their good taste and don’t remind them they’re reading a book. Instead, let them escape into your world and grieve when they must put it down.

Above: The Renaissance Easter Egg, a Fabergé Egg, part of the Easter Series. Mikhail Perkhin 1860-1903, Russian. Materials: Gold, rose-cut diamonds, agate, rubies. Housed in the Blue Room of the Fabergé Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia.

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