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The first obstacle to better entertainment content is the very architecture of modern media. Streaming platforms operate on the "attention economy." Their goal is not to satisfy you, but to keep you watching. To do this, they rely on algorithms that prioritize familiarity over risk.
When you finish a show, the algorithm doesn’t ask, “Did that challenge you?” It asks, “Did you finish it within 48 hours?” Consequently, studios greenlight projects that look exactly like previous successes. We have entered the era of the "franchise singularity"—where every movie is a sequel, a prequel, a spin-off, or a cinematic universe tie-in.
Better popular media requires a rejection of this risk aversion. The golden ages of television (the dawn of HBO in the late 90s, the prestige TV boom of the 2010s) were built on the backs of strange, singular visions: The Sopranos (a mobster in therapy), The Wire (a sociological study of Baltimore), Fleabag (a woman breaking the fourth wall to discuss her existential dread and guinea pig café). These were not algorithm-bait. They were human-bait.
Use simple litmus tests to see if a show is thinking deeply.
Most modern blockbusters are Rube Goldberg machines of plot machinations: The MacGuffin is in the briefcase; we need to get it to the tower before the sky beam activates. Who cares?
Better entertainment content inverts this. Plot exists to reveal character. In The Bear, the plot is simply "fixing a sandwich shop." But the drama comes from the characters' trauma, passion, and perfectionism. The plot is the leash; character is the dog. Until studios realize that we don't remember plots (plot of Die Hard? Cop saves wife. Plot of Paddington 2? Bear gets book.), we will continue to get hollow content.
The first obstacle to better entertainment content is the very architecture of modern media. Streaming platforms operate on the "attention economy." Their goal is not to satisfy you, but to keep you watching. To do this, they rely on algorithms that prioritize familiarity over risk.
When you finish a show, the algorithm doesn’t ask, “Did that challenge you?” It asks, “Did you finish it within 48 hours?” Consequently, studios greenlight projects that look exactly like previous successes. We have entered the era of the "franchise singularity"—where every movie is a sequel, a prequel, a spin-off, or a cinematic universe tie-in.
Better popular media requires a rejection of this risk aversion. The golden ages of television (the dawn of HBO in the late 90s, the prestige TV boom of the 2010s) were built on the backs of strange, singular visions: The Sopranos (a mobster in therapy), The Wire (a sociological study of Baltimore), Fleabag (a woman breaking the fourth wall to discuss her existential dread and guinea pig café). These were not algorithm-bait. They were human-bait.
Use simple litmus tests to see if a show is thinking deeply.
Most modern blockbusters are Rube Goldberg machines of plot machinations: The MacGuffin is in the briefcase; we need to get it to the tower before the sky beam activates. Who cares?
Better entertainment content inverts this. Plot exists to reveal character. In The Bear, the plot is simply "fixing a sandwich shop." But the drama comes from the characters' trauma, passion, and perfectionism. The plot is the leash; character is the dog. Until studios realize that we don't remember plots (plot of Die Hard? Cop saves wife. Plot of Paddington 2? Bear gets book.), we will continue to get hollow content.