Looking back, the last century feels like the moment genre television quietly defined its contract with the audience. Most of those early experiments arrived in short waves, and like the tides, they came and went. Some returned decades later on specialty stations or streaming platforms. And these days, nearly everything is being tucked into quieter shores. Every so often, the tropes that once defined a series are reskinned for a new generation, which is simply how television writing evolves.
From that first wave, some re-dos leaned into long-form storytelling, while others stayed loyal to the standalone format.
The 70s offered a handful of tests, including Shazam! (1974–1976), Wonder Woman (1975–1979), and The Incredible Hulk (1977–1982). The latter proved that if you give audiences a hero they can empathize with, they will follow even an unresolved quest, like Bruce Banner’s search for a cure. Sadly, many genre series never reached a true conclusion. The Time Tunnel (1966–1967) is only one of several 60s science-fiction shows left without closure.
With the success of Star Wars (1977) came a renewed appetite for spectacle, giving rise to Battlestar Galactica (1978–1979) and Buck Rogers in the 25th Century (1979–1981). These series were brief and often cancelled before producers could write a proper ending. Budget was frequently the culprit. The signs are easy to spot now: reused effects shots, recycled explosions, the same incoming Cylon Raider over and over. These shows predated a time when television trusted audiences to remember, reflect, and wait. They are ancestors, not full participants, in the lineage that followed.
The Greatest American Hero (1981–1983) arrived just as that shift began. Its running joke was how hard it was to be a hero while clinging to an ordinary life, and Ralph managed in a way that felt imperfect but sincere. The 80s leaned harder into action, with fond favourites like Magnum P.I. (1980–1988), The A-Team (1983–1987), and MacGyver (1985–1992). Near the end of the decade, Star Trek returned with The Next Generation (1987–1994) and quickly reclaimed dominance in the genre space.
For superheroes, the 90s to the 00s were a bold era. Please see the side-bar for a broader list of standouts. Yet it was shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer (1997–2003), Xena: Warrior Princess (1995–1999 and 1995–2001), and The X-Files (1993–2002) that quietly rewired audience expectations. What they taught viewers was patience. Story arcs didn’t dominate early on. They were planted, tested, and allowed to develop naturally.
Often, those ideas only fully emerged in later seasons. Star Trek: Deep Space Nine (1993–1999) became the strongest example of long-term narrative payoff. Kira and Odo’s relationship mattered. Even The X-Files realized it had to evolve beyond a strict case-of-the-week structure once Mulder and Scully showed mutual respect. Shows like Psi Factor (1996–2000), Highlander (1992–1998), and Forever Knight (1992–1996) followed suit, layering character growth over episodic frameworks to stay relevant.
That trust deepened when Chris Carter’s series treated its audience as capable. One character was framed as a dangerous outsider, the other sent to disprove him. Over time, they formed a tight bond, and the mysteries proved to hold real weight. The show succeeded because it wasn’t only about aliens. It was about relationships enduring while confronting conspiracies, folklore, and the unknown. It resisted becoming fully formulaic, and that restraint mattered.
The real handoff came with Stargate SG-1 (1997–2007). Along with later iterations like Atlantis, Universe, and Continuum, the franchise had to fill a vacuum. The narrative formula had to follow the traditional mold instead of exploring the IP proper. Whether that’s with a pair of investigators, a team of capable soldiers or an institution, the beats had to stay true to what’s familiar otherwise the networks will not support it. With Amazon Prime Video announcing a reboot or continuation, the cycle begins anew. Let’s just hope it respects its theatrical origins.
Even Supernatural trusted their audience to to stay with them. Yet their success raised an uncomfortable question. Did genre television need to keep thinking bigger? Around this time, the former began to falter. Its early seasons, sentimental in their conflict-of-the-week structure and fascination with lost civilizations, were shaped by the gap left when Voyager and Babylon 5 (1994–1998) concluded. Some franchises would later return under new leadership. Others simply lacked the viewership to survive, with Firefly (2002–2003) becoming the most cited casualty.
Running alongside this era was Smallville (2001–2011). Instead of presenting a fully formed hero, it treated heroism as a long process of becoming. Over ten seasons, Clark Kent learned when he can help and when he cannot. The series favoured emotional accumulation over spectacle, delaying the mantle of Superman until it felt earned.
By the mid-2010s, that idea had taken hold and quickly became industrialized. The Arrowverse emerged as an ambitious project, with Supergirl (2015–2021) standing out as one of its more idealistic entries. Early seasons, along with a reworked Flash, leaned into optimism, civic responsibility, and moral clarity, values that trace directly back to The Next Generation.
Over time, success and failure became shaped by crossover demands and event storytelling. Shows like The 100 (2014–2020) pushed in a different direction, emphasizing survival, leadership, and moral compromise. Heroes (2006–2010) tried to do too much at once. Somewhere in between came the pivot with Riverdale (2017–2023).
Veteran creators adapted where possible. Anne Rice’s works found new life on AMC with Interview with the Vampire (2022– ) and Mayfair Witches (2023– ). Although niche, they signal where the genre has gone. As a result, even Superman & Lois (2021–2024) felt restrained, reframing heroism through parenthood rather than institutions or empires.
If genre television feels smaller today, it’s not because ideas have dried up. It’s because the system no longer supports the conditions that allowed them to grow. The Big Five networks are no longer invested. Netflix has concluded Stranger Things, and there is no such thing as a rerun anymore. A series exists only for as long as a platform chooses to host it.
Channel surfing, discovery, and communal viewing have eroded. Now you must already know what you’re looking for, hidden behind paywalls. What was once something you could stumble into and grow alongside now demands deliberate pursuit, the domain of the already converted.
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