A lot of prologues are bad, and a lot of them shouldn’t even exist.
But the truly great ones do something that no first chapter could ever do.
Here are the prologue traps you need to avoid, seven ways to pull off a good prologue, and how to determine whether your prologue truly earns its place in your book.
1. The 20-Page Prologue
If you gain nothing else from this article, remember this:
Prologues need to be short.
And not ten pages short. Not even five pages short.
For most books, a prologue should be one to two pages.
Yes, there are exceptions.
Ken Follett’s The Pillars of the Earth has a six-page prologue. But the novel itself is roughly 1,000 pages long. If you’re writing a 1,000-page novel, you can probably get away with a six-page prologue.
For a normal-sized book, however, a one-to-two-page prologue is usually the sweet spot.
Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code follows this principle. Its prologue is only three pages long.
One technique that helps writers keep prologues short is the flash-forward. The prologue shows a moment that occurs later in the story, and Chapter One then returns to the beginning.
Donna Tartt’s The Secret History is a good example. The two-page prologue opens with the revelation that Bunny is dead and that the group has killed him. The novel then goes back in time and follows the characters toward that eventual murder.
2. The Ancient Past
Does your prologue open with the protagonist’s great-grandfather?
The founding of the kingdom?
A wizard war from 3,000 years ago?
If so, ask yourself whether you’re giving readers backstory when what they really want is the present-day story.
Another useful question is:
Am I writing the prequel, or am I writing the actual book?
There is nothing inherently wrong with beginning in the past. The key is ensuring that the past event has a strong connection to the story unfolding in the present.
Consider Tana French’s In the Woods.
Its prologue is only two pages long and focuses on three children who disappeared in the woods decades earlier. Two were never seen again. One survived and grew up to become the detective who serves as the novel’s protagonist.
The prologue works because those events continue to shape the detective’s decisions and emotional life throughout the story.
A different timeline and a different period can justify a prologue—but only when that past directly influences the narrative readers are about to experience.
3. Chapter One in a Trench Coat
If your prologue has:
- The same protagonist
- The same timeline
- The same tone
then you may not have a prologue at all.
You may simply have Chapter One.
A prologue should differ from the rest of the story in some meaningful way. It should feature a different character, a different timeline, or different stakes.
A simple test is to rename your prologue “Chapter One.”
If nothing changes, it’s probably not a prologue.
One of the most common and effective prologue structures is the “doomed stranger” prologue.
The story opens with a minor character who dies, disappears, or is otherwise removed from the narrative. This allows readers to experience the threat that will later confront the main characters.
George R.R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones uses this strategy. Three rangers venture beyond the Wall and encounter the White Walkers. Two of them are killed, establishing the threat that hangs over the entire series.
Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park does something similar. A minor character is attacked by a raptor, immediately communicating that danger exists long before the main story begins.
4. Misleading Genre
A prologue should prepare readers for the experience your novel is going to deliver.
If the prologue feels dark and grim, but the rest of the novel is lighthearted and comedic, readers may feel misled.
That said, many successful prologues initially feel different from the opening chapters.
Why?
Because they deliver the core pleasures of the genre before the story is ready to fully explore them.
Readers of a mystery want to know there will be a mystery.
Readers of a fantasy novel want reassurance that magic is coming.
Readers of a horror novel want evidence that horror awaits.
A prologue can make that promise.
It buys the writer time to establish characters and setting while assuring readers that the genre elements they came for are on the way.
5. The Info Dump
This is one of the most common prologue mistakes.
The prologue becomes a history lesson.
A worldbuilding guide.
An encyclopedia entry.
A detailed explanation of magical systems, political structures, or fictional races.
In other words, worldbuilding disguised as story.
Most writers solve this problem by focusing on plot instead of exposition, which is usually the right choice.
However, there is another option: the atmospheric prologue.
Patrick Rothfuss’s The Name of the Wind provides an example.
The prologue is only one page long and begins by describing a silence in three parts. Most of the page is devoted to atmosphere and mood.
Yet it works because it does two additional things:
First, it introduces a character with flame-red hair.
Second, it reveals that this character is waiting to die.
Those details create anticipation.
The reader begins asking questions.
Why is he waiting to die?
What happened to him?
How will his story unfold?
A good prologue leaves readers with questions.
A bad prologue gives them answers they never asked for.
6. The Clichéd Prologue
Some genres rely on familiar prologue formulas.
In crime fiction, it may be the discovery of a dead body.
Readers recognize these patterns immediately.
The danger is that they begin to feel predictable.
However, familiar setups can still work when they’re executed thoughtfully.
Delia Owens’s Where the Crawdads Sing opens with the discovery of Chase Andrews’s body in the marsh.
But before revealing the body, the prologue spends time describing the difference between a marsh and a swamp. Throughout the novel, that distinction becomes a metaphor that enriches the story’s larger themes.
William Kent Krueger’s Ordinary Grace also opens with a murder.
Yet the prologue goes beyond the crime itself and raises larger philosophical questions about suffering, faith, and grace.
The lesson is simple:
Don’t rely solely on the event.
Use the prologue to introduce atmosphere, theme, or deeper questions that make the familiar feel fresh.
7. Being Cryptic
Many writers believe mystery comes from withholding information.
In reality, good mysteries often arise from providing information that creates new questions.
A deliberately cryptic prologue can frustrate readers because they feel excluded rather than intrigued.
Your goal is not confusion.
Your goal is curiosity.
One way to avoid this problem is through direct narration.
N.K. Jemisin’s The Fifth Season opens with the narrator speaking directly to the reader:
“Let’s start with the end of the world, why don’t we?”
The novel immediately establishes a relationship between narrator and reader, creating clarity rather than confusion.
Erin Morgenstern’s The Night Circus uses a similar approach. The narrator addresses the reader directly, guiding them through the arrival of the circus and inviting them into the story.
Because the narrator is speaking openly to the audience, the prose feels intimate rather than cryptic.
Final Thoughts
Your prologue is not an excuse to explain your world, hide information, or delay the beginning of the story.
A strong prologue earns its place by doing something that Chapter One cannot.
Keep it short.
Make it distinct.
Create intrigue.
Raise questions.
