Sirens don’t move people. Stories do. When uncertainty spikes and information fragments, a clear, human story becomes the operating system of a response. It explains reality without euphemism. It gives meaning to sacrifice. It turns scattered effort into coordinated momentum. In The Crisis Leader, I argue that the leaders who win the first 72 hours of any crisis aren’t necessarily the ones with the loudest megaphones or highest rank; they’re the ones who can tell the right story at the right time and make people feel the future they’re being asked to build.
This post shows you how. We’ll unpack the “pain vs. pleasure” storytelling technique, then craft emotionally vivid narratives that mobilize action, ethically, clearly, and fast. We’ll draw on lessons from The Crisis Leader, as well as insights from Simon Sinek (Start with Why), Nancy Duarte (Resonate), Chip and Dan Heath (Switch), Stephen Denning (The Leader’s Guide to Storytelling), Brené Brown (Dare to Lead), and Daniel Goleman (Emotional Intelligence).
Why does the story beat the data when the ground is moving
In calm times, data persuades. In chaos, data follows emotion. Under threat, the brain privileges meaning and safety over spreadsheets. People ask three primal questions: Am I safe? Do you see me? What should I do now? A good crisis story answers all three.
From The Crisis Leader: Two human needs drive early response: certainty and connection. Straight facts restore some certainty (“what is true right now”), but only a story creates connection (“why this matters to us, together”). Story does more than “inspire”; it coordinates. It gives disparate actors a shared mental model: who we are, what we’re confronting, where we’re going, and how each person helps us get there.
Simon Sinek underscores this with “Start with Why”: people buy into purpose before process. Purpose is transmitted through story, short, repeatable, emotionally credible narratives that align heads, hearts, and hands.
The pain vs. pleasure technique (and how to use it ethically)
In The Crisis Leader, I introduce a simple, powerful device: use pain and pleasure intentionally in your narrative.
- Pain is the cost of staying in the current state: harm, loss, risk, injustice, wasted time. You name it clearly to create urgency.
- Pleasure is the felt experience of the desired future: safety, reunion, relief, dignity, power restored, a clinic lit again at night. You make it visible and near to create hope.
The arc is straightforward:
- Show the pain (without sensationalism).
- Name the path (practical next steps; who does what).
- Paint the pleasure (near-term wins people can feel).
Ethics matter. The goal isn’t to manipulate; it’s to confront reality and ignite agency. “Pain” must be proportionate and truthful. “Pleasure” must be plausible and time-bound. You are building the emotional runway for decisive action, not selling a fantasy.
A simple test: if your story would still feel honest if told back to the people most affected, you’re on the right side of the line.
Anatomy of a crisis story that mobilizes
The most useful crisis stories are short, portable, and scalable. They work in 30 seconds, 90 seconds, and three minutes. Build yours from these components:
Protagonist
Make the protagonist us (the community, the team, the city) or those we serve (patients, families). Avoid “I, the hero.” Leaders narrate; communities star.
Villain (the problem)
Name the real adversary: floodwater, a cyber-attack, grid failure, cold, misinformation. Be concrete. Vague villains (“challenges,” “issues”) don’t focus behavior.
Stakes
Spell out what we lose if we fail and what we gain if we succeed. Stakes produce coherence: they tell people what to care about right now.
Turning Point
“This is the moment we stop X and start Y.” The day and hour matter. In a crisis, time markers (“by sundown,” “in the next two hours”) translate the story into action.
Path & Roles
Now → Next → Later. Who does what by when. This is where the story becomes a plan.
Proof
Show early evidence that the path works: a road cleared, a ward powered, a family reunited. Proof converts inspiration into belief.
Near-term Vision (“Pleasure”)
A vivid, sensory description of the near future. “By 22:00 tonight, the pediatric ward will be warm, lights steady, parents sleeping in relief.” People move toward pictures.
Nancy Duarte calls this contrast the “what is / what could be” pulse; the Heath brothers call it “bright spots.” In The Crisis Leader, I pair it with a cadence, brief, act, observe, adjust, so the story is continuously refreshed with new proof.
Three ready-to-use story formats (with examples)
1) 30-second “Now–Next–Later”
- Now: “Our eastern neighborhoods are without power, and the hospital’s backup has six hours of fuel.”
- Next: “In the next 90 minutes, we’ll cut non-critical load by 30% and escort a 2,000-liter fuel delivery.”
- Later: “By midnight, every ICU bed will be powered and two warming shelters open.”
Use this at the start of every update. It is the heartbeat of coordinated action.
2) “Gravity + Agency + Near Win”
- Gravity: “If we don’t secure the levee by 18:00, water will reach the clinic.”
- Agency: “We have sand, trucks, and 140 volunteers arriving in 20 minutes.”
- Near Win: “If we complete the western berm by 17:30, the clinic stays dry and triage keeps running.”
This formulation from the book balances truth and momentum.
3) Before–After–Bridge
- Before: “Last night, families slept in cars because the heat was off.”
- After: “Tonight, the gym will be warm, cots set, hot soup on.”
- Bridge: “Here’s how we get there in four hours: keys, fuel, three drivers, school custodian on site.”
This is your go-to story for public briefings and media. It respects pain and shows a credible bridge to pleasure.
Crafting emotional vividness (without purple prose)
Vivid doesn’t mean verbose. It means sensory and specific.
- Replace abstractions with images: “a cold blue ICU monitor blinking back to life.”
- Use proximate numbers over big totals: “12 elderly residents moved in one hour” lands harder than “hundreds assisted.”
- Time-stamp moments: “by dawn,” “at 16:45.”
- Name people and places (with consent): “Fatima’s inhaler replaced at the shelter,” “the Korangi bridge cleared.”
Brené Brown reminds leaders that vulnerability, naming the hard, admitting fear, builds trust. A brief sentence of emotion, grounded in action, humanizes the narrative: “I felt the same fear you do when the lights went out. Here’s what we’re doing about it.”
Goleman’s work on emotional contagion matters here. Your tone is part of the story. Calm voices, measured pacing, and straightforward words regulate collective emotion and make your story usable.
Field-tested examples
New Zealand (COVID-19)
Jacinda Ardern’s updates pulsed with clear stakes, near-term wins, and inclusive language (“team of five million”). Her “what is/what could be” rhythm created shared vision and social proof: “If we do X by Y, we will save Z lives.” The story became a policy that people could feel.
Corporate cyberattack
The CTO doesn’t narrate firewalls; she narrates continuity: “Right now, orders are paused. In the next six hours, we’ll restore the warehouse system in offline mode so deliveries resume at 60%. By tomorrow at 10:00, every oncology shipment is confirmed.” Customers hear a path to pleasure (care, continuity), not acronyms.
Story as a team sport (build a story culture before a crisis)
You cannot outsource this to comms in hour one. Build story muscles now.
- Story banks. Keep a living library of two-sentence stories about past “near wins” and bright spots. In a crisis, you’ll draw on them as proof and pattern.
- Micro-brief training. Teach every supervisor to deliver a 90-second “Now–Next–Later.” In The Crisis Leader, I show how decentralizing the brief accelerates speed and trust.
- Story circles. After shifts, ask: “What did we see? What worked? What changed because we acted?” This produces learning and material for next-shift stories.
- Visual anchors. A whiteboard with “Before / After” photos, a map with lines turning green, and a big “hours on generator” counter all become story props everyone can point to.
- Recognize narrators. The person who explains the plan well is as valuable as the person who wrote it, and rewards clarity.
Stephen Denning’s advice is spot on: leaders steward narrative assets. Treat stories as infrastructure.
How to avoid the five storytelling failures that sink responses
- Spin. Painting over pain melts trust. Name losses.
- Vagueness. “We’re addressing challenges” doesn’t organize anyone. Replace with “We are opening two shelters by 19:00.”
- Hero complex. If you are the hero, the story dies when you leave. Make the community hero; make your role the guide.
- Inconsistency. If today’s story contradicts yesterday’s without explanation, people will write their own. When the plan changes, say why.
- Endless future, no near win. “We’ll rebuild” isn’t a call to act in the next hour. Put a win within reach and point at it.
When you feel tempted to “go big,” go near instead. The mind reaches for what it can touch.
Measuring if your story is working
You don’t need a dashboard to sense story traction, but signals help:
- People start repeating your phrases unprompted.
- Frontline decisions align without central direction.
- Rumor volume drops after each briefing.
- New volunteers arrive asking for the task you named.
- Partners cite your near-term milestones as their targets.
If these aren’t happening, shorten the story, bring it nearer, add proof, and tighten the “Now–Next–Later.”
Put it into play: two ready scripts you can use today
90-second incident opener
“Here’s what’s true right now: water is unsafe east of the river, the clinic is on backup power with four hours of fuel, and 120 people are in the school gym. Here’s what we’re doing next: public taps will be opened at the stadium in 60 minutes, we’re cutting clinic load by 30% to buy us 12 hours, and two trucks are loading fuel now for delivery by 18:00. By nightfall, every ICU bed will be powered and every family in the gym will have a warm meal. Your role in the next two hours: if you live east of the river, get drinking water only at the stadium; if you have a pickup, report to the depot to escort the fuel convoy; if you can volunteer, check in at the gym desk. We’ll update at 16:30.”
Three-minute community briefing
“Last night, many of you slept in cars. That is not who we are, and it’s not how the next night will go. Right now, the substation is offline, and the hospital runs on backup; we have four hours at the current load. If we do nothing, the ICU goes dark. We won’t let that happen. In the next 90 minutes, we will reduce hospital load by a third and secure a 2,000-liter delivery with police escort. That buys us to midnight, when a repair crew can complete the switch. By tomorrow morning, the pediatric ward will be warm, lights steady, and the gym will be open with 150 cots and hot soup. You’ll see volunteers at the library in 20 minutes, buses at 18:00 for those needing warmth, and messages every hour at 15 past the hour. If you have a generator and can host a neighbor, please let us know at the desk, since we are matching households. This is the moment we shift from waiting to doing. We do it together.”
Notice the pulse: pain, path, pleasure; who, what, when; proof and promises you can keep.
Final word: your story is a promise
Every crisis story is a promise about tomorrow. Keep it small enough to honor, human enough to believe, and vivid enough to move feet. In the field, the most powerful story I’ve seen is almost embarrassingly simple: “By tonight, light in the ward, warmth in the gym, soup in the hand.” People know what to do when they hear that. Then, when it happens, trust doubles, and your next story can carry more weight.
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Lead with truth. Lead with pictures. Lead with a story people can carry into the next hour and make real.
By Gisli Olafsson, Author of The Crisis Leader
