“Culture shapes behavior. Behavior shapes civilization.”

We live in an era of unprecedented access to entertainment. Streaming platforms like Netflix, Disney+, and Amazon Prime offer an endless catalog of films, series, reality shows, and documentaries, all available at any moment, curated by algorithms designed to keep us engaged.

This accessibility has reshaped how we interact with stories. For many, consuming content has become a background activity, something to fill time, distract, or decompress. But what is all this consumption doing to us?

The Comfort of the Scroll

Passive entertainment (media consumed without much thought or intention) has become a default setting. Binge-watching, autoplay loops, and endless feeds are now normalised. The goal isn’t necessarily to finish something or engage deeply, it’s just to keep going.

This phenomenon isn’t unique to any one platform or age group. It reflects a deeper psychological pull toward novelty and ease. We’re wired to seek out information, but when the stream never ends, we lose our ability to pause, reflect, or even remember what we just watched. A 2022 Microsoft study found the average human attention span had dropped to just 8 seconds, down from 12 seconds in 2000. Shorter than that of a goldfish (Time, 2015).

We scroll not because we’re curious, but because we’re restless. Philosopher Byung-Chul Han refers to this as the “burnout society” a culture not of imposed control, but of self-exploitation through endless optimisation and stimulation. As Han writes, “We are not free from external constraints; rather, we are subjugated by our own need to produce and consume.”

This isn’t a moral failure. It’s a design feature. Algorithms reward engagement, not depth. They’re optimised to keep you watching, not thinking. They suggest what’s similar, not what’s challenging. The result is a loop: more of what we already like, less of what we’ve never seen.

In practice, that means three hours on YouTube without learning a thing. An entire evening watching TikTok without remembering a single creator’s name. A weekend lost to Netflix, feeling strangely hollow afterward.

Some have compared it to a form of digital sedation. Philosopher Neil Postman warned in Amusing Ourselves to Death that a future dystopia wouldn’t come from censorship, but from distraction. “What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book—for there would be no one who wanted to read one.”

So why do we do it? Because it’s easy. Because it feels good. Because in a noisy, overwhelming world, numbing out is sometimes the only thing that feels manageable. And occasionally, that’s okay. But when escapism becomes the norm, introspection and critical thinking become the exception.

What are we gaining? Maybe comfort. Maybe convenience. But what are we losing?

  • Our attention spans
  • Our memory
  • Our patience
  • Our sense of wonder

And maybe most of all: our willingness to sit with discomfort long enough to grow from it.

Marvel, Mass Appeal, and Creative Saturation

The Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) is perhaps the clearest example of this system in action. Since 2008, Marvel has released over 30 films, generating over $29 billion globally (Statista, 2024).

While undeniably successful, many critics have questioned the creative cost. Martin Scorsese, in a 2019 New York Times op-ed, argued:

“What’s not there is revelation, mystery or genuine emotional danger. Nothing is at risk… They are made to satisfy a specific set of demands, and they are designed as variations on a finite number of themes.”

Scorsese’s point wasn’t that Marvel films have no value, but that they dominate cultural space to a degree that leaves little room for alternative visions. When studios allocate the majority of their budgets to IP-driven blockbusters, they reduce the odds that unique, experimental, or regionally diverse stories will see the light of day.

Critic Mark Harris calls this “cinematic monopoly”: a system where one storytelling format becomes so entrenched it dictates audience expectations. “You no longer go to be surprised,” he noted, “you go to feel safe.”

The Marvel formula (a wisecracking protagonist, CGI-heavy final act, a cliffhanger for the next installment) has become so ubiquitous that deviation feels risky. Independent directors are often brought into the system only to conform. Artistic identity is absorbed by the machine.

And yet audiences continue to watch. There’s comfort in the familiar. Marvel doesn’t ask too much. The stories are streamlined, the morals are clear, and the heroes always win. But what does that predictability cost us?

When the cultural mainstream becomes saturated with recycled arcs, we lose:

  • Narrative diversity – Stories told in other styles, genres, or cultural traditions.
  • Creative surprise – The kind of storytelling that lingers or challenges.
  • Artistic risk – Filmmakers willing to test boundaries rather than obey them.

It’s not that Marvel is the problem. It’s that Marvel is the norm. And when any norm goes unchallenged, it starts to limit (not expand) what art can do.

In a world where every movie feels like a trailer for the next, it’s worth asking: When did storytelling become content?

The Quiet Shift

The average American now spends over 4.5 hours per day engaging with screen-based entertainment, with streaming services accounting for approximately 40% of that time (Nielsen Total Audience Report, 2023). That’s nearly a third of our waking lives immersed in digital narratives.

This isn’t just about how much we watch, it’s about what that time displaces. For many, the scroll replaces the page. The autoplay replaces the conversation. The binge replaces the hobby. Passive viewing, while not inherently bad, becomes problematic when it crowds out engagement that’s slower, messier, and more meaningful.

Author Jenny Odell, in How to Do Nothing, describes this shift as a kind of attention drift: “We submit to the platforms not because we’re forced to, but because they’re easier than confronting the void.” That void, she suggests, is where critical thinking, presence, and self-awareness actually live.

What we lose in this shift isn’t always obvious. It’s not dramatic. It’s subtle: fewer books read, fewer ideas debated, fewer skills developed. The erosion is gradual. But it adds up. Over time, we may find ourselves knowing more facts, but understanding less. Seeing more content, but remembering less of it.

We’re not short on media. We’re short on meaning. Reclaiming even a fraction of our attention could make a difference in our personal and cultural trajectory.

What’s the Harm?

Passive consumption isn’t inherently harmful. On its own, a few hours spent unwinding with a series or watching light content isn’t a crisis. But what is concerning is what this pattern gradually replaces.

When passive viewing becomes the default mode, other forms of engagement slowly fade:

  • Curiosity is edged out by comfort. The effort to explore unfamiliar ideas, challenge our views, or dive deeper into a topic takes a backseat when the algorithm delivers something familiar, fast, and frictionless.
  • Creative energy gets diverted into consumption. Time that could be spent making, writing, tinkering, playing, building, often flows into endless streams of polished, packaged content.
  • Civic awareness becomes background noise. Important social and political issues may still reach us, but often diluted, oversimplified, or framed for outrage rather than understanding.

As digital minimalism advocate Cal Newport suggests, “The cost of a distraction is not just the time it takes to consume, it’s the time you lose recovering the depth you abandoned.” When passive input floods our day, depth is the casualty. We’re not less intelligent or capable, we’re just less often invited, or required, to exercise those capacities.

Over time, the erosion is subtle but significant. Our attention narrows. Our tolerance for complexity shrinks. And our instinct to reflect is replaced by the instinct to scroll.

Some Perspective

This isn’t a call to cancel your Netflix subscription or reject entertainment altogether. Storytelling, comedy, fantasy, and even trash TV have value. They offer connection, escapism, and joy.

But perspective helps.

It’s about noticing when entertainment becomes background noise. When it fills every gap, replaces every silence, numbs every bit of discomfort. It’s about being able to ask: Is this feeding me, or just distracting me?

Here are a few low-friction ways to stay intentional:

  • Choose what you watch — Don’t default to whatever plays next. Scroll past the “Trending Now” and pick something that challenges or stretches you.
  • Switch up sources — Try short films, international media, documentaries, or art-house projects. Expand your palette.
  • Create a little — You don’t need to publish a novel. Just journal. Sketch. Record a voice note. Output changes how we perceive input.
  • Pause to think — After something ends, give it five minutes. What stayed with you? What didn’t? Reflection helps content become insight.

It’s not about guilt, it’s about grip. Loosening the platform’s grip on our time and reclaiming even a little of it for something more intentional.

Closing Thought

We don’t need a revolution in our media habits. But we might need a realignment.

Entertainment isn’t the enemy. But autopilot might be.

By becoming just a bit more intentional with what we consume, we can begin to reconnect with attention, curiosity, and meaning. The foundations of deeper thought and richer living.

Because in the long run: What we watch shapes how we see. And how we see shapes what we build.

Maybe it’s not about watching less, but about watching better.