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.

The Bear is one of the rare cases where this format works better because even though the show is shorter, they still make space for filler. What in other cases may be considered filler episodes is what consumes the majority of the plot of The Bear, and they sit in this stagnancy without letting it feel languid; the balance between sharp, intense emotion and drawn-out scenes is superb. Their third season displays a less exquisite model of this directorial style, where episodes fall behind because they do not make up for a lack of amusing events, and this serves as an example of this format when it fails to make up for its shorter run time.

An alternative example that shows the nuanced tendency of this question is Twin Peaks (1990), with its first season featuring eight episodes and its second with 22. What helps Twin Peaks to be so successful is that, in addition to the original two-season show, it's accompanied by the film Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (1992), a prequel that often takes precedence over the show itself, and a third season titled Twin Peaks: The Return (2017). It's interesting to look at the two seasons side by side because the second and longer season is generally considered the worst out of the two, with some people actually hating it. The thrilling mystery is revealed halfway through the second season, and people often find the tone doesn't parallel its former, where ABC seems to have taken their own creative liberties over David Lynch and Mark Frost, resulting in a more inconsistent feel to the season. While the first season is individually amazing, its comedic tones the perfect addition to the unsettling aura of the rural town and its mysterious murder, I can't help but wonder if it does so well in the context of all that surrounds it. Its film addition and reprise add a unique depth to the season, rounding out some of its aspects that fall slightly behind because it is a television show, compared to Lynch’s usual films. What I love about Twin Peaks isn't necessarily its high-intensity, heart-racing moments but how well it manages to encapsulate the texture of abnormality communicated through visuals and hilarity. Interestingly enough, the second season makes more room for this. 

What is cleanly summed up by our smooth transition from long-running seasons to the dramatic, short explorations of cinema is a certain degree of laziness. We want to consume all the substance and content we can, and the shorter form allows for a far more efficient process. Especially if these episodes are released weekly, that instant gratification we receive is gained that much faster with these shorter seasons, even if they feel less satisfying in return.

This discussion isn’t just about television—it's about how young people engage with narrative, time, and attention. In an age where everything moves faster and demands less from us moment-to-moment, longer seasons remind us that patience can be rewarding. There’s something valuable about watching characters slowly unfold over time, developing a sense of familiarity and emotional resonance that shorter seasons often can't fully match. Sure, The Vampire Diaries may not be the greatest show in the world, but 20-episode seasons gave us The Office! (2005) The contrast between shows like The Bear and The O.C. or Twin Peaks illustrates that no one format is better, but each offers a different kind of intimacy. For young audiences especially, learning how to appreciate both forms can reshape how we think about art, storytelling, and even our own lives—where not everything needs to be immediate to be meaningful.

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