The experience of reading a novel that assumes your intelligence — that doesn't explain what it doesn't need to explain, that expects you to follow implications without being signposted — is rarer than it should be and more pleasurable than I can easily account for.

Sebald never explains his photographs. McCarthy never explains his sentences. Le Guin assumes you understand the implications of her world-building without being shown them. These writers are offering you something that requires you to meet them at a certain level. The assumption of intelligence is itself a form of respect.

Books that over-explain are books that don't trust their readers. This distrust is visible and it changes the reading experience in ways that are hard to articulate but immediately felt. The best books make you feel intelligent. The over-explaining books make you feel managed.