If I told you that "the utilisation of a standardised lexicogrammatical framework results in an enhancement of reader comprehension outcomes," would you keep reading?
Probably not. But that sentence says the same thing as: "Using plain English helps people understand what they read."
This is the central challenge of research communication. The ideas are complex. The language used to describe them is often more complex still. And the gap between what researchers write and what readers understand is the gap between communication that works and communication that doesn't.
This guide is for anyone who needs to write about research for a non-specialist audience — press officers, communications teams, researchers writing lay summaries, and anyone who's ever stared at a journal abstract wondering how to translate it into something a normal human being would read voluntarily.
Why Plain English Matters (And No, It's Not Dumbing Down)
Let's deal with this upfront. The most common objection to plain English in research communication is that it "dumbs down" the science. That you lose precision, nuance, and accuracy when you simplify language.
This is wrong. Plain English is not about simplifying ideas. It's about removing unnecessary barriers to understanding those ideas. You can explain quantum computing, CRISPR, or macroeconomic modelling in plain English without losing accuracy. What you lose is not precision. What you lose is jargon — and jargon is not precision. Jargon is a shortcut for people who already share your vocabulary. To everyone else, it's a locked door.
The test: can an intelligent person with no background in your field understand what you've written? If the answer is no, you haven't communicated. You've broadcast — and your audience changed the channel.
Ten Practical Techniques
1. Short sentences. Seriously.
The single fastest way to improve the readability of research writing: cut your sentences in half. Academic writing averages 25–35 words per sentence. Plain English aims for 15–20. This isn't an arbitrary rule. Short sentences are easier to parse, easier to remember, and harder to misunderstand.
Before: "The investigation, which was conducted over a period of three years and involved a cohort of 450 participants recruited from five clinical sites across the United Kingdom, demonstrated a statistically significant reduction in the incidence of postoperative complications when the novel surgical technique was employed." (46 words)
After: "The study followed 450 patients across five UK hospitals. It found that the new surgical technique reduced complications after surgery. The trial ran for three years." (Three sentences, averaging 11 words each.)
2. Active voice. Passive voice is for methods sections.
Academic writing defaults to passive voice: "The experiment was conducted." "The data were analysed." "It was observed that..." This is appropriate in a methods section, where the focus is on what was done, not who did it. It's death in public communication, where readers need to know who did what and why it matters.
Before: "A significant increase in reaction efficiency was observed when the catalyst was introduced."
After: "When the team added the catalyst, the reaction sped up dramatically."
3. Define jargon on first use — or don't use it at all
Every field has its technical vocabulary. Some of it is unavoidable. But when you use a technical term, you have two responsibilities: define it immediately, and decide whether it's even necessary.
Good: "The researchers used CRISPR — a tool that lets scientists edit DNA — to modify the gene."
Better: "The researchers used a gene-editing tool to modify the DNA." (No jargon at all, and the sentence still works.)
The rule: if the technical term isn't essential to understanding the story, replace it. If it is essential, define it in the same sentence, using language your reader already knows.
4. One idea per paragraph
Academic paragraphs often contain multiple, nested ideas — a main claim, a subordinate claim, a qualification, a reference to the literature, and a transition to the next point. This makes sense for a journal article. It makes no sense for a magazine, blog post, or policy briefing.
Each paragraph should make one point. When you move to the next point, start a new paragraph. This creates white space, which makes text feel more approachable — and it forces you to think about what you're actually saying in each paragraph, rather than bundling three ideas together and hoping the reader sorts them out.
5. Concrete examples before abstract claims
Abstract claim: "The material exhibited enhanced mechanical properties under tensile loading."
Concrete example: "The material stretched without breaking under weights that would snap steel."
The abstract claim is what the researcher cares about. The concrete example is what the reader remembers. Always give the example first, then the significance. Not the other way around.
6. Numbers need context
"The treatment reduced mortality by 32%." Is that a lot? It depends. 32% of what? In what population? Over what time period? Compared to what?
A number without context is meaningless. A number with context becomes a story: "The treatment reduced deaths by a third. For every 100 patients who received it, 12 more survived — people who would have died without it."
Always answer: compared to what? Over what period? How many actual people does this affect? Make the number tangible.
7. Read it aloud
This is the oldest editing trick in journalism, and it works. Read your draft aloud. If you stumble over a sentence, your reader will too. If you run out of breath before the end of a sentence, it's too long. If you wouldn't say something out loud in a conversation, don't write it.
This test catches more problems than any style guide: jargon that sounds unnatural, sentences that are syntactically correct but impossible to follow, and the kind of institutional phrasing that nobody would ever speak aloud.
8. Use the "dinner party test"
Ask yourself: if I explained this research to someone at a dinner party, what would I say? The answer is never the abstract of the paper. It's the one thing that's most interesting, most surprising, or most relevant to the person you're talking to.
Write that sentence down. That's your lede. Everything else follows from it.
9. Cut 20% — then cut 10% more
First drafts are always too long. Second drafts are also too long. The best writing is what's left after you've removed everything that doesn't earn its place.
After writing a draft, take out 20% of the words. You'll find them: the redundant qualifiers ("very," "quite," "rather"), the throat-clearing ("It is important to note that..."), the unnecessary hedging ("These findings may suggest the possibility that..."). Then cut another 10%. What remains will be tighter, clearer, and stronger.
10. Get a non-specialist to read it
You cannot judge the clarity of your own writing. You know what you meant to say, so when you read your own text, you hear what you intended, not what's actually on the page.
Give your draft to someone outside your field — a colleague in a different department, a friend, a family member. Ask them two questions: "Did you understand it?" and "Were you bored?" If the answer to either is yes, revise. This single step will catch more problems than everything else on this list combined.
A Before-and-After Example
Here's a real example — a lay summary from a UKRI-funded research project. First, the original:
"This interdisciplinary research project employs a mixed-methods approach to investigate the socio-economic determinants of health-seeking behaviour among marginalised urban populations, with a particular focus on the mediating role of digital health literacy in facilitating access to primary care services."
Now, in plain English:
"Millions of people in cities struggle to access basic healthcare — not because services don't exist, but because people don't know how to find them. This project is studying whether teaching digital skills — like how to book a GP appointment online — helps people in disadvantaged communities get the care they need. The team is interviewing patients across four UK cities and tracking what happens when they receive digital health training."
Same project. Same research. Completely different reader experience. The first version is for the grant application. The second is for the public who funded it.
When Plain English Isn't Enough
A caveat: plain English is necessary. It's not sufficient. Clear writing is the foundation — but great research communication needs more than clarity. It needs storytelling. It needs a human angle. It needs to answer the question every reader is silently asking: "Why should I care?"
Plain English makes your writing accessible. Storytelling makes it compelling. You need both. (For the storytelling part, see our guide on turning a research paper into a story anyone can understand.)
At Stokel Publishing, we apply these principles to every piece we produce. Research magazines. Impact case studies. Policy briefings. Press features. Clear writing is the baseline. Compelling writing is the goal. If your institution's research communications aren't achieving both, let's talk.