Whether ‘tis nobler in one sitting to savor
The emotional swings and (anti)heroes of outrageous fiction,
Or to take breaks amidst a season’s troubles,
And by not overindulging, suspend them?
Sometimes the time is ripe for a binge-watch session. Maybe you’ve entered the TV-depleted summer months, and want to quickly catch up on shows you missed last season. Maybe you’ve finally committed to a slow burn series, and need to watch it in large chunks to feel any sense of forward momentum. Or maybe you just find yourself with excess free time, shirk-able responsibilities, and Netflix at your fingertips. Whatever the case, you press play, and before you know it, you’re hooked.
Whether it’s a sitcom that never fails to make you laugh, a whodunit that leaves a tantalizing trail of crumbs, or a drama whose characters’ shenanigans you can’t get enough of, the feeling of falling in love with a story is infectious. We want—nay, need—to know what happens next, or at least to keep feeling the way we're feeling: to keep laughing, gasping, or holding our breath. Those are the times when the "next episode" button feels inevitable, not so much a choice but a compulsion. But it is a choice: to binge or not to binge.
By my estimates, the number one reason not to binge-watch a show is the risk of burnout. As with any case of over-indulgence, you don’t realize you’ve consumed too much until it’s too late. With TV, this manifests as you finding yourself annoyed at the character quirks which once seemed charming, or rolling your eyes at the plot arcs that seem too repetitive. This happened for me with Supernatural. After binge-watching five full seasons of that show, I got fed up with seeing the same storyline season after season—Dean ends up in hell, so Sam makes a deal to save him, then Sam ends up in hell; vice versa, rinse and repeat. It didn’t help that the show was a “demon of the week” procedural, so given the season-long and episodic formulas, it was both frustrating and boring to watch the same thing happen over and over again (further exacerbated by how frequently my binge-watching caused it to repeat). The plot was all too predictable, and the drama-enhancing brotherly quarrels began to feel not so much “oh, how fun!” but more “oh, here we go again…” (How that series got to 15 seasons is beyond me.)
Then again, just because I never want to see another episode of Supernatural doesn’t mean binge-mode burnout is an inevitability. I once watched all seven seasons of Buffy over three summer months, and all five seasons of Alias the next summer, and I still reflect fondly on those shows. More recently, I managed to watch five seasons of Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. in only three weeks (don’t be jealous), caught up as I was in Skye’s (aka Daisy’s) backstory, the inhumans’ mythology, the team’s family-style dynamics, and the many reveals and betrayals along the way. If you like a show enough, if you are drawn to its characters and stories, no amount of marathoning can ruin it for you, no matter how many times you’ve seen those same episodes before. (Which isn’t to say a break wouldn’t do you, or, well, me, good in the long term.) Further, burnout isn’t just a risk factor of binge-watching. I watched the first five seasons of Arrow in real time, only to find myself in the same fed-up spot as with Supernatural, annoyed by the repetitive nature of Oliver’s guilt cycle; each season, I watched Oliver isolate himself from his team, rush to confront the big bad, then realize the error of his ways, repent, and reconcile. Over time, the parts I found fascinating were outweighed by those I found frustrating. So I suppose the sword cuts both ways: no matter how (in)frequently you watch it, if you don’t like a show enough, it’s not worth your time in the long-term, either.
Another binge-watching risk applies in situations when the show is currently airing: once you catch up with the most recent season of the show, you may find that it cannot hold your attention in a network-enforced week-by-week viewing. (I, for instance, was delighted while bingeing 3 out of 4 seasons of Continuum, but lost that short-term thrill while waiting for the fourth and final season, and only watched said season for closure.) Sometimes this is a result of binge-watched shows skating on their newness factor far longer than they should—an original concept hooks you, and it’s not until you’re 2+ seasons in that you realize how homogenized or aimless the story has become. But whatever the reason, it’s always disheartening to devote an irresponsible amount of time and attention to a TV series you think you love, only to catch up in the show’s offseason, and by the time it returns, you’re sort of “over it.” The initial thrill has long since worn off, and you may not even remember basic information, like character names and order of events (since you crammed many seasons’ worth of information in mere weeks). Now that you’re forced to slow down, to add the show to your weekly watch list, its episodic nature is revealed (or its pace too slow), and it’s lost the fun, nonstop, full-story appeal.
This is because when you binge-watch, you are vastly lessening your connection, your commitment, to the show. You don’t build up a literal years-long relationship with characters, nor the long-term memory to appreciate how one season builds on another. You feel all the emotional ups and downs of the season’s journey in quick succession, not sitting with the weight of a betrayal, of comeuppance, of any characters’ feelings of failure or conflictedness, but rather sprinting onward to the resolution of such climaxes and crises. When binge-watching, all cliffhangers are immediately resolved, all dramatic ironies are quickly laid bare, and all the reveals and reversals feel more like speed bumps than (as intended) head-on collisions. In more extreme binges, seasons become like to-do lists, and run together, and you lose sight of and/or interest in the short-term arcs or subplots. You can be so focused on the main characters confronting the antagonist, solving the mystery, or reaching the final destination, you are barely watching the episodes that don’t contribute directly to that goal, or don’t seem to be moving fast enough (such as those when crucial character development is underway). Entire seasons are reduced to “the one with ___ as the big bad” or “the one where ___ dies” or “___ and ___ finally get together.” The trees, in this case, are lost for the forest. And even worse than losing details is when you lose the tension of a plot—after all, what suspense does a mid-season attempt to catch the villain have when you know he or she has to be around for the finale’s showdown? And what does the protagonist’s eventual victory mean to you, when you haven’t sat with the weight of their prior failure or uncertainty?
When you watch a show week by week, year by year, you learn to appreciate the state of suspended anticipation. That week between episodes (and/or months between seasons) gives us time to digest, ruminate, and theorize by ourselves or with friends, all that we have seen, from the minute details to the climactic events. The screen cuts to black, the credits roll, and instead of rushing on to the next installment, you sit in that moment and think: how will these characters react to this discovery? How will they counter this threat? What brought them here, and how will they go on? By pondering these and other questions, you begin to connect what you’ve just witnessed with earlier pivotal moments, decision patterns, or character arcs, and suddenly those scenes mean something more, hold more significance for the past, the future, the show itself. If you’re truly devoted to a TV show, maybe you even take the time to re-watch an episode within the same week, so as to catch every detail; in so doing, you can more fully appreciate the work that went into acting every scene, writing every line, filming every shot.
If a show is high enough quality, or boasts a compelling enough plot, it begs this sort of reflection. For instance, in The Revolution Was Televised, author Alan Sepinwall writes about how Lost debuted with the onset of social media, allowing this enhanced worldwide connectivity to perfectly align with viewers’ desire to discuss and debate this mysterious, strange show—“to collectively solve the show’s mysteries.” In the case of Lost and other series, “those online communities in turn made it easier to stick with a show that otherwise might have been too challenging without some extra brainpower to swap theories with.” (Westworld, anyone?) But more than anything, such communities “amplified fans’ fascination with Lost” as well as allowed them to vent their “frustrations” with the lack of answers provided. Anyone who’s gasping and groaning through the final season of Game of Thrones knows this feeling. For even when you disagree with a show’s direction, discussing it, poking fun at it, celebrating its successes and commiserating over its failures, is cathartic. I actually feel bad for people who will watch GoT (or other enormously popular shows) in the future, because they have so missed out on the conversations, the predictions, the excited Monday morning whispers of “can you believe it?” Living in a world brimming with spoilers, they may not have the opportunity (or even the impetus) to converse with other fans or consult online reviews and reactions.
But discussion isn't all binge-watchers will miss out on. With every next episode at their fingertips, fans of a show won’t take the time to engage with whatever ancillary content is available: webisodes, podcasts, recaps, reviews, memes, behind the scenes stories, and cast and crew interviews. From HBO’s “inside the episode” scoops, to Westworld’s fake Delos website, Blindspot’s anagram puzzles, Buffy's comics, and the Veronica Mars movie—there are myriad ways to engage in a show’s world, beyond the episodes themselves. I think of the weekly Westworld timelines I study, the GoT podcasts I listen to, and even the Supergirl reviews I read—each dissecting the show at different levels, providing me with a new perspective on events and/or (non)diegetic information I wouldn’t otherwise have learned or remembered. And I learn so much more about these shows by engaging in these sorts of official and fan-sponsored reflection and discussion—from character motivations to the themes and lessons imparted by a series—that I know what I'm missing out on when I can just click “next episode" and expect my questions to be answered that way.
But of course, most of the time we start to binge-watch (or regular watch) a show, it’s driven by a desire for entertainment, not an interest in building communities or provoking thoughts. And we don’t always have the luxury of viewing a show week-by-week, or even while it is airing. An increasing number of golden-era shows have long since aired their series finales, and a decreasing number of viewers watch shows live. It doesn't help that services like Netflix release entire seasons at once, encouraging a 10+ hour marathon.
Ultimately, it is up to the individual to gauge her interest level and parse out episodes according to her own time and inclination. There are shows you watch every week because you want to avoid spoilers or need to be in-the-know; there are shows you can only watch once a week because they’re so heavy or dark (like The Handmaid’s Tale). On the other hand, there are genres like sitcoms or limited series that are better enjoyed in large chunks over weekends; and there are mystery-thrillers, like Absentia, that you purposefully let build up on your DVR so that you can binge the full season like a 10-hour movie. All good options, and all up to the viewer’s choice.
And so, to binge or not to binge? …that is not the question.
Or rather, not the most helpful phrasing. Instead, as your mouse hovers over that “next episode” button, try asking yourself if it’s the one-off story you’re interested in, or the show world itself you can’t get enough of. If it’s the former, you don’t want a long-term attachment so much as temporary entertainment. But if it’s the latter, if a TV series is compelling enough to glue your eyes to the screen, then I recommend that you take a beat every now and again, whether to think, to engage in ancillary content, or just to give yourself time to build anticipation for and devotion to those characters and stories.
Now, I’m not suggesting you self-enforce one episode per week, but I also don’t condone bingeing 67 episodes in one weekend, either. As empowering as it feels to plow through to that cliffhanger payoff, I have found that that control works both ways—you can hold off, sit with what you've just seen, and allow that adrenaline to be fueled into contemplation and appreciation, and not just go on to thoughtless, hungry marathon mode. It's about loving something enough to take your time enjoying it. Your mindset is no longer "I can squeeze one more episode in before bed" but rather "I should really sit down with this."
As a final example, take my experience with The Magicians. After burning through three seasons in as many weeks, I was overwhelmed by the characters’ perpetual angst as they failed to learn that unintended consequences abound when magic spells are involved. The eccentricities in plot made possible by a world with magic (like characters suddenly turning into geese) often struck me as random or nonsensical. But, once I caught up with the then-current season four, I actually preferred watching it once a week. It turns out that what I didn’t like in large sums, I quite enjoyed in small doses. Indulging in The Magicians just once a week added a “but wonderful” to its “weird,” and made it so that I could fully enjoy each episode’s quips, musical numbers, and assorted imaginative whimsies. I could finally appreciate this series's decision to depict magic not as a fun, wonderful gift, but as a dangerous, consequence-laden curse.
And sometimes that’s all a story needs—room to breathe. Television is a wonderful medium for long-term storytelling, so it makes sense that cramming those stories into short-term binges wouldn’t allow for maximum satisfaction or enjoyment. As fun as it is to get so caught up in a show that you watch it for hours on end, it can be equally fun to be caught up in a show that you only watch for one hour per week, and spend many of the other 167 hours thinking about it, rewatching it, discussing it, and looking forward to the next episode.
It’s just a matter of ascertaining how deep you want to dive into a story. Unlike Hamlet in his infamous “to be or not to be” soliloquy, you need to strike the right balance between thought and action. (And by action, I do mean parking yourself on a couch and pressing a button on a remote control.)
Happy viewing.