But even more than any of that, we have
Lost to blame for the frenzied way we talk about, obsess over, and consume television. It was the complicated doings on and off that spooky island that transformed recapping from a fringey message-board activity into an essential part of the mainstream viewing experience.
1 Thanks to the dutiful, completist eyes of early adopters like
Alan Sepinwall and the mad-genius ravings of
Jeff Jensen,
Lost became more than a weekly appointment; it was the sort of head-spinning entertainment that consumed entire weeks. At its peak,
Lost felt less like a TV show and more like a glorious, collective fever dream. It was a joy to be online in those days, connecting dots that we weren’t even sure were real, chasing
smoke because we were convinced it would lead to real fire.
Rather than temper fan excitement, Lindelof and Cuse doused it with gasoline. That was them, Easter egg-ing us on, dropping hints in podcasts, and
yukking it up with talk-show hosts. This public spectacle did much for the visibility of writers in Hollywood. (Not to mention their bargaining power: now, every time a showrunner
does a postseason chat, a lit agent gets his wings.) But it also came with an ugly flip side. No matter how much Lindelof and Cuse gave to their fans, the ledger was never quite balanced. Some always felt they were owed more. When
Lost ended in 2010 with a soft, New Age–y squish instead of the hard, point-by-PowerPoint explanation a large part of the audience expected, things got ugly.
2 Six years of good times and goodwill were wiped away with one soggy finale. Until the bitter end, Lindelof and Cuse thought they were merely following their muse. The aggrieved fan base was furious to discover it’d been following two guys who had never thought to buy a map.