What Resident Alien Can Teach You About Writing Dialogue That Doesn’t Suck
If you’ve ever watched the show Resident Alien, you know its brilliant premise: an alien crash-lands on Earth, loses his planet-destroying device, and must impersonate a small-town doctor to find it, all while trying to master the bizarre art of being human. His primary method for learning our bizarre customs and language? Binge-watching television, especially old reruns of Law & Order. (Dun-dunn)
The results are hilarious. Harry often gets the words right, but the delivery, the context, or the emotional nuance is wildly off-kilter. He’ll use the dramatic gravitas of a courtroom closing argument to order a pizza. He mimics the patterns of human speech without grasping the unspoken rules that govern it. He sounds, in short, like an alien trying very hard, and failing, to impersonate a human.
And here’s the uncomfortable truth: so do most of the characters in our learning materials.
Consider this kind of exchange, common in many training modules or compliance refreshers:
JANET: "Good morning, Robert. As you are undoubtedly aware, our organization maintains a strict policy regarding workplace harassment, which was implemented in 2019 following an extensive legal review and communicated through mandatory all-staff training."
ROBERT: "Yes, Janet, I am indeed fully cognizant of this comprehensive policy. It meticulously covers all forms of inappropriate workplace behavior and includes highly detailed reporting procedures, which I have reviewed."
This isn't dialogue. This is two policy manuals having a wooden, overly formal chat. This is where learner engagement goes to die.
Yet, somehow, this brand of writing has become the accepted norm in much of learning design. We've collectively decided that as long as information gets dutifully transferred, it doesn't really matter if our characters sound like they learned to speak from a government operations manual.
But here’s the critical truth: bad dialogue doesn't just annoy learners—it actively undermines learning. When characters don't sound remotely human, learners stop caring about their problems or their solutions. When scenarios feel artificial, the lessons within them feel irrelevant. We're consistently shooting ourselves in the foot, often without even realizing the damage.
How We Got Here (And Why It’s So Hard to Leave)
The roots of this dialogue dilemma run deep. Most of us creating learning content didn't embark on careers as scriptwriters; we're subject matter experts, former educators, or corporate trainers who found our way into designing learning experiences. We learned—or were taught—to prioritize clarity, accuracy, and completeness above all else. When an organization (XYZ) needs to ensure its people understand critical information or can perform specific tasks (ABC), the emphasis naturally falls on measurable outcomes.
This focus on clear, measurable outcomes (achieving ABC) often means that crafting nuanced, human dialogue—which undeniably takes more time and adds complexity to the development process—gets deprioritized. It's perceived as a "nice-to-have" rather than essential, especially when pitted against the "need-to-have" of ticking off compliance boxes or demonstrating knowledge transfer. Then there's the ever-present efficiency trap. It’s undeniably easier, and faster, to just have Character A deliver Fact Set #1 and Character B dutifully respond with Fact Set #2. Box checked, learning objective ostensibly met, project shipped.
But we're also wrestling with a more insidious issue: many of us have internalized the misguided belief that "educational" or "professional" content must equate to "formal" delivery. We worry that if characters sound too casual, too authentic, or too real, the content somehow loses its legitimacy or authority. This is precisely the kind of backwards thinking that’s strangling our impact and making our characters, and thus our lessons, less relatable.
What Real People Actually Sound Like (Hint: Not Like Our Characters Often Do)
Before we can even begin to fix the dialogue in our learning content, we need a reality check—a moment to acknowledge how actual humans communicate. Real conversation is messy, layered, wonderfully imperfect, and rarely as direct as we write it. People interrupt each other (and themselves). They use incomplete sentences. They pepper their speech with "um," "uh," "like," and pause mid-thought to gather their words.
More importantly, people almost never say exactly what they mean, not entirely. Subtext is the air real conversations breathe. When your colleague remarks, "That's certainly an… interesting approach," they might actually be thinking, "I believe you're completely off-base, but I'm trying to be diplomatic." When someone responds with a flat "Sure, whatever works" to your enthusiastic suggestion, they're probably not brimming with support for your plan.
This rich, unspoken layer is the stuff of real human connection, and it's the first thing to disappear when dialogue is treated like a simple information dump.
The Anatomy of Dialogue That Actually Works
Good dialogue within a learning experience is a workhorse; it needs to serve multiple masters simultaneously. It must advance the learning objectives, reveal believable character (even in a brief interaction), and sound authentic—all at once. This isn't simple, but it's far from impossible.
The fundamental principle is that every single line of dialogue must earn its keep. Let's be honest: your learners aren't sitting on the edge of their seats, super excited to be reading (or listening to) this dialogue. Their attention is precious. That means if a character says something, it has to work hard to justify its existence. If a line isn't adding to the lesson, building the character, or moving the scenario forward, it needs to be revised or cut. Rigorously ask yourself:
Does this reveal something about who they are (their personality, background, motivation, mood)?
Does it move the scenario or micro-story forward?
Does it clearly and naturally illustrate the intended learning point?
If the answer is a resounding "no" to all three, that line has to go.
Character voice is far more critical than many of us acknowledge. A 22-year-old intern on their first day doesn't speak with the same vocabulary, cadence, or confidence as a 50-year-old department head with decades of experience. A software engineer discussing code will sound different from a marketing manager pitching a campaign. These aren't mere surface details; they are the threads that weave believability and make characters feel real.
And then there's subtext—the Achilles' heel of most instructional dialogue. We tend to write characters who articulate their thoughts and feelings with perfect, unvarnished clarity. This is the polar opposite of how humans generally operate. Real people hint, deflect, imply, and persuade. They have internal agendas, biases, and emotions that subtly or overtly color everything they say and how they say it.
Practical Techniques That Genuinely Improve Dialogue
After years of wrestling with this (and producing my fair share of "alien" dialogue), I've landed on some techniques that consistently elevate the quality of character conversations. None of them are revolutionary, but applied diligently, they work. If you're wondering how to immediately improve your dialogue, focus here:
Read. Every. Line. Aloud. This isn't optional; it's fundamental. If you can't say it naturally without stumbling or cringing, your characters certainly can't.
Give Characters Goals Beyond Information Delivery. What does each character want in this scene, apart from just explaining something? Maybe Janet from our earlier example isn't just reciting policy; perhaps she's subtly trying to gauge if Robert genuinely takes harassment seriously, or if he's just feigning compliance. Maybe Robert is trying to project an image of being thoroughly knowledgeable and on top of things. Suddenly, their otherwise flat conversation has potential layers and intrigue.
Embrace Realistic Imperfection. Real people don't always speak in perfectly formed, grammatically pristine sentences. They trail off ("I was thinking we could maybe..."), they restart thoughts ("What if we—no, actually, let's consider..."), they use filler words ("So, um, like, the main thing is..."). Used sparingly and appropriately, these small imperfections are what make characters sound authentically human.
Show Emotional States Through Speech Patterns, Not Just Labels. Don't have a character flatly state, "I am frustrated by this." Show their frustration. Have them speak in short, clipped, impatient sentences. Or perhaps they repeat themselves. Or maybe their language becomes overly formal and cold as they try to maintain control.
Tackle the "As You Know, Bob" Monster Head-On. This infamous problem—where characters tell each other things they both already know, purely for the learner's benefit—is rampant. The fix usually involves creating a genuine, believable reason for the information to be shared. Bring in a new character who actually needs things explained. Have characters disagree on key facts, prompting a clarification. Or reveal the information through discovery or action, rather than just talk.
Applying these techniques consistently will make a marked difference in the quality and impact of your learning content.
What Success Actually Looks and Feels Like
I know the dialogue in a learning module is truly working when learners start anticipating how specific characters might react or when they develop preferences for certain characters because they feel like distinct personalities.
Think about Harry's journey in Resident Alien. In the beginning, his stilted, robotic speech is funny because he’s an outsider. But as the series progresses, his dialogue evolves. He starts to pick up on sarcasm, his pauses become more natural, and he even attempts (and often fails at) emotional sincerity. And what happens to us, the audience? We get more invested. We start to understand his internal conflicts. We go from laughing at the alien to actively rooting for the person he’s becoming, even with his world-ending mission still in play.
This is the ultimate power of well-crafted dialogue. When our characters evolve, when their speech reflects growth and authentic struggle, learners don't just process information—they form a connection. They start to care about the outcome, not just for the 'right answer,' but for the characters themselves. Good dialogue makes abstract concepts concrete. Instead of telling learners about the principles of "effective feedback," you show them what one looks like. Instead of listing the signs of workplace conflict, you let them witness it brewing between characters they've come to believe in.
The business case for this is straightforward and compelling: engaged learners absorb and retain more information. Memorable, authentic scenarios stick with people far longer than dry bullet points or disembodied facts. Characters who feel real make the problems and solutions presented feel relevant and applicable to the learners' own lives.
But there's something even deeper happening when we get dialogue right. When we write believable characters navigating realistic workplace challenges, we're implicitly acknowledging that these challenges are fundamentally human. We're validating that context matters, that relationships influence outcomes, and that navigating the messy, imperfect reality of human interaction is a critical skill learners need to develop.
Moving Forward: From Robotic Recitation to Real Conversation
The solution isn't for all of us to suddenly become award-winning screenwriters overnight. It's to begin by paying closer, more empathetic attention to how people actually talk, and then to care enough about our learners' experience to invest the extra effort in our writing.
Start small, but start now:
Pick one upcoming project and make it your mission to ensure the dialogue sounds authentically human. Apply the techniques discussed here. Read every line aloud. Get feedback from colleagues—especially those who will give you candid opinions.
Become an observant student of conversation. Pay attention to the dialogue unfolding around you—not to eavesdrop creepily, but to consciously absorb the rhythms, patterns, and quirks of real speech.
Most importantly, stop treating dialogue as a necessary evil. It's not just a clunky vehicle for content delivery; it's a powerful opportunity to forge genuine connections between learners, the material, and the human experiences at the heart of what you're teaching.
This all brings us back to Harry. The longer he’s on Earth, the more he adapts. His initial robotic mimicry gives way to a complex, conflicted, and surprisingly endearing character. The writing is so effective that by the time you're deep into the story, you've become so invested in his journey and his relationships that you may or may not find yourself occasionally rooting for the total destruction of Earth, just because he wants it.
That’s the power of a character we truly believe in. And while our goal isn’t to make learners root for global annihilation, it is to make them root for our characters to learn, to succeed, and to navigate the challenges we’ve put before them. That level of investment is what turns a simple lesson into a meaningful, memorable experience.
So yeah, sometimes Harry Vanderspeigle—the alien awkwardly imitating human behavior with the help of Law & Order reruns—seems to handle conversation more confidently than I do when I’m writing dialogue for a learning scenario. And honestly? That’s kind of comforting. Because learning to sound human—whether you’re a stranded alien or an instructional designer—isn’t about getting every line perfect. It’s about being intentional, listening closely, and being willing to try again when something lands weird. The goal isn’t flawless dialogue. The goal is connection. And a learner who feels connected is a learner who sticks around.
Dun-dunn.