Why the Decline of the 20+ Episode Season Hurt us All

There’s a certain connotation that seasons with more episodes—anywhere from 12 to 24—are taken less seriously than shorter seasons. In recent years, shorter, sleeker seasons have come to represent a more “elevated” form of television, with fewer episodes suggesting tighter writing, greater artistic control, and an air of cinematic prestige. Meanwhile, longer seasons are often dismissed as bloated or formulaic, particularly for younger viewers who are used to quicker payoffs and more curated viewing experiences. But this shift in perspective raises the question: are we losing something by brushing aside longer-form storytelling? In a world that seems to relish speed and efficiency, reconsidering the merits of longer seasons is more relevant than ever—especially for young people who are shaping and redefining modern viewing culture.

When one thinks of these longer seasons, the first thing that comes to mind is often the long-winded, continuous “teen drama” genre, with shows like The Vampire Diaries (2009), Gossip Girl (2007), and Gilmore Girls (2000) taking precedence. While it's true that this type of show seems more commonly to have longer seasons, I think in film culture, we've let this assumption consume us. There's a reason why, as vapid and surface-level as these shows can be, they are so immensely popular, creating a large fan base and loyal viewers. While they may be unable to convince you of their characters in eight episodes—perhaps due to differences in budget, scale, or directorial prowess—they are able to do this through the duration that you watch the characters on screen. Through a viewer’s dedication and attention, these connections are formed naturally. There is something so simplistic and beautiful about these shows because while there certainly is a lot of drama, and perhaps it isn't always well done, you aren’t watching just for plot events, climaxes, and revelations. Oftentimes, these shows succeed based on simple interactions between characters or when a character who began the show with questionable morals does a singular good deed. The O.C. (2003) is a great example of this, with all its exaggerated spectacles, each episode a new riveting drama—and yet what stands out about The O.C. is its unique characters and the way they grow together as the show continues.

Certain shows in the 8-10 episode format don't comply with these tendencies. The Bear (2022) is certainly an exception to this, at least its first two seasons. The length of each episode and the quantity align perfectly with the premise and context of the show because, essentially, there isn't much to it. We see the constant fluctuation of the restaurant business, a concept simple enough that it allows for immense character building, and everything else revolves around this. Since the plot follows this singular through-line, all the characters' side quests are an extension of the restaurant, and the pacing of each episode fits an eight-episode frame. For the most part, the show doesn't feel rushed. Impeccable acting cements the fact that you truly see these characters inside and out as if they were real people, and the shorter season makes these episodes feel more special.