There’s a particular kind of anxiety that settles over a television production when it approaches its final season—a collective holding of breath that feels almost palpable even to viewers at home. Finn Wolfhard’s recent admission that the Stranger Things cast was “pretty worried” about their final season being “torn to shreds” like Game of Thrones speaks to a universal truth in modern television: no show wants to be remembered for how it ended rather than what it accomplished. This fear has become the industry’s equivalent of a final boss battle, where years of goodwill can evaporate in a handful of episodes, leaving behind a legacy forever tinged with disappointment.
What’s particularly fascinating about this phenomenon is how it’s transformed from an occasional misstep into a cultural touchstone. Game of Thrones didn’t just have a disappointing finale—it became the benchmark by which all other final seasons are measured. When Wolfhard specifically mentions the HBO series by name, he’s not just referencing any bad ending; he’s invoking the gold standard of final season failures, the cautionary tale that now haunts every writer’s room approaching their series conclusion. The shadow of those dragon-filled final episodes looms so large that even a completely different genre show like Stranger Things feels its chilling presence.
The psychology behind this collective anxiety reveals something profound about our relationship with long-form storytelling. We don’t just watch these shows—we invest in them. We grow up with the characters, mark life milestones by their seasons, and form emotional attachments that transcend typical entertainment. When a finale fails to deliver, it feels personal, like a friend who moved away without saying goodbye properly. The Stranger Things cast understands this better than most, having started as child actors and matured alongside their characters, creating a symbiotic relationship between performer and role that makes the stakes feel even higher.
What’s encouraging about Wolfhard’s comments, however, is the moment of relief he describes upon reading the final scripts. That transition from apprehension to confidence suggests that the Duffer Brothers have learned from television history rather than repeating it. The comparison to Game of Thrones is particularly telling because the two shows faced different challenges—one adapting existing material that ran out, the other crafting an original story from start to finish. This distinction might be Stranger Things’ secret weapon: complete creative control and a predetermined endpoint, allowing for a more cohesive narrative arc than the improvisational approach that sometimes plagues adaptations.
Ultimately, the pressure these final seasons face speaks to television’s evolution into our most significant cultural storytelling medium. We expect these conclusions to do more than just wrap up plotlines—we want them to honor the emotional journey, to feel earned rather than rushed, to leave us satisfied but still longing for what we’ve lost. The fact that Stranger Things is approaching this moment with both reverence and trepidation might be the healthiest sign yet. After all, the shows that crash and burn are usually the ones that never stopped to consider whether they might.
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