Some months ago I read Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to my children. I had not read the book since primary school, and it was interesting reading in a number of senses. One of them is that it seems to violate modern advice on how to write a novel—and yet it is a beloved piece of children’s literature regardless. So is the advice wrong? Or incomplete? Or are modern audiences just different than they were decades ago?

Conventional wisdom for authors is that a strong plot is based on a strong conflict or interweaved conflicts—and that each scene needs to advance the conflict in some way. (Or perhaps every other scene, if you follow the Deborah Chester model of action-reflection-action-reflection.) Without conflict, it seems, audiences get bored and simply stop reading.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory seems to follow this model initially. We are introduced to the desperate poverty of the Bucket family, which is juxtaposed against the delectable decadence of a wondrous chocolate factory in the same town. The stakes are raised by the contest of the Golden Tickets, and one by one the tickets are claimed by other children who are truly horrid in their own ways. Charlie, meanwhile, shows his virtue by accepting his suffering without complaint, and doing what little he can to help the rest of the family.

But once Charlie finds the last ticket, the conflict as such seems to vanish. Charlie and Grandpa Joe go from one wonderful experience to the next, passive observers rather than active agents in the story. The other children suffer various unexpected fates, of course, but what exactly is the underlying conflict?

Moreover, the narrative gleefully brings itself to a halt several times, and invites the reader to enjoy such diversions as Square Candies that Look Round, which play zero role in the plot. Especially in such a short book, why does Dahl allow himself such self-indulgence?

Perhaps the more useful way to address the first issue is to reframe it. The story is not presenting a conflict—it is presenting the reader with two mysteries. The first mystery, created by the contrast between Charlie’s selflessness and the other children’s incredible vices, is whether Charlie will receive his just reward, and whether the other children will receive their just punishments. And the story goes on to answer that question in the affirmative, presenting a straightforward morality play as the other children receive punishments that fit the crime, so to speak. Charlie, being a good boy, does not overstep his bounds during the tour and seems to be in no danger.

Or is he? During my reread, I was struck by the depiction of Wonka himself. He seems indifferent to the danger that the other children are placed in, and even seems to relish the thought of Veruca Salt heading off to the incinerator, for example. As their parents understandably go into panic, Wonka blithely promises that “they all come out in the wash.” The net effect is quite sinister—and Dahl is a master of sinister, as you can see in his stories for adults such as “The Landlady.” (One might even be tempted to read Wonka as a devil-figure, with his goatee and his profession of tempting children with sweets. Dahl certainly had the literary chops to be thinking in that direction.)

So the other mystery is what are Wonka’s intentions, especially with Charlie? And this mystery is deepened as the story progresses, until we finally learn that Wonka was looking for a successor. In that one moment of eucatastrophe, both of the key mysteries of the story get resolved in a whoosh of joy.

But what of the Square Candies that Look Round, and other such flourishes? My read is that Dahl was trying to maintain a sense of wonder, even if it didn’t advance the plot per se. Rather than presenting conflict specifically, Dahl’s technique is to provoke interest in general. Conflict is only one tool to provoke interest; mystery and wonder are others.

Slavish focus on plot action was not always mandatory for authors. In earlier eras, authors often would digress into various topics just because they were interesting. (One could think of Victor Hugo’s multiple-chapter celebrations of, for example, the sewer system of Paris.) Today, that sort of thing seems to have fallen out of fashion—with some notable exceptions. Neal Stephenson sometimes gets grief for his unexpected monologues on the proper way to eat Captain Crunch cereal and the like.

I don’t believe that modern audiences are so very different than in former years. Yes, attention spans are shorter, and some readers are conditioned to expect more action. But if, regardless of these challenges, you think you can provoke reader interest with a sparkling piece of writing even if it doesn’t advance story conflict, I would say go for it.