"I guess what I’m really getting at is that language is never—or never purely—a decoration. An imagined language cannot be tacked on as set dressing in fiction and fully succeed. It has to grow from the principles of the world, as the novel’s prose itself does—messily maybe, sometimes inconsistently, embellished through sleight of hand and a thousand small gestures. As Le Guin writes in “Inventing Languages”: “A few mysterious words can give the impression of a language, the flavor of it, which is all most novels need to do; all the inventor has to do is make the words linguistically plausible.” In The Goblin Emperor, we never hear Maia speak his language, but for almost five hundred pages, we don’t doubt that it’s real, that it has social, political, and concrete implications when spoken.
The late John M. Ford told his editors: “I have a horror of being obvious.” As a reader, I have a horror of being force-fed the obvious. I like a little confusion. I don’t mind dropping into a world and being forced to wander it before I can figure it out; In fact, if I’m honest, I prefer that. I wonder, sometimes, if authors are done a disservice when we are so often pushed to revise toward “clarity.” Of course unintentional confusion or inconsistency can sink a story just as surely as over-exposition can, and often it’s easier for a third-party to see those gaps in internal logic where a story has gone astray or gotten tangled in its own machinery. That kind of clarity can be helpful, even essential. But too often I think the scale tips toward encouraging a kind of exposition that begins to tell the reader how they should read a piece. An attempt at a shortcut, a trapdoor in the prose rather than a carefully built maze, winding turn by turn toward its end."
--Caroline Shea, (April Newsletter: New Fiction, Imagined Languages, and Who's Afraid of Genre? (pt. 1000))