Painters solved this 400 years ago. The answer: add darkness.
Put deep shadow next to a pale wall, and the wall glows. Nothing about the wall changed — you only changed what sits beside it. Caravaggio didn't paint things brighter. He surrounded them with black. The light needs the dark to exist.
The trick nobody teaches: contrast creates value, not the thing itself. A line of poetry lands because of the white space around it. A pause makes a sentence roar. A quiet person's rare word carries more weight than a loud one's constant noise.
Most people try to stand out by adding more — more brightness, more words, more effort, more shine. The artist knows the secret is the opposite. You don't intensify the light. You deepen the dark around it.