I have a confession to make. Last weekend, I watched an entire season of a show about attractive people making terrible romantic decisions on a tropical island. Seventeen episodes. Back-to-back. I emerged from this viewing marathon bleary-eyed and disoriented, wondering where Saturday and Sunday had gone, and why my living room suddenly seemed so bright and loud.
This wouldn’t be noteworthy except for one small detail: three days earlier, I had publicly ridiculed a colleague for doing the exact same thing.
“You watched all of that in one weekend?” I’d asked him, eyebrow raised to maximum judgment height. “Don’t you have, like, hobbies? Or sunlight to experience?”
The hypocrisy is thick enough to spread on toast.
My relationship with binge-watching is the definition of “it’s complicated.” As someone who has spent years critiquing our collective digital dependencies, I should know better. I’ve written thousands of words about mindful media consumption. I’ve cited studies on the psychological effects of narrative overload. I’ve used phrases like “delayed gratification” and “moderation” with the smug assurance of someone who practices what they preach.
And yet, there I was at 2 AM, eyes burning, brain begging for sleep, clicking “Next Episode” with the mindless determination of a lab rat hitting the pleasure lever.
The marathon watching shame spiral follows a predictable pattern. It begins with reasonable intentions: “I’ll just watch one episode to unwind.” This innocent gateway decision quickly morphs into “Well, I’ll just watch until this particular plot point resolves.” Then suddenly it’s “I might as well finish the season since I’m already this far.” Before you know it, the sun is rising, you’re surrounded by snack debris, and Netflix is passive-aggressively asking if you’re still watching. Yes, Netflix, I am still watching. Stop judging me. Only I get to judge me.
And judge me I do. The post-binge shame is a special cocktail of regret, self-loathing, and existential dread. What could I have accomplished in those hours? I could have read War and Peace (or at least started it). I could have learned basic Italian. I could have finally fixed that leaky faucet that’s been slowly driving my wife toward madness. Instead, I now know intimate details about the love lives of strangers who may or may not be actual sociopaths.
The worst part is the cover-up. When my wife asked how my weekend was while she was visiting her parents, I gave a carefully crafted response: “Productive! Got some writing done, did that thing with the garage we talked about, caught up on a few shows.” The garage organization was real (took 30 minutes). The “few shows” part technically wasn’t a lie, if you consider 17 episodes of the same show to be “a few shows.” It was a masterclass in truth-adjacent communication.
My daughter saw right through me. “Dad, did you seriously watch that island dating show? The one you called ‘a monument to the decline of western civilization’ last month?” Teenagers have an unerring radar for adult hypocrisy. I tried deflection: “I was watching it ironically. For research purposes.” She just stared at me, unblinking, until I cracked. “Fine. Yes. I watched it all. It was terrible. I loved every minute of it. Are you happy now?” She just shook her head and walked away, the ultimate teenage power move.
How did I—a supposed advocate for digital wellness—fall into this trap? The same way everyone does: streaming services have weaponized human psychology with surgical precision.
The auto-play feature is particularly insidious. In my former tech life, I helped design similar engagement features. We used to celebrate when we eliminated “decision points”—moments where users might choose to stop using the product. Each time Netflix automatically starts the next episode, they’re removing the natural decision point that might otherwise prompt you to get up, stretch, or remember that you’re a human being with responsibilities and relationships beyond finding out whether Jessica accepts Robert’s rose or whatever.
The “Skip Intro” button is another psychological masterstroke. It reduces the natural pause that might give your brain a moment to reassess your life choices. And the recommendation algorithms? They know what you like better than you do. They’re like digital drug dealers with advanced degrees in behavioral psychology.
I find myself caught in a bizarre duality: professionally criticizing the very digital behaviors I secretly indulge in. It’s the “do as I say, not as I occasionally do while hiding under a blanket with snacks” approach to digital wellness.
This cognitive dissonance reached its peak last month when I was interviewed for a tech podcast about healthy media consumption habits. I spoke eloquently about the importance of intentional viewing, the value of letting anticipation build between episodes, and how binge-watching flattens the emotional impact of storytelling. The interview was recorded on a Tuesday. The previous Sunday, I had watched an entire miniseries about chess while eating cereal directly from the box like some kind of feral content gremlin.
The guilt afterward wasn’t just about wasted time. It was about authenticity—or my lack thereof. Who was I to lecture others about digital restraint when I so regularly failed to practice it myself?
But here’s what I’ve come to realize: my shame spiral isn’t actually helping anyone, least of all me. The problem isn’t that I occasionally binge-watch shows. The problem is the secrecy, the judgment (of others and myself), and the pretense that I’m somehow above the very human tendency to get caught up in compelling stories.
The truth is, I love stories. Always have. As a kid, I would stay up all night reading under the covers with a flashlight. The medium has changed, but the behavior hasn’t. What has changed is the accessibility and the optimization. When I was young, I had to wait a week between TV episodes. Books were finite. There were natural stopping points built into the consumption experience. Now, the potential for endless consumption exists in a way it never did before, and it’s designed specifically to keep us watching.
Maybe the answer isn’t to deny the appeal of occasionally getting lost in a show. Maybe it’s to acknowledge it, set some boundaries around it, and stop being such a judgmental jerk about it—both to others and to myself.
This realization hit me during a recent family dinner when my son casually mentioned binge-watching a sci-fi series. I felt the familiar judgment rising and opened my mouth to deliver some parental wisdom about moderation. Then I caught my wife’s eye. She gave me a single raised eyebrow that clearly communicated: “Really? You? The person who watched six consecutive hours of that baking show last week?” I closed my mouth.
Instead, I asked him what he enjoyed about the show. We ended up having a fascinating conversation about storytelling, character development, and the scientific plausibility of faster-than-light travel. It was a genuine connection—much better than what would have happened if I’d lectured him about screen time while secretly planning my next binge.
I’m not suggesting we abandon all digital restraint and surrender to the streaming overlords. The research on the negative effects of excessive screen time is real, and the way these platforms manipulate our attention is something we should all be conscious of. What I am suggesting is that perhaps a little less judgment and a little more honesty might lead to healthier relationships—with media, with each other, and with ourselves.
So here’s my new approach: I’m going to stop pretending I’m immune to the appeal of a good binge-watch. I’m going to acknowledge that sometimes I want to escape into fictional worlds for hours at a time. But I’m also going to be more intentional about when and how I do it. Maybe I’ll actually plan my binges rather than falling into them accidentally. Maybe I’ll be open about it rather than hiding it like a shameful secret.
And most importantly, I’ll stop judging others for the very behaviors I engage in myself. We’re all trying to navigate a media landscape that’s explicitly designed to keep us watching, clicking, and consuming. A little grace—for others and for ourselves—seems appropriate.
That said, if you ever catch me watching seven straight hours of people competing to make glass sculptures or dating each other’s pets or whatever new reality concept drops next month, you have my permission to stage an intervention. But maybe bring snacks when you do. And hey, while you’re here, have you seen this new show? I promise, we’ll just watch one episode.
