Why Long-Form Writing Matters (Especially If You’ve Ever Let a Toddler TED talk Wash Over You)
The other day, I watched a two-minute video of my dear friend’s grandbaby, and honestly? The kid was on fire. He was wearing a little blue onesie, hands flying in every direction, delivering what could only be described as the toddler version of a TED Talk. Every word was complete jibberish. No subtitles. No translation. Just pure, unfiltered storytelling energy.
When the adults asked, “What else happened?” he had all the details. Every twist, every turn, every character arc, delivered in his own mysterious language that no one could understand but everyone somehow felt. He was in it. He was living the story. And, we were right there with him.
I watched the whole thing. Twice.
I may not have understood the words, but I understood what he was doing. He was telling a story. And our brains love that.
Human beings are neurologically wired for storytelling. It activates parts of the brain involved in empathy, memory, language, and motor simulation. In other words, we do not just listen to stories—we inhabit them. Our brains treat stories like real social experiences.[1]
How real? I was reading The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes by Suzanne Collins—the Hunger Games prequel that somehow makes you feel sympathy for a teenage Coriolanus Snow, which is both impressive and deeply concerning. At one point, I realized I was gripping the book like it was the last parachute gift from a dying sponsor. I was emotionally wrecked over a duet between two characters who, let’s be honest, had no business trusting each other. I nearly threw the book across the room. Not because it was bad, but because it was too real.
I do not know what it says about me that I now have unresolved feelings about the moral development of a future dictator. But here we are.
That is how storytelling works. Your brain does not just read it. It lives it. Storytelling, especially long-form, builds community. It helps us imagine other people’s perspectives, navigate complexity, and make meaning out of chaos.[2] This is not just poetic. It is evolutionary. Storytelling may have literally helped our ancestors survive by creating group cohesion and shared decision-making.[3]
I will never forget the day I watched President Barack Obama’s address to schoolchildren with my students. We wheeled the TV in (yes, the one with the big back), and they sat shoulder to shoulder in chairs utterly still. These were kids who could not stay quiet for three minutes during morning announcements, but for this? You could have heard a pencil drop. Why? Because he looked like them, and he was speaking directly about their futures. They did not need subtitles or a worksheet to understand the moment, because storytelling does that. It breaks through and bonds us together as community. It gives us a shared reality to hope in. It mirrors the way we think when we are trying to understand something. We don’t just react or swipe when we get bored. Instead, it lets us hold an issue in our hands, turn it over, and say, “Let’s look at it from this angle. And now this one.” It lets us deal with complicated things in complicated ways.
Not too long ago, people subscribed to newspapers because they wanted the full story. Not just the headline. Not just the pull quote. Not the “BREAKING: Everything You Love Is Canceled” summary. We expected facts and context. We might have disagreed about solutions, but at least we were standing on the same informational ground. That shared ground is eroding.
These days, we want short-form content that confirms our bias, jolts our emotions, and fits into a three-second dopamine window. And it is wrecking our brains.
Repeated exposure to short-form videos, including TikToks, Reels, and Shorts, has been shown to increase impulsivity, weaken memory, and shorten attention spans.[4] Our brains start craving constant novelty, which means tasks that require patience or complexity feel unbearable.[5] The very platforms we use are hijacking our dopamine systems, rewarding speed over substance. The more we scroll, the harder it becomes to think deeply or focus for more than a few minutes at a time.[6] This is already affecting students’ ability to engage in reading and reflection.[7]
We are not just distracted. We are being trained not to think deeply. And more than that, we are losing the gift of a shared moment. Of sitting together, like those kids did in my classroom that day, and hearing something that makes us feel seen and spoken to. Something that says, you belong in the story. Without long-form, those moments grow rare. We stop building shared meaning and start splintering into curated content bubbles where no one is really listening, just reacting.
There is another piece we do not talk about enough. Long-form writing does not just help the reader. It empowers the writer. It is the teen girl filling up her diary with pages and pages of adolescent ache and wonder, learning to tell the truth to herself even before she can say it out loud. It is how she shapes her identity and gives herself the dignity of being heard, even if it is just by the pages of a spiral notebook. It is the soldier overseas, writing long letters to the love he left behind. The letters are not just about love. They are about memory. About hope. About staying human in the middle of inhumanity. It is the pastor, sitting quietly in the early morning hours, writing a sermon that will never go viral but might just help someone in the third row remember they are not alone.
Long-form writing is sacred. It takes time, intention, and attention. And in return, it gives us meaning, clarity, connection, and courage. So, no, long-form is not outdated. It is not irrelevant. It is real. It is where we grapple with complexity and refuse to be flattened by convenience. It is where nuance, truth, and imagination meet.
And, if you are still not convinced, I would like to introduce you to one tiny theologian in a blue onesie, whose hands were flying and whose words were nonsense, but whose message was unmistakable: storytelling still matters. And sometimes, the loudest sermon comes from someone who has not even learned how to say “story” yet.
References
Zacks, J. M., Speer, N. K., & Reynolds, J. R. (2017). Neural activity during event segmentation in narrative comprehension. Nature Communications, 8, 150–160. https://www.nature.com/articles/s41467-017-02036-8
Kirmayer, L. J. (2025). Narrative embodiment and health. AMA Journal of Ethics, 27(6), E429–E435. https://journalofethics.ama-assn.org/article/narrative-embodiment-and-health/2025-06
Dissanayake, E. (2013). The deep structure of the arts. Cited in AMA Journal of Ethics.
Shi, X., et al. (2024). Short-form video addiction and its impact on adolescent brain function. Frontiers in Psychiatry, 14, 10756502. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC10756502
Holy Family University. (2023). The impact of TikTok on attention and memory. https://www.holyfamily.edu/about/news-and-media/hfu-blog-network/tiktok-impact-attention-and-memory
Centered Health. (2023). TikTok: Hidden dangers to mental health. https://centeredhealth.com/blog/tiktok-hidden-dangers-to-mental-health
Thapliyal, A., & Fong, C. J. (2024). Short-form video influence on cognitive load in educational environments. Preprints. https://www.preprints.org/manuscript/202501.0269/v1
Murphy, J. (2024). TikTok, dopamine, and educational decline: Understanding digital distraction. Education Research Quarterly, 47(2), 55–71. https://files.eric.ed.gov/fulltext/EJ1454296.pdf