Why do we still remember the apple that fell on Newton’s head, but not our GDP growth projection, or latest inflation figures, or even the pie chart numbers we saw in the ppt yesterday? What do great storytellers understand that the average ones don’t?
Welcome to Plain Sight by Wyzr, where we bring hidden patterns into plain sight. Every week, we explore stories and ideas that help us understand why we are the way we are.
Why Narratives Trump Numbers
One lazy afternoon in the 1660s, a young Isaac Newton sat under the shade of an apple tree, quietly contemplating the mysteries of the universe. The air was still, the orchard quiet, and Newton, resting after a long day of tinkering with prisms and pondering planetary orbits, let his mind drift.
Then it happened. As the legend goes, a single apple broke free from a branch and fell on his head. And suddenly, Newton was battling a train of questions.
Why did the apple fall straight down? Why not sideways? Or upward? Could the same invisible force that pulled the apple to the ground also pull the Moon toward the Earth? The planets toward the Sun?
It was as if the falling apple had flicked a switch in Newton’s mind. That single moment led Newton through years of meticulous observation, calculation, and theorizing. All of it culminated in his masterwork, the Principia, published in 1687—a comprehensive mathematical framework explaining how gravity orchestrates everything from falling objects to planetary orbits.
For the world, Newton discovered gravity. And it all began, supposedly, with an apple falling on his head.
But here’s the thing: this story is not false, but it’s far from the whole truth.
Long before that apple fell, others had been laying the intellectual bricks of what would eventually become Newton’s law of universal gravitation. Johannes Kepler had already suggested that a force from the Sun drives the motion of planets. Robert Hooke had speculated that gravity could be universal. Christian Huygens had worked out the math behind circular motion and centrifugal force. Giovanni Borelli had used gravitational ideas to explain the orbits of Jupiter’s moons. John Wallis and a few others had developed the early techniques of calculus. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Newton’s intellectual rival, would formalize calculus in the shape we still use today. And it was Edmond Halley (of Halley’s Comet fame) who pushed Newton to formalize his ideas, which eventually became Principia.
The story of gravity is much more than one man’s flash of genius beneath a tree. It’s a messy relay of insights passed across generations.
But then, who remembers all that? We remember the apple, and how it inspired Newton to the pathbreaking discovery. That’s what stories do. They simplify and help you retain what’s important. But they also distort reality. The apple didn’t actually fall on Newton’s head, as it’s largely believed and often depicted in caricatures. He had just observed the apple falling, and it sparked a question that changed science forever.
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Even before we began to read and write, we told and heard stories. That was the primary form of entertainment. Early humans would gather after a long day of hunting and foraging, light a fire, and talk.
One would recount how he crept up behind a wild boar near the river and brought it down with a well-aimed spear. Another would warn of a tiger seen two valleys away, told through a tale of a cousin who never returned. Elders would speak of great migrations, of floods and fires and famines — events seeped into collective memory through repetition and drama.
There were no spreadsheets or presentations, and nobody taking notes. But everyone remembered the stories. They helped us survive. They were instruction manuals for life, encoded with wisdom about dangers, alliances, food, shelter, rituals, and meaning. The sharper the story, the longer it lived.
Our brains are wired to remember narratives. That’s why even today, a compelling anecdote can outlast a policy paper. A powerful scene from a film can shape public opinion more than a thousand academic citations. A single story of a kid orphaned in a war hits harder than “Gaza bombed again, toll rises to 50,000.”
And there’s also a psychological reason for this, explained elegantly by psychologists Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky. They proposed that our minds operate through two distinct systems of thinking.
System 1 is fast, intuitive, and emotional. It’s always running in the background, making snap judgments and forming impressions without much effort.
System 2, on the other hand, is slow, rational, and analytical. It kicks in when you’re calculating a restaurant tip, reading a legal document, or doing a SWOT analysis at work.
Here’s the catch: we spend most of our lives operating on System 1. Because it’s efficient, quick, and saves mental energy. And most of the time, it does a good enough job.
Stories are tailor-made for System 1. They’re linear, patterned, and emotionally engaging. They don’t require much effort to follow, and they stir up images, feelings, characters — everything System 1 loves to work with.
Plain facts, data, pie charts, bullet points, academic prose — that’s System 2 territory. They take more effort to grasp and comprehend.
Our brains, being lazy by default, will almost always prefer the story over the spreadsheet. Not because the story is more accurate, but because it’s easier. It flows and it feels true, even if it’s not in reality.
Kahneman called this tendency “cognitive ease.” If something is easy to process, we’re more likely to trust it. If it’s familiar, emotionally resonant, and fluidly structured, we remember it better. And we trust it.
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Does it mean that the facts and charts are ineffective? Of course not. But if your goal is to make someone care — to make them remember — the way you present the facts makes all the difference.
Hook the audience with a compelling narrative, and then present facts through it, rather than keeping them isolated. Allow it to land easily on the audience.
Few understood this better than Dr. A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, a remarkable orator whose storytelling skills were comfortably overshadowed by his scientific genius. In his now-famous speech “My Vision for India”, Dr. Kalam didn’t begin with graphs or economic models. He began with emotion and pride.
“I have three visions for India. In 3000 years of our history, people from all over the world have come and invaded us… yet we have not done this to any other nation.”
Later in the same speech, after stirring up emotions, he delivered this:
“We are the first in milk production. Number one in remote sensing satellites. We are among the top five nations in space research. We are the second largest producer of wheat and rice.”
The first few lines pulled people in. And once he had the audience, he presented the facts — about atomic energy, IT exports, satellite programs, literacy growth. Because the audience was already emotionally invested, they meant something.
To be fair, people still don’t quote those figures today, but they remember the feeling that he could evoke.
Another master of this principle was Steve Jobs. In 2007, when he launched the first iPhone, he didn’t open with screen size, processor power, or battery life, but with a hint of suspense.
“Today, Apple is going to reinvent the phone.”
He told the audience they were going to see three products: A widescreen iPod. A revolutionary mobile phone. And a breakthrough Internet communicator.
He repeated this, again and again, until it dawned on the room — they were all the same device. The crowd erupted and applauded, not because they were enamoured by the new device’s capabilities (yet), but because they had been taken on a ride.
Only after that did Jobs walk through the features — the multi-touch screen, Safari browser, visual voicemail — and yes, the specs too. But by then, the audience was hooked. They wanted to hear the details.
That’s how facts should be delivered, and great presenters understand this. The shrewd ones even know how to twist the same facts to deliver different messages, whatever suits their narrative the best. It’s especially common in political circles across the world, and in entities influenced by them, like the media.
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The bottom line: to excel as a storyteller or a leader at large, you must understand how the human brain processes narratives and numbers. How System 1 and System 2 operate, and why anecdotes often trump statistics in both memorability and persuasiveness.
But this understanding cuts both ways. As communicators, we can craft impactful messages by wrapping data in compelling narratives. As audience members, we must be able to discern the emotional pull of a story from the factual realities. This is especially crucial when evaluating information on topics that are significant to you.
The most effective communicators skillfully blend both narratives and numbers. And in a world increasingly driven by both data and distraction, those who master this balance will command attention, drive action, and be remembered.
What we’re reading at Wyzr
The Storyteller’s Secret. A book that shows why great stories win, how they’re constructed, and how to use them the right way.
Until next time,
Best,
Yashraj
