Monologging

If you've never watched a single instant of a super-hero movie/show/comic/story, you still probably understand the concept of monologging.  To see a villain completely explain all the details of their plan to a hero because... no one got it up until that time.

While it's a hubris, it's also one that all clever people share, it's hard to be the sort who thinks deeply about something, or makes a massive plan, and then realize that it will happen, and the bulk of people will have no clue how you did it.

It only leads to you wanting to drown the city in radioactive goo even more.

It's the same for writers, we tend to spend hours upon hours going over tiny details that will never be the focus of our readership.  Tiny things that to an astute reader, might just pass them by.  A detail that took us months of focus and thought to shape so that it has an incredible impact on the story, but is almost unseen by the naked eye. 

Two Examples from my own work:

In one story (sci-fi) a robot speaks entirely in a style of speech that I spent months perfecting: a third person, non-possessive.  Meaning that they speak in such a way that they claim no ownership of anything, not even themselves.  "One is pleased to see you" or "One would like to ask if..."  they cannot possess anything, not even the clothes they might wear.  This was done so that later in the story, (after a singularity) the slight shift in their dialogue would show the slight shift in their personality, without beating the reader over the head with it. 

The other is from the Iron Rose, which has in it, a small thread of the main characters physiology, that is a constant throughout the story.  This singular "thing" has been a game changing point in every endeavor that the character has done.  The third book, coming out this year (hopefully), brings this to light.  At this point, the reader could return to the other stories, look at them and say to themselves "that's how that happened..." 

Unfortunately when this is unknown, it appears as a plot hole.  "How can she do that, when he failed at it moments before?"  "That doesn't make sense, those creatures could tear a building down in the last chapter, but here they can't even open a door?"  It all makes sense with the reveal, one that I left hidden for two books. 

So... as a writer, you almost want to hold people, and scream the answer to them.  You want to scream all the little secrets into their faces.  Not because they can't understand it, but because you spent so long hiding it in plainsight, hoping they'd pick up on it... and you did it well.

They don't know.

They won't know until you allow them.

You feel like you have to explain these details to them, or they'll never understand the whole world...

... it's maddening.