The Binge Model
07/January/2026
In the past ten years, the way we watch television has changed dramatically. Growing up, I clearly remember when television was once a shared, time-bound experience. There was a weekly habit of watching a show, talking to friends and family about what might come in next week's episode and feeling that excitement build inside as the countdown to the next episode came closer and closer. That is an experience that has nearly vanished in the last decade. On average, streaming has made television a solitary, on-demand habit, shaped as much by algorithms as by artistic intent. The streaming revolution has given audiences unprecedented access to film and television, collapsed geographical boundaries, and redefined how stories are distributed. Yet alongside these gains sits a growing unease: that in our rush for convenience and volume, we may be undermining both the artistry of television and the long-term financial health of the industry that produces it. Higher volume is now needed as shows are consumed more quickly in the binge model, but that volume often negatively affects the quality of the television and film being created.
The shift away from scheduled broadcasting towards streaming platforms has completely changed our relationship with television. Like I’ve already said from my own memories of television growing up, appointment viewing, with its fixed times and weekly rhythms, created a sense of anticipation and excitement that was as much a part of the experience as the programme itself. Stories unfolded over time, allowing space for discussion, reflection, and cultural momentum to build. Today, entire seasons are dropped at once, inviting viewers to consume them like content zombies in a single sitting. Binge-watching is no longer a novelty but an expectation, actively encouraged by platform design and success metrics, and in my opinion, to ‘binge’ anything is never a good idea!
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There is, of course, an undeniable appeal to this model. Viewers can watch what they want, when they want, without interruption - something quite useful in today’s busy world. For many, this represents freedom, but that freedom comes with subtle consequences. When episodes bleed into one another without pause, individual moments lose their weight. Narrative peaks flatten, and the space for reflection disappears. Stories that might once have lingered in the cultural consciousness for months now burn brightly for a weekend before vanishing beneath the next algorithmic recommendation. This is an even greater crime when it happens to strong shows with deep, nuanced storylines.
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This change in viewer behaviour has had a profound influence on how television is written, produced, and financed. When success is measured in hours watched and completion rates rather than sustained engagement or cultural impact, creative decisions inevitably shift. Writers are incentivised to front-load hooks, accelerate pacing, and ensure that each episode compels immediate continuation. Slower, more contemplative storytelling, which once thrived in a weekly format, becomes harder to justify within a system designed to maximise continuous consumption.
The result is not necessarily worse television, but different television. Yet the danger lies in homogeneity. As more content is engineered to satisfy the same engagement metrics, it risks merging into similar narrative structures and tonal rhythms. Distinctive pacing, ambiguity, and restraint can be squeezed out in favour of immediacy and momentum. For the viewer, this can lead to fatigue rather than fulfilment, an endless scroll of content that is watched but not truly absorbed. I use the word "content" here because, at this point, that is what it risks becoming. As I think this cycle can often lead to a flood of ‘content’ rather than quality film and television, as streaming services try to keep up with the pace of viewing.
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Beyond the artistic implications, the financial and structural impact of the streaming revolution is equally significant. When I watched TV as a child, it was towards the end of the traditional television model. A television model whose economics were built for decades on a patchwork of advertising revenue, international sales, syndication, and long-tail returns. Streaming platforms have largely replaced this with a subscription-based model focused on scale and retention. Growth has often been prioritised over profitability, with vast sums invested in original content to attract and hold subscribers in an increasingly crowded market.
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While this influx of capital has undoubtedly created work and opportunity, it has also concentrated power. Global platforms now control commissioning, distribution, marketing, and data, often retaining ownership of intellectual property and limiting secondary revenue streams for creators and production companies. Something which I feel we will continue to see in the coming decades, as large companies acquire each other, as we have recently seen with Netflix buying Warner Bros. For many producers, especially in the UK, this represents a fundamental shift. Where international sales and repeat licensing once offered financial longevity, projects can now feel economically finite, valuable only for as long as they serve a platform’s subscriber strategy.
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This has particular implications for culturally specific storytelling. British television has long been admired for its willingness to explore local, nuanced narratives rooted in place, class, and history. Think Upstairs, Downstairs, Skins, and This Is England. But in a global streaming economy, such specificity can be perceived as a risk. There is increasing pressure for stories to travel easily, to translate across markets, and to appeal to the broadest possible audience. In doing so, there is a danger that the very qualities that make British television distinctive are diluted.
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The binge-release model not only compresses cultural relevance but, in some cases, completely eradicates it as shows get lost in a sea of ‘content’. A weekly series has time to build an audience, generate discussion, and become part of the national conversation. A series released all at once often peaks immediately and fades just as quickly. From a financial perspective, this can shorten a show’s perceived lifespan, making it harder to justify long-term investment in returning series or slower-burning narratives. From a creative perspective, it reduces television’s capacity to function as a shared cultural touchstone.
For those working within the industry, the effects are felt at every level. The demand for constant new content has led to an almost permanent state of production, but not always with improved conditions. Budgets may be high on paper, yet schedules are often compressed, and expectations intensified. Entry-level opportunities remain precarious, and the pressure to deliver quickly can leave little room for development, mentoring, or experimentation. The film industry is one already grappling with access and sustainability; this model risks exacerbating existing inequalities.
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None of this is to suggest that streaming is inherently harmful, or that the clock should be turned back. Streaming has expanded audiences, enabled global collaboration, and given many stories a platform they might never have found otherwise. If done differently, streaming services could use their power to have a positive impact on both television and film. This is because the issue is not the technology itself, but the values embedded in the systems that govern it. When efficiency, scale, and data-driven decision-making become so dominant, they inevitably shape creative output and audience experience.
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The question, then, is whether the industry can find a balance that serves both commerce and creativity. Some platforms have experimented with staggered releases, recognising that anticipation and conversation still matter. Others have begun to reconsider how success is measured, looking beyond raw viewing hours towards longer-term engagement and brand value. These shifts suggest an awareness that the binge-only model may not be the final answer.
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It is important that we, as viewers, also realise we have agency. We can choose how we watch film and television, which in turn shapes what is made. Taking time with a series, allowing stories to breathe, and valuing depth over immediacy are small but meaningful acts. Television, at its best, is not simply content to be consumed but an art form that rewards attention, patience, and reflection.
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The streaming revolution has given us more television than ever before. The challenge now is ensuring that more does not mean less: less depth, less distinction, less sustainability. If the industry is to thrive, it must resist the temptation to reduce storytelling to a set of engagement metrics and remember that lasting value is created not through speed and volume, but through craft, care, and connection. The future of television depends not just on how we watch, but on what we decide is worth watching, and why.
