Third person. First person. Present. Past.
We talk about them like settings on a dial—just flick to the one that feels best and carry on. But perspective and tense aren’t cosmetic choices. They’re structural. Foundational. They shape the bones of your story and change how the reader experiences everything from character emotion to plot tension.
Most of us are familiar with the basics.
Third person omniscient: the old-school narrator-in-the-sky, with access to everyone and everything.
Third person limited: tighter focus, more intimate, but still with a bit of breathing room.
First person: fully inside the character’s head, experiencing the world with their eyes and voice.
But there are variations—shades within the shades—that are worth thinking about.
What about dual or multiple first-person?
Some stories demand more than one voice.
One of mine, Washed Up in B Minor, is told in dual first person. Two characters. Two histories. Two perspectives, each with their own voice, rhythm, and wounds. The heart of the book is their healing, individually, and together, and a huge part of that healing takes shape as they reveal themselves to each other.
So that’s how I chose to tell it.
When one shares a piece of their past, we experience that moment through the other. First-hand voice, second-hand memory. The perspective shifts back and forth—not just because I wanted to show two sides of a story, but because that tension, that sense of discovery and perspective, was central to the story’s emotional core.
It wouldn’t have worked as well in third person. Not for this story.
Another of my works-in-progress (working title: Deep Space Blues) also uses dual first person—but for very different reasons.
She’s the Special Agent. He’s the ex-boyfriend turned Space Troubadour.*
She’s trying to complete her mission.
He’s trying to track her down.
They’re on the same planet, but it’s a big planet—and for most of the book, they’re not in the same place.
What makes this structure interesting is that neither of them knows what’s going on with the other. But the reader does. That split awareness builds tension, deepens dramatic irony, and creates a strong emotional pull toward their eventual convergence.
*Neither of them is called this in the book. Just saying.
And what about multiple third-person focus characters?
This is more common, especially in epic fantasy, thrillers, and sweeping romance.
It gives you flexibility. You can follow different threads of the narrative—cut to what matters, shift to where the action is. But it also comes with its own risks. It’s easy to lose cohesion. Easy to slip into head-hopping or to switch focus so often that no one character feels central.
So if you go this route, be deliberate. Keep each perspective grounded in character and voice, not just function.
Think about the two behemoths in the last few decade or so of Epic Fantasy – A Song of Ice and Fire (aka Game of Thrones) and The Wheel of Time.
Multi-person limited omniscience past tense.
Multi-person – because we focus on one person in each chapter. So, the books are multi-person, but each chapter is single person.
Maybe a better term would be Perspective Switching Limited Omniscience?
Limited omniscience – when we’re focused on that person, we get to ‘see’ inside their heads. But, we don’t get to see into the heads of other characters. When we’re paying attention to Brienne of Tarth, we see Jamie Lannister through her eyes. When Jamie is our focus, what’s going on in his head comes more into play.
In neither case do we know all about what they’re thinking. But what they’re thinking and how they feel about it flavours what we’re reading.
It’s worth thinking about.
Maybe you’re just getting started. Maybe you’re two-thirds through your draft and locked in. Maybe you’re revising and wondering why something feels… off.
It’s never too late to question your choices.
Ask yourself: What would this story feel like if I told it differently?
You don’t have to change it—but knowing you made the decision consciously, not just by habit, gives you more control over the emotional shape of your book. More power to adjust, to deepen, to align form with feeling.
I didn’t always think this way. I do now.
Lessons were learned.