Third Person Limited Point of View

Let’s talk about third person limited point of view, currently the most popular in published fiction. You might also hear it called third close—the names are interchangeable. We’ll deep dive into the craft and stylistic ins and outs of this fun p.o.v. and offer some practical tips for using it yourself.

So. What is third limited?

The quick answer:

In third limited point of view, the story is told by an external narrator, but filtered through a single character’s head. We have direct access to their thoughts, feelings, and experiences—any other character’s must be inferred, as they would be by the p.o.v. character. We are limited to the p.o.v. character and close to their head.

The weedy answer:

Third limited p.o.v.’s strength is its ability to create a powerful balance between character immersion and narrative flexibility.

The story is told by a narrator who is not part of the story themselves (i.e. not a character). The narrator has their own voice and attitudes towards the story. But at the same time, the narrator is closely tied to the p.o.v. character (usually our protagonist), who has their own voice and attitudes. A blending of these two voices occurs, something unique to third limited and wonderfully dynamic.

Narrative distance

We can think of this flexibility of distance between the narrator and the character as "zooming" our narrative lens in and out. The author has the freedom to bring us so close to the p.o.v. character’s head that the line between character and narrator is blurred, and within the same scene, back us away to a much more external, objective look at the character.

This zooming is embedded in the language and description. For example, if Protagonist is sitting on the riverbank, watching the sunset, we might be zoomed out—closer to the narrator—who describes the evening as falling silently and slowly, brushing warm hues across the sleepy sky. Zoom in and contrast this with our broody protagonist, who sees the same sunset and uses language like “crimson bleeding into the ground towards a slow, dark end.” Yikes.

Here’s an example of this technique in practice:

from Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo

As he and Wylan watched, the guard opened a tin of jurda and shoved a wad of the dried orange blossoms into his mouth. He looked bored and irritated, probably frustrated to be stationed far from the fun of the Hringkälla festivities.

I don’t blame you, Jesper thought. But your life’s about to get a lot more exciting.

At least the guard was wearing an ordinary uniform instead of drüskelle black, Jesper considered, still unable to shake the image of that banner from his mind[…]

What if I’d gone to Ravka instead of Kerch? Jesper thought. What if I’d joined the Second Army? Did they even let Fabrikators fight, or were they kept walled up in workshops? Ravka was more stable now, rebuilding. There was no compulsory draft for Grisha. He could go, visit, maybe learn to use his power better, leave the gambling dens of Ketterdam behind. If they succeeded in [their mission], anything might be possible. He gave himself a shake. What was he thinking? He needed a dose of imminent peril to get his head straight.

A large pyramid-shaped skylight looked down on what seemed to be a training room, its floor emblazoned with the drüskelle wolf’s head, the shelves lined with weapons. Through the next glass pyramid, he glimpsed a big dining hall. One wall was taken up by a massive hearth, a wolf’s head carved into the stone above it. The opposite wall was adorned by an enormous banner with no discernable pattern, a patchwork of slender strips of cloth—mostly red and blue, some purple, too. It took Jesper a moment to understand what he was seeing.

“Saints,” he said, feeling a little sick. “Grisha colors.”

Evening was falling slowly behind the snow-speckled pines, taking its time to carelessly smear bold pinks and reds across the cloudy sky.

To Protagonist, it looked just like the sun was bleeding out on this cold November wasteland.

This description of the scene is zoomed out—in the voice of the narrator—but still limited to what the p.o.v. character, Jesper, can see and extrapolate. He knows the wolf’s head is a drüskelle symbol and that the colors in the banner are Grisha, so the narrator can identify them this way. The first room “seems” to be a training room because that is what Jesper concludes it to be. On the other hand, the narrator doesn’t, for instance, say something like, “The banner was made of Grisha uniforms stolen from the dead,” because that isn’t something Jasper could know.

In this passage, the voice remains the narrator’s, who uses words like emblazoned and discernable, which, with further reading, don’t really match Jesper’s way of speaking. However, when the author wants to bring us back to the character, she transitions fluidly—her last line before Jesper’s dialog places us directly into his headspace: “It took Jesper a moment to understand what he was seeing.” It’s short, but does the job of transitioning us from the narrator’s fairly objective description to Jesper’s internal experience.

A bit later in this scene, the author zooms in and we are firmly planted in Jesper’s head (spoilers ahead about Jesper’s character):

First, notice how smoothly the text weaves in and out of narration and Jesper’s direct thoughts, in italics. Even the narration itself is a close reflection of Jesper’s thoughts, so much so that the line between the narrator and Jesper is heavily blurred. The language sounds more like Jesper than in the first passage, and the narrative motions reflect his own train of thought. In moments like these, the author can achieve a level of immersion in the p.o.v. character’s experience that is almost as deep as first person storytelling.

Transitions are important when shifting this narrative lens. Unless you’re purposely trying to create contrast, the motion should usually be seamless so that you keep the reader’s immersion intact.

Contrast as a tool

Contrast has its place, though, and is another of third limited’s strong suits when you know how to use it. Take our earlier example of a character watching the sunset. You could write this scene with a close lens to show us just what sort of mood your character is in. Or you could employ contrast and do something along these lines:

Contrast can be a useful way to get the reader to see your character in a light that the character wouldn’t realistically see themselves in. For example, maybe a character on the brink of a downward spiral into villainy thinks they are at their height, and would describe a gory battle scene in terms of victory and unsavory language for their dead opponents. The narrator, instead, steps outside of the character’s head and takes this opportunity to describe the blood slicking Protagonist’s hands, the way a burning farmhouse glints in their eye, or the brushing of a dead farmer’s outstretched fingertips against his pitchfork in the dirt.

This flexibility in closeness can also be a great way to withhold the p.o.v. character’s true feelings or intentions from the reader, at least temporarily, thus building suspense in scenes where the reader may not be sure what the character will do. Think about a villain, for example, on the cusp of a redemption arc, who finds themselves in a situation where they’re forced to make a critical choice between good and evil. Or a morally gray character who pretends to betray their accomplice right in front of their face, only for their real plan and loyalty to become clear later. Zoom out in either of these moments, and the reader won’t know what choice is really being made until the action unfolds, filling them with suspense (aka, the need to know what happens next).

Now some technical points

There are a few rules (yes, rules) to keep in mind when writing in third limited, and some fun caveats.

First, you don’t actually have to limit yourself to just one character for the entire story. You have the option to switch between multiple p.o.v. characters. Maybe you’ve seen novels written like this. Typically, the author cycles between two or more characters, switching every chapter, or sometimes from scene to scene. This acts as a tidy workaround when we want the audience to know more than a single character could tell them, want to involve the reader in multiple pieces of the action, or need to slip in some critical explanation so that they’re not confused or blindsided by a twist that comes later.

The key difference here between third limited “multi” point of view and third omniscient is how many characters’ heads we have access to at one time. In third omniscient, the narrator can dip into multiple characters’ heads within the same scene, or even same paragraph—there are really no limitations. In third limited, we have access to only a single character for the entire scene or chapter, until there is a clear break—the end of a chapter, or the white space between scenes. Because third omniscient is a more distant p.o.v., the reader never gets too immersed in any one character's head, and the narrator's attitude is always dominant, so snatching thoughts from multiple characters in a scene is no problem. In third limited, it can be seriously jarring. If we're rooted in the protagonist's thoughts, emotions, and bodily sensations, are seeing the world intimately on their terms, then suddenly dipping into the sidekick's perspective can break our immersion as readers.

Inappropriately slipping into non-p.o.v. characters’ heads is one of the most common errors when drafting in third limited. We call it headhopping, and there’s a simple way to identify it. Just ask, "Does the narrator know this by either direct observation or because the p.o.v. character knows it?" If not, then you probably need to revise it.

Headhopping often happens when the writer ends up telling instead of showing a non-p.o.v. character’s thoughts or emotions. If our p.o.v. character, Cass, is cornered in an alley by the antagonist, Dominic, she can’t hear in his thoughts how important it is to him to find out where that seemingly worthless pendant that she picked up is, but she can certainly get the idea from the strain in his tightly controlled voice, the vein standing out from his temple, the paleness of his clenched fists—and more importantly, so can the reader. In many ways, third limited p.o.v. demands description, so it can be a great way to tone up your imaginative muscles if showing is something you struggle with.

How to choose

So with all this in mind, how do you know if you should use third limited to write your story? Or how to choose a point of view character? Whether to use multiple characters or stick to just one?

Genre can help inform your decision—third limited is the most popular in fiction, and makes a great p.o.v. choice for high suspense genres like mystery and thriller, plus, its closeness to the character lends itself to psychological stories. But it can also work well for multifaceted, lots-of-moving-parts type plots if you choose to use multiple p.o.v. characters to include your readers in all the key action. When choosing who that p.o.v. character will be (or who will star in which chapter), consider who is closest to the stakes, or who has the information that your reader will need for context. You’ll also want a character with an engaging voice—blandness and narration don’t mix.

In the end, though, I believe in following your gut, especially for the first draft. If you’re naturally drawn to writing in third limited, by all means, dive in. See how your story works that way. And if you start off in third omniscient only to find that something in your writing is missing its pull, consider rewriting some scenes from one or more characters’ third limited p.o.v.’s, even if it feels foreign to you. At worst, you might have spent a couple headache-inducing hours picking up a stronger sense of who your characters are and where the real conflict of your story is seated. At best, you might have found the key to your hook. Sounds like a win-win.