When people talk about contemporary TV dramas, there are two phrases that come up most often.
“It’s too extreme.”
“But it’s still entertaining.”
At first glance, these two statements seem contradictory. In reality, they point to the same place. We criticize stimulation, and at the same time, we respond to it.
This is not so much a story about declining taste, but rather a story about changing perception.
Stimulation is often framed as a moral issue.
“Why do people only look for provocative content these days?”
“Are normal stories no longer enough?”
But if we take a step back and look over time, stimulation did not appear suddenly.
We have already consumed too many stories. Similar conflicts, similar structures, similar endings. Stories that were once more than entertaining enough eventually stopped being felt at all.
That is when stimulation enters. Louder, faster, more extreme.
Stimulation is not evidence of moral decline, but a reaction produced by over-familiarity.
When people say, “It’s not fun anymore,” what they often mean is something closer to this:
“I understand the story, but I don’t feel anything.”
That is why we demand stimulation. To laugh, to be surprised, to feel angry— to feel something, anything.
Stimulation does not guarantee the quality of emotion, but it does guarantee that emotion will occur.
Even when it seems excessive, it feels preferable to a state of feeling nothing at all.
It is easy to criticize the desire for stimulation, but that desire is closer to proof of being alive.
The problem is not stimulation itself, but the moment when stimulation becomes the only solution.
We have not reached that point yet. For now, we are simply checking our senses through the language of stimulation.
How far this will go is a question for the next story.
Once stimulation proves effective, it does not stop there. This is not a matter of willpower, but a matter of structure.
It begins with very small changes. A slightly faster pace. Slightly stronger conflict. Slightly clearer lines between good and evil.
At first, that seems sufficient. And in fact, the response comes.
“This one feels different.”
“It’s definitely engaging.”
The problem begins immediately after that.
When stimulation succeeds once, it stops being an option and becomes a standard.
When a stronger scene appears than before, people say, “This is watchable.” But when the same level of stimulation is repeated, the response quietly changes to, “It’s starting to feel familiar.”
Stimulation surprises people, but people adapt to surprise very quickly.
And so the baseline slowly rises. Without intention or malice, stimulation only ever moves itself upward.
In this process, we often look for someone to blame. Is it the creator’s fault? Or the audience’s?
But this question does not take us very far.
Creators respond to data. Audiences seek what they can still feel. Both behaviors are entirely natural.
The real issue is that neither side has a reason to stop.
Creators see evidence that “this works.” Audiences develop the sense that “it has to be at least this strong to register.”
As a result, stimulation gradually stops being a tool for storytelling and becomes the goal itself.
This is where the structure begins to change.
A form where story came first and stimulation followed turns into one where stimulation comes first and the story is forced to fit around it.
Characters no longer make choices; they are pushed forward by events. Emotions no longer accumulate; they are designed for immediate reaction.
People are still present, but human time disappears.
What matters is that this process is not abnormal.
Stimulation has always amplified itself this way. This is not a problem unique to content, nor to a particular era.
People become accustomed. Familiarity dulls sensation. Dullness calls for stronger stimulation.
This is a very old pattern.
And within this pattern, there has always been a next stage.
At a certain point, people begin to say things like this.
“This has gone too far.”
“It’s starting to feel exhausting.”
“This isn’t what we wanted, is it?”
Around this moment, a particular word appears.
Excess.
Excess is usually used as a language of criticism. Too much. Crude. Broken. As if it were the result of someone deliberately doing things wrong.
But from a slightly different angle, excess is less a failure than a warning signal.
Excess always appears at the far edge of stimulation. When stimulation has been repeated enough, and surprise can no longer produce novelty.
When intensity remains, but story does not, people finally begin to feel discomfort.
What is interesting is that this discomfort does not appear immediately.
First, people laugh. Then, they grow accustomed. And then, at some point, they become tired.
Excess is fatigue that has found language.
Within the criticism directed at excess, an important signal is hidden.
“This is too stimulating.”
This can, in fact, be translated as:
“With this level of stimulation, it is becoming difficult for me to remain myself.”
People want stimulation, but they do not want to be consumed by it.
Excess emerges from the feeling that this boundary has collapsed.
When excess appears, criticism pours out. But at the same time, other voices begin to surface.
“Isn’t there something more grounded?”
“I want to see stories about ordinary lives.”
“This is just too exhausting.”
This is not a shift in taste, but a movement toward restoring balance.
When stimulation leans too far in one direction, people instinctively begin to look for the opposite.
Excess is simply the name given to that turning point.
That is why an increase in excess does not necessarily mean that drama has failed.
One could even say this instead:
Stimulation has been sufficiently exhausted, and people are now ready to receive a different kind of story.
Excess is not the end, but the noise that appears just before moving into the next phase.
When excess becomes exhausting, people do not go looking for stronger stimulation. Quite unexpectedly, the opposite happens.
Quiet stories. Stories without large-scale events. Stories without clearly defined endings.
Why is that?
Stimulation can raise emotion quickly, but it cannot hold it for long.
What remains after enough stimulation is not excitement, but fatigue.
At this point, people do not ask for stronger stories. Instead, they say things like this:
“I want a story that doesn’t shake me so much.”
“I want something about people.”
This is not so much a change in taste as it is a desire for sensory recovery.
This is where observational social drama appears.
This genre does not escalate events. It does not resolve conflicts. Instead, it watches people for a long time.
It shows hesitation rather than choice, continuity rather than decisive action, and states of being rather than dramatic change.
As a result, this genre is almost always met with the same responses.
“It’s boring.”
“But somehow, it stays with me.”
Observational social drama rarely becomes mainstream.
The reason is simple.
It is hard to watch together. Hard to explain. And difficult to recommend with a single phrase.
It feels awkward to say, “It’s fun.” And impossible to say, “It’s satisfying.”
This genre is less about showing something to others and more about quietly receiving it alone.
That is why it does not spread quickly, and why it lingers longer.
Observational social drama does not follow trends.
Whenever stimulation becomes excessive, it returns in roughly the same form.
When people are consumed too functionally, when relationships are reduced to tools for events, someone inevitably asks:
“So, how is this person actually living?”
As long as this question does not disappear, this genre will continue to be necessary.
After stimulation passes, and we return to stories about people, we often find ourselves saying this:
“It feels like we’ve come back to where we started.”
There is a quiet sense of emptiness in this statement. As if nothing really changed. As if the journey was unnecessary. As if we went far away, only to arrive at the same spot.
But is that really true?
What we call a “return” is not an entirely accurate expression.
It may look like the same place, but it cannot be the same state.
We experienced stimulation. We passed through excess. We felt fatigue.
The place we arrive at after all this is clearly different from the place where nothing happened.
Returning is closer to adjustment than to regression.
This structure does not apply only to drama.
We live too intensely → we burn out. We immerse ourselves in relationships → we feel suffocated. We chase success → we are left feeling empty.
And then we say, “I want to live like I used to.”
But what this really means is not a desire to return to the past, but a recognition that the current pace is too fast.
That is why life always learns balance through excess.
To be shaken does not mean we are living incorrectly.
In fact, one could say this instead:
The presence of instability is evidence that our senses are still alive.
A perfectly fixed life, a choice that never wavers, is often closer to stagnation.
Stimulation, fatigue, and reflection are all signs of movement.
People sometimes say, “It’s the same story again.”
But in truth, we do not hear the same story in the same way.
Because experience has changed.
That is why returning is not regression, but a reordering that includes experience.
We begin walking again, but the weight of each step is different.
At the end of a story, people often ask questions like these:
“So what actually changed?”
“Isn’t everything basically back where it started?”
These questions are understandable. We have long been trained to expect visible change from stories.
But some changes are not immediately noticeable.
Characters like “Manager Kim” often feel frustrating from a dramatic perspective.
They do not resist loudly. They do not overturn the system. They do not make cathartic choices.
They remain on a narrow line.
Not entirely wrong, but never fully certain. Carrying too much to simply walk away.
This is less about indecisiveness and more about the weight they are bearing.
When we are young, this kind of attitude feels suffocating.
Why not speak more forcefully? Why not leave more boldly? Why endure at all?
It is difficult to understand.
But with time, we begin to learn.
That there are responsibilities that cannot be easily discarded. Relationships that cannot be easily cut. Lives that cannot be easily broken.
Only then do we understand that the “Manager Kim” perspective was not cowardice, but a technique of adjustment.
Stories like this rarely become fashionable.
They are not provocative. They are not rhetorically sharp. They do not offer clear answers.
And so:
Views remain quiet.
Responses arrive late.
But the story stays.
Like a piece of writing that one returns to quietly, when it is needed.
Stimulation shakes us. Excess exhausts us. And the process eventually brings our gaze back to people.
If there was one thing this series wanted to say, it might be this:
That even without changing the world, even without overturning one’s life, a way of living that continuously adjusts deserves respect.
The stories that remain after stimulation are usually not grand.
But they move at the speed of living people, following slowly behind.
And at some point, we come to realize this:
The place that felt like a return was, in fact, the place we had traveled the farthest to reach.
Sometimes, a thought occurs. It feels as though something changed significantly, yet when we look back, it seems we are standing in almost the same place.
After stimulation passes, after the noise settles, and we return to everyday life, we often say:
“In the end, nothing really changed.”
But is that truly the case?
We have always found a bearable place only after being shaken too much. We have always learned which way to return only after going too far.
Whether it was drama, relationships, or choices in life, the pattern was always similar.
First, we went a little too far. Then, we grew a little tired. And only then did we find a pace we could breathe with again.
That is why “returning” is less like coming back to a place where nothing happened, and more like arriving at a place we have already visited once.
The scenery may look the same, but our gaze has changed. The choice may look the same, but its weight is different.
We often fail to notice this.
Wanting stimulation, growing tired of stimulation, and searching again for stories about people— all of these were, in fact, pointing in the same direction.
A continuous effort to avoid going too far, to avoid becoming too numb, to keep adjusting.
Perhaps this is what we have always been doing.
Being shaken. Crossing a line. And then, returning.
Only later, do we give this process names like “maturity” or “balance.”
So at the end of this series, I will refrain from adding a new conclusion.
Instead, I want to leave just one question.
.
.
.
Have you ever felt it— that it has always been this way?