One of the important elements that makes a stand-up comedy work is an invisible unspoken contract between the performer and their audience. Observing the conditions of this contract, this covenant, makes all the difference. It determines whether we’ll have a successful set or an unpleasant experience that negatively impacts our reputation.

So where is this contract? Why doesn’t anyone remember signing it? What’s in it?

Mostly it comes down to one simple factor. The unspoken agreement from audiences is something along the lines of “I agree to give you my time and attention, and in that time I’ll let you put all your weird ideas in my head. In return you’ll make me smile and hopefully laugh.”

It sounds straightforward but anyone who’s seen Inception will know understand that letting people plant their ideas in our brains is something we don’t take lightly.

Once I saw one of my peers doing extremely poorly on stage and his tactic was to tell the audience that it’s a free show and they don’t have a right to expect much. Unsurprisingly the audience didn’t see it like that and, truthfully, neither did I. We all have a right to bomb (even if it’s not a right we’d ever fight for) but audiences also have a right to put value on their time and attention. An audience who’s prepared to open their minds and let us put weird ideas in it for a duration shouldn’t be treated like they haven’t invested anything.

For this reason alone it’s critical to deliver on the unspoken agreement. To give yourself and your set the best chance, your challenge is to let your audience know that they’ve invested wisely.

This starts with getting your first laugh established as quickly as you can. I know I’ve protested against the standard “I know I look like…” opener that’s been the de facto set-starter for decades, but the sooner you get your first laugh the better. It doesn’t have to be the strongest joke anyone’s ever heard. It’s function is to earn trust, to let your crowd know they’re in safe hands and that you’ll be making them smile. Establishing that trust quickly is the most important thing you can do, and it’s worth swapping a strong joke for a quick one if it gives you a strong foundation to proceed with.

Another factor that determines trust is having a sense of direction. We’re all on the bus while we’re confident the driver knows their destination. If the bus driver admitted to us that they have no idea where they’re going, a lot of us are getting off that bus immediately so we can start looking for another bus that might go somewhere we like.

Some comics, geniuses like Rory Scovel or Ross Noble might be able to announce that their show could go absolutely anywhere, presenting an improvised hour that combines crowdwork with stream-of-consciousness surrealism. They can pull it off with flair and leave us amazed at how they performed this alchemical wonder.

This may or may not be as unscripted as it seems (and I’ve mentioned before that tricks like crowdwork are frequently less improvised than they appear to be), and you might think that these exceptions disprove my bus driver analogy. Sure, but they’re very good drivers and let their passengers know it. Nobody on the Scovel or Noble bus is worried that they’re going to be stranded in Nowhereville without a single chuckle to sustain them. These comics still understand the unspoken contract and still deliver.

Once we’ve established that trust, we’re free to introduce crazy ideas, suspend disbelief and misdirect our audiences. It’s actually expected. Shattering expectations we’ve created is the number one tool in our kit, but it’s sooo much more effective when we had the license to create those expectations in the first place. Without the basic trust to build our foundations, our jokes won’t go anywhere.

Another essential aspect to the covenant is that we’re aiming to give our audience a good time. It’s important to remember this at all times because we need to risk the emotional safety of everyone in the room sometimes. An essential understanding of how our craft works is Benign Violation Theory, the idea that the laughter we evoke comes from rapidly creating and releasing tension. Basically, to make the laughter omelet we need to break some sacred cow eggs. Then we prove that it’s OK, that didn’t really sacrifice anything.

Sometimes the audience misinterprets the covenant and think there’s something in it about their right to not be offended. It’s not true. There’s no such right. Google it as thoroughly as you like and call every source you know – you won’t find any kind of constitutional right to never be offended because it doesn’t exist. Don’t expect your omelet if you insist on being precious about the eggs.

But what is in our covenant is respect. We have a deal, albeit an unwritten one, and deals are only worth the level of respect that underwrites them. We might challenge you, but we’re trying to get you to a better place. Any comic who just wants to emotionally assault their audience is in violation of the agreement.

One final thing, a critical piece of the puzzle is that You Have To Be OK. Astute readers of my book, The Self-Made Stand-up, will recognize this as one of my Four Noble Truths of Comedy, an immutable truth that permeates every aspect of the craft.

Comedians will frequently try and short-circuit the Benign Violation issue by inflicting the violations on themselves. This can manifest as self-deprecating humour, “going dark,” adding pathos to our humour or any number of other ways, and it can allow us to being the tension without presenting any kind of threat to the audience.

But some comics forget how important it is that You Have To Be OK, and failing to assure everyone in the room that your self-violations are Benign. If your audience goes home feeling concerned about you, you’ve broken the unspoken agreement. Nobody signed up to give you therapy. Nobody wants to feel like they’ve come to AA by mistake. Nobody wants to be a captive audience to your confessional.

I once witnessed someone at an open mic tell the most horrible story, a tragedy in which they were unquestionably the villain. This guy burst into tears toward the end of his presentation, and everything became deeply awkward. Without warning or invitation he forced a darkness upon us all and made us all feel uncomfortable and icky. He didn’t tell a single joke throughout his whole thing and never implied that he or anything was OK.

I probably don’t need to tell you that he ruined everyone’s night. The other comedians couldn’t possibly follow what he did. He bombed the whole night and cast a long shadow over everything that only made audiences feel bad. It was an emotional terrorist attack, and completely in violation of the covenant that everyone there believed they were protected by.

If you don’t remind your audiences that you’re fine and any perceived violations are benign, you’ve fucked up. What you’ve really violated is the agreement. All violations have to be benign, even the ones you target yourself with.

If there’s a theme behind the unspoken covenant it’s that we’re all safe. The comedian is going to look after you, do their best to give you a good time and make you smile. All we ask in return is your time, attention and willingness to open your mind for a few minutes so we can put our bizarre thoughts in you.