I like it when the Doctor—the Doctor, as in Doctor Who, not my local GP—is clever. There’s something special about those moments when the Doctor is standing toe-to-toe with a villain, the odds stacked impossibly against them. Everything looks lost, companions are in danger, the enemy has all the power… and then, with a spark of brilliance, the Doctor reveals the plan. Suddenly the tables turn, and the day is saved not by brute force, but by wit, timing, and sheer cleverness.
But here’s the key: it has to be done properly.
The best of these moments are like a good whodunnit. All the clues were there, scattered for us to see, but we missed them—or didn’t quite piece them together. Then, when the reveal comes, it feels both surprising and inevitable. You realise the solution was in front of you all along. That’s when the writing shines.
It also works best when it’s the underdog who pulls it off. The character who has been battered, beaten, and underestimated. The one who never quite gets the upper hand, who’s been on the ropes the whole time. When that character finally turns things around through sheer ingenuity, it’s not just a resolution—it’s a triumph. That’s when you get the jump-out-of-your-seat moment, the cheer, the fist pump, the yes, they did it! feeling.
Of course, when it isn’t done well, the magic disappears. If a solution suddenly appears from nowhere, with no groundwork laid, it doesn’t feel clever—it feels like the writer pulled something out of thin air. Instead of being impressed, you’re left thinking, well, that was convenient. Nothing kills tension faster than plot armour disguised as genius.
I’m looking at you, Star Trek. As much as I love it, nobody does last-minute techno-babble like Starfleet. Voltaire even wrote a song poking fun at it—“bounce the tachyon particle beam off the main deflector dish”—because sometimes it really does feel like the writers are just making it up as they go along. It sounds impressive, but without proper set-up, it’s more like narrative duct tape than true cleverness.
That’s why I enjoy Doctor Who when it gets it right. Often the Doctor’s plan looks chaotic or half-formed, cobbled together from scraps and quick thinking. But when the final reveal comes, you can look back and see the breadcrumbs that were there all along. It’s not magic, and it’s not luck—it’s storytelling that rewards your attention.
Think of the way Sherlock Holmes lays out his deductions—you had the same evidence, but he saw what you didn’t. Or how Bilbo in The Hobbit wins not through strength but through sharp thinking and a different perspective. These are satisfying victories because they feel earned.
That’s the essence of why I love the clever win. It’s not easy to pull off, but when it works, it sticks with you. It’s the kind of storytelling that respects the audience, makes you want to go back and spot the clues you missed, and leaves you grinning long after the credits roll.
Hard to write? Absolutely. But when it lands, it’s brilliant.
