Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 27 June 2025, 16:17
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
The Devil is in the Details
It seems every patient in the waiting room is tuned in to the same channel; hypnotised by daytime soaps where everyone shouts, cries, or throws fits of anger. Why do we expose ourselves to this stuff? Is life not bad enough without action replays during our leisure time? That thought stayed with me longer than expected. Why do we willingly bring this kind of chaos into our living rooms? And perhaps more importantly, what is it doing to us?
Psychologists tell us that we’re wired for drama. Something about tension and emotional upheaval keeps us glued. There’s a word for it, catharsis; the emotional purge we get from watching others suffer or triumph. It’s the same reason ancient Greeks flocked to see tragedies. Today, it’s soap operas, reality shows, and courtroom dramas. But the goal is the same; to feel something, even if it’s second-hand. Our brains reward these moments with dopamine, the feel-good chemical that doesn’t care whether joy or fury triggered it. So we become hooked, not to the story, but to the chemical reaction inside us.
Still, there's something deeper going on. Many people, often without realising it, return to the same dysfunctional patterns they grew up with. If shouting, silent treatments, or emotional manipulation were part of childhood, there’s a strange comfort in seeing those behaviours on screen. Drama reflects their internal landscape. For others, it’s a chance to feel superior—“At least we’re not like that”—a subtle ego boost at someone else’s fictional expense.
But why, philosophically, are we so drawn to evil? Thinkers from Augustine to Nietzsche wrestled with this. Evil fascinates us because it mirrors the capacity for darkness within ourselves. Every story needs a villain, but modern entertainment often goes further; it lets the villain win, or worse, blurs the line so much that we don’t know who to root for. Stories used to end with good triumphing and lessons learned. Now they often end in disillusionment. Our cultural heroes are flawed, selfish, and broken—and instead of changing, they become more entrenched. It’s a form of storytelling that reflects a world weary of hope.
Writers know that conflict drives narrative. They’re taught that if nothing goes wrong, the story dies. But there’s a difference between meaningful tension and gratuitous turmoil. Not all conflict builds character. Sometimes it just sells ads. The more outrageous the behaviour, the more clicks and viewers. There’s also a crisis of imagination. Peaceful stories are harder to write. Joy is quiet. Kindness is subtle. Love grows slowly. These virtues are not easily packaged into thirty-minute plot arcs.
The real concern is what this constant exposure does to us, especially in the context of family life. When children grow up watching couples belittle one another or families explode over trivial matters, they internalise these models. Over time, what begins as entertainment becomes instruction. We mirror what we consume. Shouting becomes normal. Sarcasm becomes clever. Manipulation becomes strategy. And somewhere along the way, empathy quietly slips out the back door.
Even our moments of rest are no longer restful. We work all day, juggle responsibilities, and come home desperate for peace. But instead of filling that space with calm, we hand ourselves over to screen-induced agitation. We let fiction pick our moods and gatecrash our dream. Is that really rest?
I don’t think we’re doomed to this. In fact, I believe families can choose something better. We can laugh together over old comedies that don’t mock people for sport. We can sit around a table and talk—really talk—not over characters but over our day. We can read aloud. Play music. Go for a walk when the light’s beginning to fade. Watch nature documentaries and let ourselves marvel. Share stories from our own lives, the kind that aren’t exaggerated or scripted, but real and remembered.
When we replace noise with connection, something begins to heal. The tension drops. The home becomes a refuge instead of a replay of what’s wrong with the world. Children learn how to speak with respect. Couples rediscover calm. And our minds finally breathe.
Entertainment isn’t evil. But we owe it to ourselves to ask: is what we’re watching helping us become better? Kinder? More patient? If not, maybe it's time to change the channel, or better yet, turn it off. Because life is already dramatic enough; our homes should be where the peace begins.
The Devil is in the Details
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
The Devil is in the Details
It seems every patient in the waiting room is tuned in to the same channel; hypnotised by daytime soaps where everyone shouts, cries, or throws fits of anger. Why do we expose ourselves to this stuff? Is life not bad enough without action replays during our leisure time? That thought stayed with me longer than expected. Why do we willingly bring this kind of chaos into our living rooms? And perhaps more importantly, what is it doing to us?
Psychologists tell us that we’re wired for drama. Something about tension and emotional upheaval keeps us glued. There’s a word for it, catharsis; the emotional purge we get from watching others suffer or triumph. It’s the same reason ancient Greeks flocked to see tragedies. Today, it’s soap operas, reality shows, and courtroom dramas. But the goal is the same; to feel something, even if it’s second-hand. Our brains reward these moments with dopamine, the feel-good chemical that doesn’t care whether joy or fury triggered it. So we become hooked, not to the story, but to the chemical reaction inside us.
Still, there's something deeper going on. Many people, often without realising it, return to the same dysfunctional patterns they grew up with. If shouting, silent treatments, or emotional manipulation were part of childhood, there’s a strange comfort in seeing those behaviours on screen. Drama reflects their internal landscape. For others, it’s a chance to feel superior—“At least we’re not like that”—a subtle ego boost at someone else’s fictional expense.
But why, philosophically, are we so drawn to evil? Thinkers from Augustine to Nietzsche wrestled with this. Evil fascinates us because it mirrors the capacity for darkness within ourselves. Every story needs a villain, but modern entertainment often goes further; it lets the villain win, or worse, blurs the line so much that we don’t know who to root for. Stories used to end with good triumphing and lessons learned. Now they often end in disillusionment. Our cultural heroes are flawed, selfish, and broken—and instead of changing, they become more entrenched. It’s a form of storytelling that reflects a world weary of hope.
Writers know that conflict drives narrative. They’re taught that if nothing goes wrong, the story dies. But there’s a difference between meaningful tension and gratuitous turmoil. Not all conflict builds character. Sometimes it just sells ads. The more outrageous the behaviour, the more clicks and viewers. There’s also a crisis of imagination. Peaceful stories are harder to write. Joy is quiet. Kindness is subtle. Love grows slowly. These virtues are not easily packaged into thirty-minute plot arcs.
The real concern is what this constant exposure does to us, especially in the context of family life. When children grow up watching couples belittle one another or families explode over trivial matters, they internalise these models. Over time, what begins as entertainment becomes instruction. We mirror what we consume. Shouting becomes normal. Sarcasm becomes clever. Manipulation becomes strategy. And somewhere along the way, empathy quietly slips out the back door.
Even our moments of rest are no longer restful. We work all day, juggle responsibilities, and come home desperate for peace. But instead of filling that space with calm, we hand ourselves over to screen-induced agitation. We let fiction pick our moods and gatecrash our dream. Is that really rest?
I don’t think we’re doomed to this. In fact, I believe families can choose something better. We can laugh together over old comedies that don’t mock people for sport. We can sit around a table and talk—really talk—not over characters but over our day. We can read aloud. Play music. Go for a walk when the light’s beginning to fade. Watch nature documentaries and let ourselves marvel. Share stories from our own lives, the kind that aren’t exaggerated or scripted, but real and remembered.
When we replace noise with connection, something begins to heal. The tension drops. The home becomes a refuge instead of a replay of what’s wrong with the world. Children learn how to speak with respect. Couples rediscover calm. And our minds finally breathe.
Entertainment isn’t evil. But we owe it to ourselves to ask: is what we’re watching helping us become better? Kinder? More patient? If not, maybe it's time to change the channel, or better yet, turn it off. Because life is already dramatic enough; our homes should be where the peace begins.