Trapped by prestige TV: Why we can’t quit shows we no longer enjoy

When The Bear first arrived, it did so with the hype level of a distant cousin’s wedding, in other words, none at all. In Indian terms: zero PR. And yet, the first season was an unassuming gut punch, a “love at first sight” for me. It dragged me into emotional spaces I never imagined visiting, and, even more shockingly, enjoying. The show had me thrilled from episode one, but also had me quietly sobbing in certain moments. It was about family trauma, generational trauma, workplace trauma… basically, all sorts of trauma. It’s a trauma multiverse, if you will.

I was hooked through the second season. The writing was sharp, the emotional beats felt fresh, and the tension kept me locked in. But then came season three, and things started to feel… familiar. Like déjà vu, but with higher production values. The show kept circling back to the same points, drilling into the same traumas it had already unpacked. It began to feel like a chef plating the same dish over and over again, just changing the garnish. And yet, I stayed.

Season four? More of the same. And I was complicit in this regurgitation. I had every opportunity to hit the spacebar, escape, click the little “X,” and free myself. But I didn’t. I found just enough in each episode — a sharp line of dialogue here, a perfectly framed scene there — to justify staying. Like a bad romance, those fleeting moments of joy were enough to make me believe it was still worth it.

So yes, I am in a toxic relationship. But apparently, there’s a name for this dysfunction, and I am far from the first to suffer from it. It’s called the sunk cost fallacy.

The sunk cost fallacy is deceptively simple: the irrational tendency to continue with something, not because it makes sense in the present, but because of the time, money, or energy already invested. Muskan Marwah, clinical psychologist with Mpower, Aditya Birla Education Trust, gives the perfect example: It’s thinking, “I have already watched five seasons, so I have to finish the sixth,” even if the last few episodes bored you.

Consider the Arkes and Blumer 1985 experiment. Participants were given a hypothetical choice between a high-priced and a low-priced ticket for the same theatre performance. When told the show was dull, those who “paid” more were more likely to sit through it than those with the cheaper ticket. The money was already gone, it couldn’t be recovered, yet it still distorted their decision, pulling them toward misery in the name of not wasting it.

And it’s not confined to cinema seats. The logic seeps into our homes and habits: You would want a pricey haircut to be noticeable, because a small tidy-up wouldn’t “show” the value for money. Companies keep pumping more money into failing projects because too many crores have already been poured into them. Blind box collectors find it hard to stop, despite getting duplicates, because they simply want to complete the set.

In the case of binge-watching, the high cost is often the emotional investment that has already gone into the series. The throughline is clear: our minds cling to sunk costs, mistaking them for reasons to persist, even when all evidence, and our own boredom, suggest it’s time to walk away.

The prestige-TV trap

Television, with its long arcs and drip-feed of seasons, is practically engineered for this bias. Consider Game of Thrones. For six seasons, the storytelling was at its peak, with intricate politics, morally complex characters, and jaw-dropping twists. Then came season seven, where armies teleported across continents, characters abandoned their hard-won logic, and the plot sprinted to the finish like it had a train to catch. Season eight doubled down: Daenerys’s abrupt descent into mass-murdering tyrant, Jaime Lannister’s nonsensical character reversal, and Bran “the Broken” as king. Yet millions stayed until the bitter end. They had invested nearly a decade in Westeros; walking away with just two seasons to go felt impossible.

Or take How I Met Your Mother. What began as a warm, witty sitcom about friendship morphed into a narrative treadmill, delaying the titular reveal with filler storylines. When the finale finally arrived, killing off the mother and reuniting Ted with Robin, fans were furious, but they had been there for nine years. Quitting in season eight felt like abandoning the punchline after sitting through the entire setup.

Dexter is another case study. For four seasons, it was a taut psychological thriller about a serial killer with a moral code. Then came increasingly implausible plots, nonsensical decisions, and that infamous lumberjack ending. Still, many viewers stuck with it, hoping for a return to form that never came.

Sakshi Verma, an entertainment journalist, recognises the pattern in herself. “I can’t criticise or praise something until I have watched it. Plus, closure matters. A story that got me interested may be turning dull, but I want to know the end.” She sat through Animal and Saaho in theatres simply because she’d paid for the ticket. In Korean dramas like Descendants of the Sun and Crash Landing on You, she endured padded final episodes that could have ended much earlier. “Investments totally force you to keep going. Paisa laga hai ab toh,” she says, half-laughing.

Loyalty or inertia?

The trouble is, sunk cost loyalty feels noble in the moment; it’s inertia disguised as commitment. Verma admits she rarely regrets finishing a series, even a dull one. “In the moment, it feels like loyalty. But in hindsight, not every character and series deserves that kind of loyalty. Sometimes, it’s definitely a waste of time.”

Marwah notes that persistence isn’t inherently bad. Sometimes, sticking it out leads to reward — an underwhelming middle season might give way to a brilliant finale. But more often, staying out of obligation drains time and emotional energy that could be spent elsewhere. In entertainment, the cost is opportunity: every hour spent with a show you have stopped enjoying is an hour stolen from one that might delight you.

Ironically, streaming has removed all practical barriers to quitting. We are no longer at the mercy of weekly TV schedules; we can stop at any time, sample something new within seconds. Yet the freedom to leave hasn’t broken the guilt of leaving.

Escaping this mindset isn’t about cynicism; it’s about recalibrating how we value our time. It means remembering that past investments are gone, and the only rational question is whether continuing will make us happier now. It means permitting ourselves to drop shows without shame, and reframing quitting as an act of self-respect rather than betrayal.

Because in the end, art doesn’t require our loyalty. It asks for our attention, yes, but only so long as it gives something back.

I look at my own The Bear dilemma differently now. I could keep going, hoping for the spark of the early seasons to return. Or I could pause and open myself to something new. Either way, the choice should be mine, not the fallacy’s.