Some people say autistic folks talk about themselves too much. I’ve heard variations of that line for most of my life, usually from people who assume their own conversational norms are universal. But when I tell a story, I’m not trying to centre myself — I’m trying to build a bridge. Autistic storytelling is often an invitation: walk with me for a moment so you can see what I mean. It’s a way of creating shared context in a world where shared assumptions can’t be taken for granted.

When Autistic Storytelling Gets Misread

Neurotypical conversation relies heavily on things that don’t come naturally to many autistic people: implied meaning, shared assumptions, indirect cues, and a kind of conversational shorthand built on unspoken social rules. When those rules aren’t shared, misunderstandings bloom quickly.

Autistic communication works differently. We tend to make meaning explicit. We use concrete examples. We provide context because we can’t assume the other person has it. And when we tell a story, it’s rarely about “me” — it’s about making the abstract visible.

But to someone who expects brevity, implication, and shared social cues, a story can look like a detour. Or worse, self‑centredness.

This is the double empathy gap in action: two different communication logics colliding, each misreading the other.

Lived Examples: How Stories Carry Meaning

I’ve used storytelling all my life — long before I knew I was autistic — because it’s the most reliable way I know to help someone understand my perspective.

A Bible‑Reading Story

When my wife first became Christian, her English was still quite limited. Yet she preferred reading an English Bible over the Japanese one she also owned. I asked her why. She explained that the Japanese version was a translation of an English translation, and in the process a lot of nuance had been lost. Even with her limited English, she could sense that meaning wasn’t fixed in the surface words.

That experience has stayed with me. It taught me that translation is never neutral — and that sometimes the only way to convey nuance is through lived example.

My Father’s Court‑Martial

I’ve also told the story of my father’s court‑martial more than once. Not because I’m fascinated with my own family history, but because it illustrates something abstract: how systems can punish integrity, how authority can misread intention, and how people can be caught between rules and conscience.

Stories like these aren’t self‑focused. They’re context‑focused. They’re a way of saying: “Here is what this looks like from the inside.”

What the Research Shows

For years, autistic storytelling was dismissed as rambling, tangential, or egocentric. But research over the past decade has painted a very different picture.

Studies by researchers such as Damian Milton, Catherine Crompton, Sue Fletcher‑Watson, and Elizabeth Sheppard show that autistic narrative is often:

• more detailed
• more explicit about motivations
• more attentive to fairness and moral nuance
• more careful to avoid misunderstanding
• more focused on helping the listener follow the thread

In other words, autistic storytelling is frequently more other‑focused than neurotypical storytelling.

Autistic–autistic conversations show this clearly: they are coherent, reciprocal, and rich in shared meaning. The breakdown happens mainly in autistic–non‑autistic exchanges, where each side misreads the other’s cues.

Autistic people tell stories not to dominate the conversation, but to make the conversation possible.

The Parallel With Universalism

This misunderstanding reminds me of something I’ve been writing about recently: the tendency to assume that one’s own interpretive framework is universal.

Universalism (in the sense I’ve been critiquing) assumes:
“My way of understanding the world is the default, and everyone else is a variation.”

Neurotypical misreadings of autistic communication often assume:
“My way of conversing is the default, and autistic communication is a deviation.”

Both mistakes arise from the same root: mistaking one’s own norms for universal norms.

And in both cases, the minority group is misinterpreted through the lens of the majority.

Autistic storytelling isn’t self‑centred. It’s simply operating from a different set of assumptions about how meaning is shared.

Reframing Autistic Storytelling

So what is autistic storytelling, really?

It’s a way of creating shared context.
A way of reducing ambiguity.
A way of inviting the listener into one’s perspective.
A way of bridging the double empathy gap.
A way of saying: “Walk with me for a moment so you can see what I mean.”

It is relational, not self‑centred.
It is generous, not indulgent.
It is a form of translation — from one way of experiencing the world into another.

Closing Reflection

Autistic and neurotypical communication styles differ, but neither is superior. They simply operate on different assumptions. When autistic people tell stories, we’re not trying to make everything about ourselves. We’re trying to make ourselves understood. And perhaps that’s the invitation at the heart of autistic storytelling: to slow down, step into my world for a moment — or ours — and walk with us just long enough to see what we mean.