There’s a particular kind of anxiety that settles over a television production when the end is near—not just the bittersweet farewells between cast and crew who’ve become family, but the existential dread of disappointing millions. Finn Wolfhard’s recent admission about the Stranger Things team’s worries reveals something profound about our current television landscape: we’re living in the post-Game of Thrones era, where every beloved series finale now carries the ghost of Westeros’ controversial ending. The pressure isn’t just about wrapping up storylines anymore; it’s about avoiding becoming the next cultural punching bag, the next meme-worthy disappointment that gets “torn to shreds” by a fanbase that feels betrayed by the very stories they helped elevate to legendary status.
What’s fascinating about Wolfhard’s comments isn’t just the fear itself, but the specific reference point. Game of Thrones didn’t just have a bad finale—it became the benchmark for how spectacularly a cultural phenomenon can crash and burn in its final moments. The show’s conclusion wasn’t merely criticized; it was dissected, memed, and held up as a cautionary tale for creators everywhere. Now, when a show like Stranger Things approaches its conclusion, the creators aren’t just thinking about satisfying their own creative vision—they’re navigating the minefield of audience expectations shaped by that very public failure. It’s as if every showrunner now has a little voice whispering, “Remember what happened to them?”
Yet there’s something almost comforting about Wolfhard’s follow-up reassurance: “But then we read the scripts. We knew that it was something special.” This suggests that the Stranger Things team believes they’ve found the antidote to the Game of Thrones curse—not through avoiding ambitious storytelling, but through careful planning and maintaining the show’s essential DNA. The Duffer brothers have apparently had their endgame mapped out for years, which stands in stark contrast to the perception that Game of Thrones’ writers were flying blind once they outpaced George R.R. Martin’s source material. This distinction matters: audiences can sense when a story is being carefully guided to its conclusion versus when it’s being hastily wrapped up.
The irony, of course, is that Game of Thrones’ controversial finale didn’t actually hurt the franchise in the long run. As one analyst noted, the finale set series records for viewership, and the prequel House of the Dragon became a massive hit. This reveals an uncomfortable truth about our relationship with these cultural touchstones: we might complain bitterly about how they end, but we’ll still show up for the next installment. Our outrage is part of the engagement, part of the conversation that keeps these worlds alive in our collective consciousness. The real failure isn’t disappointing your audience—it’s failing to make them care enough to be disappointed.
As Stranger Things prepares for its final bow with promises of Game of Thrones-worthy battles and epic conclusions, we’re witnessing the evolution of television finales from private goodbyes to public spectacles. The pressure on these creative teams is immense, but perhaps that’s the price of creating something truly beloved. In the end, what Wolfhard’s comments reveal isn’t just anxiety about one show’s conclusion, but the growing awareness that in today’s hyper-connected world, how you end your story might be just as important as how you begin it. The final season of Stranger Things isn’t just wrapping up a narrative—it’s navigating the complicated legacy of every great show that came before it, and every disappointed fan who remembers how they ended.
About the Author
