Spoiler Alert: This editorial doesn't contain spoilers, just a waffly discussion of them.
Wait. What are you talking about? But before you say what you were about to say, tell me exactly what episode you are up to. Have you reached the end? And has that ‘thing’ happened to ‘you-know-who’?
I imagine this ludicrous word algebra is somewhat familiar if you work in an office or have any friends. It’s because we live in fear. But it isn’t a rational fear, like being scared of flying, the soaring price of milk, or moths. It’s a fear of finding out what happens in the next episode of Telltale’s The Walking Dead or at the end of Skyfall. People all around us are terrified of not experiencing those revelations – major and minor – for themselves. They make otherwise sane individuals behave in rather unusual ways, fleeing from rooms, violently ripping headphones from ears, and setting Twitter feeds to sift out ruinous tidbits. And don't look now. Spoiler: I think it’s getting worse.
Don't Look Now: what's the worst that could happen?
A couple of years ago a study was conducted by the University of California, San Diego, to see whether knowing the end of a story actually spoils it for the reader. Participants were given a collection of short stories: a third were presented in their original form, totally ‘unspoiled’, while the remaining two thirds had ‘spoilerific’ paragraphs inserted either midway through the text or right at the beginning. The results were quite surprising. Readers actually preferred the ‘spoiled’ stories in all but one case. Professor of social psychology Nicholas Christenfeld, and co-author of the study, said,"It's sort of as if knowing things puts you in a position that gives you certain advantages to understand the plot." His colleague Jonathan Leavitt offers an explanation: "It could be that once you know how it turns out, you're more comfortable processing the information and can focus on a deeper understanding of the story."
Suspense and surprise can be rekindled, even if you know the outcome. Even when you're not four years old.
Your mind rejects it. Surely knowing something crucial would diminish one’s enjoyment of that story. I really don’t think that’s true; if it were, we wouldn't revisit anything. Stephen King famously barked when someone asked if reading his Dark Tower saga would ruin the Marvel comics based on them. "There are no spoilers!", King replied, "You might as well say 'I'm never gonna watch Wizard of Oz again because I know how it comes out.’” I think he's right. As a child one of my favourite toys was a truly sinister Jack-in-the-box. I would sit on the floor and cautiously wind it up, and I would cry and scream when suddenly confronted by the bouncing grotesque features of the demented jester I had unleashed into the world. And I’d repeat this process for hours. Suspense and surprise can be rekindled, even if you know the outcome. Even when you're not four years old.
Granted, games are unique when it comes to revisiting them. Due to design and technology, your subsequent experiences of a game can be very different. It varies widely between titles, of course, but games like Skyrim or Dishonored permit vastly different types of play-through; some games have entire sections and endings that will only be experienced by a player who returns to their worlds repeatedly. In books, films, and television, however, there’s far more authorial presence; what we see and hear is more tightly controlled, and the world we see is largely unbothered by our presence. But I would still argue that knowing what happens doesn’t affect our enjoyment.
If you’re still not convinced, I can think of no better way of illustrating this point than by calling on a friendly Los Angeles police detective in a crumpled beige raincoat. Ever since the late nineteenth-century the world has adored detective stories, but surely if there ever was a genre that was all about final-act revelations, it’s detective fiction. The satisfaction surely comes from unmasking the villain (preferably in a haunted amusement park), dispelling the mystery and returning order to a world gone awry. Detectives, above all, are agents of order and reason.
Columbo: spoiling itself since 1971.
So how do we explain the immense popularity of homicide detective lieutenant Columbo? In nearly every episode of the hit show, the standard format of the detective story is reversed – the audience sees the crime committed and knows the identity of the murderer in the episode's opening minutes. The show’s enduring charm came not from a cheap final revelation but from watching Columbo at work, focussing on characterisation and the very art of sleuthing. It was a ‘howcatch’em’, not a ‘whodunnit’, and its huge success and critical acclaim demonstrates how the narrative journey can be far more compelling than the eventual destination.
Serial television is perhaps the worse offender when it comes to spreading spoilerphobia; it’s a notoriously ‘end-orientated’ medium. With shows like Homeland, and before it 24, cliffhangers are strategically placed at the end of each episode and the entire series itself builds towards one great, climactic event. To secure your attention for next week and the next season, it fetishises endings more than any other medium I can think of. Ultimately, I think spoiler alerts are only absolutely necessary for games, books, and films whose only trick and real attraction is that surprise ending. If that’s the only reason you’re watching, doesn’t that make it a fragile and insubstantial work?
He's signed a five-year deal. He's probably not in any real danger.
One of the reason spoilerphobia is becoming more common is that we are blessed with tremendous technology that allows us to spread information at unprecedented speeds. It’s transformed the world, overthrowing oppressive regimes and showing us how wonderful life would be like if we possessed an industrial blender in the process. But it’s too good, too efficient; so much so, we’ve reached a point where we have to censor it. Not to protect soldiers stationed behind enemy lines – as George Orwell recommended – but for serious things like what happens to Nicholas Brody in the final episode of Homeland.
Spoilers – or more precisely, the fear of them – do nothing but spoil the conversation.
I see spoilers as doing nothing but stalling the discussion. They’re wonderfully idealistic, protecting individuals, holding out for a time when everyone will be up to the same point. But we all know that time will never come, and neither will that discussion. If you don’t want to hear something, excuse yourself, but the impetus should be on the person who chooses not to hear, not those having the conversation. It’s even resulted in some ludicrous situations where I’ve seen people complaining that spoilers weren’t clearly flagged in discussions about Jane Eyre and other adaptations of classic literary works. Novels which have been out for centuries should be discussed without fear of spoiling them.
Spoilers – or more precisely, the fear of them – do nothing but spoil the conversation. I like to think of myself as a considerate individual, and I would never wittingly spoil a game or film or book for anyone who has yet to enjoy it for themselves. I wouldn’t extract some sadistic glee from ruining someone’s else’s experience. I know that narrative discovery at its best should be individual, personal, yet there has to be a shorter moratorium on when it’s fit and proper to discuss that work. Extreme spoilerphobia in the end doesn’t stop people from finding out what happens, it just stops us from having those conversations when it’s most vital.
Daniel is IGN's UK Staff Writer. You can be part of the world's worst cult by following him on IGN and Twitter.
Source : ign[dot]com
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