Why Series Matter   

They can play a critical role in helping readers understand their world. But they have to be done right.

BY THE SECOND DAY of Tom Hallman Jr.'s four-part series in Portland's Oregonian, "The Boy Behind the Mask," hundreds of readers had called or e-mailed the paper to applaud and clamor for more. They weren't just reading the stories; they were tearing out the pages to send them to distant relatives and friends; they were calling Tom to thank him for the insight his journalism provided into the world of a 14-year-old boy with a severely disfigured face, his courage, his family's love, and through that into their own hearts.

The calls and e-mails poured in, more than 3,500 in all, to let us know how Sam's story had touched them, even changed their lives. Clearly, and perhaps counterintuitively, the audience built as the series unfolded. Nine months later, it still grips readers. I was in the dentist's chair not long ago, mouth stuffed with cotton, drill at the ready, when my dentist had to know: "How's that boy Sam you wrote about?"

Two months after Hallman's 15,000-word series, the Oregonian published a six-part series, "Liberty's Heavy Hand," which detailed systemic abuses in the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service and their devastating effect on people throughout the country. We had undertaken that ambitious examination because of similar problems we had earlier uncovered in Portland. Several hundred readers called or e-mailed the reporters--not the emotional avalanche triggered by Hallman's series, but a substantial and appreciative response nonetheless. "The investigation you are doing is of the utmost importance and should serve as a model for journalists across the country," wrote a local lawyer who deals with immigration matters.

These two series are very different--completely different subjects of course, calling for differing reporting methods, story structures and writing styles. One a serial written by a master of the journalistic narrative form, the other an exhaustively reported explanatory story with an investigative edge that shed light on an issue of complexity in a way only a newspaper can or will do. They had a lot in common, too. Both got to the heart of their subject matter and adhered to the highest journalistic standards.

And both won Pulitzer Prizes, which has me, the Oregonian's editor, in the position of defender of the series, that now-ridiculed journalistic form that feeds egos and devours newsroom resources, dead trees and readers' time. There's even a Web site--Kausfiles.com--whose creator, Mickey Kaus, serves as a skeptical-editor-after-the-fact who reads, summarizes and skewers series so you don't have to.

No doubt the newspaper series is an easy target. I've judged more journalism contests than anyone should in several lifetimes and have suffered through bloated, ego-driven stories that would make even the writer's mother plead for mercy. Many are not stories at all; they are ill-conceived, poorly executed topics chopped into five parts to prolong the pain.

We editors know. We've all published them.

But it's not the form that's the problem. It's not even the length. It's the lack of rigorous editing, focus and thinking, before, during and after the writing. Execution is everything.

So many long stories--series or not--are boring because they are predictable and ponderous. Often, when reporters think something should be explored in a big series, it's because they've already seen a series on that subject or a similar one. I suspect half of all series are derivative of other series and half of those were seen at an IRE convention, where the previous year's work is laid out for others to copy.

Amanda Bennett, an Oregonian managing editor who directed the INS project, talks about the ditch that runs alongside most topics, a chasm that reporters and editors have to be careful to avoid. It's the well-traveled groove that any story can topple into and become clichéd. In the case of the INS, for example, she saw two possible troughs. One was the portrait of the valiant but understaffed border patrol keeping out hordes of illegal immigrants; the other the noble immigrant crawling across the arid desert. Each fit into a stereotypical view of the INS. So we didn't commit to the project until we had figured out a better way of traveling this well-trod path. We decided to closely focus on the arm of the INS that provides service to people seeking legitimate entry. With that approach, we stayed out of the ditch.

Stories in a series do not have to be, indeed should not be, triple digit in length. We've wrestled that bear to the ground in Portland, reducing typical series installments from two jump pages to one. We consider strong graphics, photos and presentation integral to the success of our series. We put every series through a rigorous planning process to make sure it's worth doing before we get too deeply into the reporting and to determine whether one big package or a series is the best vehicle for the reader.

And we reserve the right to shift gears. In July, we published a one-day package on monkey research at the Oregon primate center and how the race to clone monkeys is complicated by rivalry between two scientists. The project was conceived as a series; a series draft was even written. But it didn't quite work. So the editor and reporter pursued a slightly different angle than they originally intended and recast it as a single-day takeout.

The series is not a one-purpose tool; if you use it only as a hammer and treat every big subject as a nail, you will bore--and bruise--your readers. The Oregonian published eight series last year (yes, eight) and is on pace to do about the same this year. Just as Sam's story and the INS investigation varied widely, our other series have spanned the journalistic spectrum, from an adventure chronicle that ran only on Sundays for 14 weeks to the more traditional investigative explainers to heart-wrenching narrative. And all have elicited significant reader reaction.

We could not have produced these series if we had not in recent years built the subject knowledge, beat coverage and craft discipline that can lead to such work. And make no mistake--if local and regional newspapers don't report these stories, no one will. What is true in most markets is true here: Significant resources are needed for this work, as is an editor's iron will to deliver the goods in a way that serves readers, not newsroom egos. Without resources and discipline, these stories wouldn't have been told. These public institutions and individuals wouldn't have been held accountable. These complex matters would not have been explained in compelling and understandable ways. And, I wouldn't have had the longtime reader raise his hand in a community event to say he used to read the Oregonian to check the headlines and make sure he knew what was going on. "Now," he said, "I read it to make sure I really understand what is going on."

That's the highest praise he could have offered. Because that's what we all crave in this complex and media-saturated world--not just information, but insight and understanding. Readers want stories that get to the heart of the matter; stories that respect their intelligence and go beyond the obvious in explaining matters of unusual importance and interest, stories that honor the craft by adhering to the highest principles of journalism, stories that engage and enlighten.

In three parts, please.