Turn On, Numb Out
How Prestige TV Forgot Joy—and Why Hopeful Storytelling Still Matters
Turning on the TV these days feels less like entertainment and more like an exercise in emotional endurance. The options? Shades of dread. Dystopian futures. Collapsing worlds. Morally bankrupt billionaires clawing for power while the rest of us spiral into the void.
I used to love television—really love it. I was a proud pop culture vulture, binging prestige dramas like it was my spiritual calling, and consuming critical takes from podcasts like The Watch like I was prepping for a cultural thesis nobody asked me to write. But somewhere along the way, the joy quietly disappeared. My 65” Samsung used to be a smart TV. Now it’s just a clinically depressed TV.
Browsing the streaming menu feels like scrolling through a catalogue of existential crises. A tech-forward nightmare anthology here. A post-apocalyptic zombie hellscape there. Or a drama that begs you to empathize with rich people scheming and betraying each other to sustain their lifestyles of excess. These aren’t just bleak—they’re emotionally draining. Isn’t there enough of this happening outside in the real world?
The landscape of "prestige" television has developed a peculiar equation: Quality = Depressing. Darkness has become the universal shorthand for importance, complexity, even brilliance. Consider the shows dominating cultural conversation in 2025. Adolescence (which I wrote about here), a limited series about a thirteen-year-old brutally killing his classmate, became Netflix's most-watched show. The Last of Us continues to depict humanity at its most desperate and cruel. White Lotus showcases miserable rich people wallowing in woe-is-me-isms while on luxury vacations. Even Black Mirror returned for a seventh season, offering fresh technological nightmares for viewers already anxious about AI–in fact, the other night I watched the first episode “Common People” and felt the need to chase it with a glass of high ABV whisky and a carton of ice cream.
[Yes, you could argue that Charlie Brooker—and many of his dystopian peers—aren’t trying to depress us, but to warn us. These shows are meant to be cautionary tales. But as we’ve seen, people in positions of power rarely grasp nuance. Case in point: Sam Altman, CEO of OpenAI, trying to recruit Scarlett Johansson—the voice of an empathetic AI in Her—to narrate ChatGPT. You can’t make this stuff up. It’s like watching Black Mirror get optioned… by Black Mirror.]
Television has become sad-inducing. It’s no longer an escape but an echo chamber of our worst fears. It reflects our darkest impulses, amplifies our most persistent worries, and delivers them back to us—beautifully lit and prestige-approved. The platforms that beam these stories into our homes no longer seem interested in joy, awe, or wonder. They want to keep us watching, not uplifted. And when the credits roll, what lingers isn't catharsis or reflection—it's fatigue. A slow, accumulating dread. Mistaking the storm cloud hanging over our souls for gravitas. As if being bummed out is the same thing as being moved.
How did we get here? When did television stop being a portal and start becoming a pressure chamber? When did the content we consume during our leisure time start feeling as if it were all greenlit by an executive named Debbie Downer with every end credit roll soundtracked by a sad trombone? Wah-waaah, indeed. Turns out, prestige comes in a minor key
Founder of psychoanalysis and heavy cigar smoker Sigmund Freud considered a quota of escapist fantasy "a necessary element in the life of humans." He noted that people "cannot subsist on the scanty satisfaction they can extort from reality." This observation feels particularly relevant now, as we navigate a world of increasing volatility—an economy in question, governments in chaos, war and climate change dominating headlines. Even the Pope opined that we're living through humanity's darkest chapter since World War II, and, well, look where he is now.
This wasn't always the case. Back during the Great Depression—a time of breadlines, dust bowls, and actual soup kitchens—escapism wasn’t just a genre, it was a survival mechanism. Magazines, radio, and movies didn’t dwell on the pain; they gave people a brief, blessed break from it. Life magazine, one of the biggest hits of the 1930s, looked like it came from an alternate universe: no bad news. Just “bathing beauties,” ship launchings, baseball legends, skyscrapers rising toward the heavens. It was basically the anti–New York Times.
Early 20th Century filmmaker Preston Sturges saw this clearly. In the 1941 film Sullivan’s Travels, he tells the story of a Hollywood director, John L. Sullivan, known for light comedies, who decides to make a gritty social message film titled O Brother, Where Art Thou?. But after spending time with people hit hardest by poverty, he realizes something radical: people don’t need more reminders of their pain—they need relief from it. In the film’s most powerful scene, a group of prisoners watches a silly Mickey Mouse cartoon and erupts in laughter. That’s the moment of revelation. Sturges wasn’t dismissing suffering—he was arguing that laughter, in dark times, is its own kind of grace. Entertainment didn’t pretend suffering didn’t exist. But it understood its role: not to mirror despair, but to offer a little light.
Today, that counterbalance feels broken, and the counterbalance store is like, “going out of business! All counterbalances must go!”
Of course, nostalgia wears rose-colored glasses—I know that we’ve had darkness in prestige TV before. Breaking Bad, Mad Men, and The Sopranos weren’t exactly sitcoms. But they existed in a balanced ecosystem. During Breaking Bad's run (2008–2013), networks also aired The Office, 30 Rock, Community, How I Met Your Mother, and Modern Family. These shows provided levity, warmth, and even occasional wisdom. They created fictional worlds where problems were solvable, where human connection mattered, where characters grew and changed for the better. They weren’t upbeat for the sake of it—they offered emotional complexity while still leaving viewers feeling better rather than worse. But most importantly, they were very, very popular.
The death of the network sitcom has left a void that streaming platforms have filled with increasingly bleak content. While comedy has become niche or outright taboo or reconstructed as “black comedy,” we've over-indexed on "serious." Abbott Elementary stands as perhaps the lone exception—a show that delivers both humor and heart—but its viewership–less than 5 million–makes it a niche offering rather than a cultural touchstone.
What’s troubling is how this might reflect an industry projecting its own anxieties outward. Hollywood has weathered significant disruption—from streaming wars to strikes to pandemic shutdowns to the looming threat of AI—and the resulting uncertainty seems to be bleeding into the content. But should the personal traumas of writers' rooms become the emotional burden of viewers?
Consider the portrait painted in The New Yorker’s 2023 deep dive into the lives of TV writers titled “Why Are TV Writers So Miserable?” What was once one of the coolest and most creatively fulfilling jobs has, for many, devolved into a grind. Writers are being asked to work in “mini rooms” before shows are even greenlit—earning less, learning less, and often working for shows that may never get made. Budgets have shrunk. Mentorship has eroded. The pathway from junior staff writer to experienced showrunner has splintered, with fewer chances to learn on set or climb the creative ladder.
Even writers behind critical darlings like The Bear and Swarm describe living with negative bank accounts, working over Zoom in isolation, and applying to movie theater jobs between contracts. What once felt like a raucous collaborative effort—filled with whiteboard breakthroughs and Ping-Pong breaks—has turned into a lonely hustle.
And when creative work is born in burnout, disillusionment, and financial precarity, it shows. These stories carry the exhaustion of their creators. What once felt like inspiration now feels like obligation. If television no longer feels like a creative dream job to those making it, is it any wonder that so little of the work feels joyful to watch? Misery doesn’t just love company—it produces content.
Not all is lost in television's landscape of despair. Amid the darkness, one show has emerged offering something different: Max's The Pitt, a medical drama that channels the spirit of Aaron Sorkin's optimistic storytelling.
Sorkin's impact on television cannot be overstated. His shows didn't just entertain—they inspired. They presented a vision of America where intelligence was valued, where expertise mattered, where people could disagree vehemently yet still respect each other's humanity. How…refreshing. The West Wing gave us Jed Bartlet, a president who quoted obscure passages from scripture and believed that government could be a force for good. Sports Night showed us the passion and integrity behind the scenes of a struggling sports show. The Newsroom, despite its flaws, dared to imagine journalists who prioritized truth over ratings. I revisit them all with regularity like seeking out a dish of comfort food.
What made these shows revolutionary wasn't just their rapid-fire dialogue or theatrical monologues—it was their fundamental optimism about human potential. Sorkin's characters failed constantly. They harbored prejudices, made catastrophic mistakes, and sometimes betrayed their own ideals. But they tried. They got back up. They believed, sometimes against overwhelming evidence, that people working together could solve problems.
In retrospect, how old-fashioned those ideals feel now. The belief in institutions, in expertise, in collective action for the common good—these concepts seem almost quaint in our fractured cultural landscape. Perhaps that's precisely why we need them more than ever.
The Pitt has become one of Max's most-watched original series, suggesting I'm not alone in this hunger for hopeful narratives. Since its premiere in January 2025, it has averaged over 10 million global viewers per episode, with the premiere alone attracting 16.2 million. Is it groundbreaking television? Not exactly. It's very good, not great. Granted the performances are exceptional, but storywise, it's more competent than revolutionary (did there really need to be two accidental adolescent deaths in one season or was that manipulation disguised as depth?).
But what sets The Pitt apart is its characters and their Sorkin-esque commitment to being the best versions of themselves. Noah Wyle's Dr. Robbie stands as a direct descendant of characters like Josh Lyman or Will McAvoy—deeply flawed individuals who nevertheless strive toward a higher purpose. He's the kind of doctor we want in real life—knowledgeable, heroic, and guided by strong values. The characters face real challenges and make poor choices, but they're fundamentally driven by a desire to help. They find meaning in service. They believe in the work. And it works.
One scene in particular illustrates the show's emotional power. In Episode 4, titled "The Four Most Important Things," Dr. Robbie shares a Hawaiian healing ritual, Ho'oponopono, with two adult children as their father nears death. He teaches them four simple phrases to help ease their grief:
"I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me."
As he explains the ritual, there's nothing condescending or preachy about it. There's just a doctor who has seen too much death offering a framework for those facing it for perhaps the first time. It's human connection at its most basic and profound—one person helping others navigate an impossible moment.
As fate would have it, the day after watching that episode, I discovered that I had a friend who was in hospice. I visited him that evening. The hospice room was quiet except for the rhythmic sound of the hospital machinery. The air felt heavy with unsaid things, with the helplessness that comes from witnessing suffering you cannot alleviate.
And then I remembered the scene. The four phrases. "I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me." My friend died the following morning.
This is what culture can do at its finest—not just entertain or distract, but offer tools for navigating life's hardest moments. It can inspire us to be better. Remind us that even in darkness, connection and meaning remain possible.
Sorkin understood this. For all the criticism his work received, he grasped that stories about people striving to be their best selves serve a vital cultural function. They don't just reflect who we are; they help shape who we might become. They create models for behavior, frameworks for thinking, visions of possibility.
President Bartlet would often utter his favorite catchphrases, "What's next?" whenever experiencing a crushing political or personal setback. It's not naive optimism; it's a choice to keep moving forward, to continue the work despite the inevitability of failure. It's the recognition that cynicism is easy, but hope requires courage.
The Pitt isn't perfect. No show is. But in its Sorkin-esque belief that people can be better than their worst moments, that service to others has meaning, that connection matters—it offers something increasingly rare in our fragmented cultural landscape: a vision of how we might live together with purpose and dignity, even in a broken world.
That vision won't fix our real-world problems. It won't heal our political divisions or solve our climate crisis or end economic inequality. But it might just give us the emotional resources to face these challenges with something other than despair. It might remind us, as Sorkin's work did at its best, that cynicism is not wisdom, and that hope, while sometimes foolish, is always necessary.
And so when we ask, “what’s next?” it’s not out of optimism, but out of belief that the stories we tell can still shape the world we want to live in.