Top 10: Shows that Should be Talked About More
The number of TV shows brought into the world since the advent of television and now streaming, probably borders on countless, at this point.
The sheer number of them, high quality or low, alone is enough to make any top ten list virtually unrealistic in scope, because how could you possibly make a list of the best (Spartacus, Star Trek TNG, Dragon Ball) or worst (She Hulk, Velma, Ironheart) tv shows when art is subjective and the options are endless?
Well, that's not what we're doing today. Today, I just want to bring to the attention of you, the reader, shows that we don't talk about as much as they deserve. Whether you've heard of them or not, watched them or not, these shows deserve more discourse than they deserve.
And today, I would like to rectify that by starting with one of my personal favorites, ever.
#10 Spartacus (Blood and Sand, Gods of the Arena, Vengeance, War of the Damned)
My Favorite Show, Ever
But why is it number ten?
Simply because with the upcoming release of House of Asher (an alternate-telling spinoff), talk about what I consider the greatest narrative ever put on television has ramped up — and for damn good reason.
Spanning three explosive seasons and a prequel (Gods of the Arena), Spartacus took the over-the-top, comic book–style visuals of 300 and blended them with operatic Shakespearean drama, jaw-dropping violence, and pure, unfiltered emotion. The result? A show that not only defined the sword-and-sandal genre for television, but transcended it entirely.
The Story
Loosely based on the Third Servile War (73–71 BCE), Spartacus follows the legendary Thracian gladiator who led a rebellion against the Roman Republic. Betrayed, enslaved, and forced to fight for the amusement of Rome’s elite, Spartacus rises from the sand and blood of the arena to lead a revolution — a war for freedom that shakes an empire.
The series doesn’t shy away from the raw, visceral brutality of Roman life — but beneath the gore lies a deeply emotional, often tragic human story. Brotherhood. Betrayal. Love. Power. Vengeance. Every single episode pushes these themes to their breaking point, and the payoff is always satisfying — sometimes devastatingly so.
The Cast That Defined It
The late Andy Whitfield delivered one of the most magnetic first-season performances ever seen on TV — equal parts noble, fierce, and heartbreakingly human. When Whitfield’s passing forced the show to recast, Liam McIntyre took on the mantle in Vengeance and War of the Damned, honoring Whitfield’s legacy with a performance that grew in intensity and depth as Spartacus evolved from man to myth.
But Spartacus wasn’t just about its hero — it was about its ensemble:
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Manu Bennett as Crixus, the Gaul — rival turned brother, a man of immense pride and passion.
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Dustin Clare as Gannicus — the swaggering, wine-soaked warrior whose grin hides survivor’s guilt.
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Peter Mensah as Oenomaus (Doctore) — the stoic trainer of men, torn between loyalty and justice.
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Dan Feuerriegel as Agron — fierce, loyal, and one of the series’ most authentic portrayals of same-sex love.
And let’s not forget the villains — some of the finest ever written for television:
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John Hannah as Batiatus — slimy, ambitious, poetic in profanity.
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Lucy Lawless as Lucretia — manipulative, tragic, and unforgettable.
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Craig Parker as Glaber — the Roman noble whose arrogance fuels the fire.
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Simon Merrells as Marcus Crassus — a cold genius and the only man worthy of Spartacus’s final battle.
The Style and Legacy
Yes, it’s stylized. The slow-motion blood sprays, the operatic dialogue, the surreal color grading — all intentional. But behind the heightened aesthetic lies razor-sharp writing and character work that rivals prestige drama. Every exchange drips with tension; every alliance feels temporary; every victory costs something.
The show also broke barriers with its depiction of sexuality — not just for shock value, but as an intrinsic part of its world. It was a Rome where sex, politics, and death shared the same bed, and the show never apologized for it.
The War Never Ends
Spartacus isn’t just a story of rebellion; it’s a meditation on freedom, purpose, and the cost of defiance. It’s a series that gave every major character — hero or villain — an ending worthy of their arc. (Except Naevia. Screw Naevia.)
Even now, years later, few shows match its courage, its emotional honesty, or its sheer operatic weight.
So with House of Asher reigniting conversations about legacy, rebellion, and sacrifice, it feels fitting to revisit the one that set the standard — Spartacus: bloody, beautiful, and immortal and absolutely must see.
#9 Shōgun (1980)
I Have a LOT of Favorite Stories, but Only ONE Favorite Novel
And that novel is James Clavell’s Shōgun.
It’s the book I hold personally responsible for my lifelong obsession with massive novels, dense world-building, and dialogue so sharp it bleeds. (And, to cover my ass for future literary arguments — yes, Tolkien deserves some of that blame too.)
The Novel That Built an Empire
First published in 1975, Shōgun is an absolute titan of historical fiction — a sprawling, 1,100-page epic that plunges you into feudal Japan at the dawn of the 1600s. Inspired by real events surrounding the rise of Tokugawa Ieyasu and the story of the English navigator William Adams, Clavell reimagines the era with dizzying scope and depth.
The book follows John Blackthorne (Clavell's stand-in for Adams), an English pilot who shipwrecks on the shores of Japan and finds himself caught in the crossfire between warring samurai lords. As Blackthorne is slowly drawn into the machinations of Lord Toranaga (Clavell’s stand-in for Ieyasu), he must learn not only the language and customs of this new world but also its deadly, beautiful logic.
Clavell’s Japan is painted with incredible authenticity — the rituals, the politics, the philosophies, the sensuality. The way he writes about honor, death, and power is so patient, so methodical, that by the time you close the book, you feel like you’ve lived there.
The Forgotten Masterpiece: 1980’s Shōgun Miniseries
With the buzz around FX’s 2024 Shōgun — which came out of nowhere and stunned everyone with its jaw-dropping production value and universally glowing reviews — it’s been incredible to see new generations discover this story. But here’s something most people don’t realize:
Clavell’s masterpiece already had an adaptation.
All the way back in 1980, NBC released a five-episode, nine-hour miniseries that brought Shōgun to life decades before prestige television was even a thing.
Starring Richard Chamberlain as John Blackthorne, Yoko Shimada as the luminous and tragic Lady Mariko, John Rhys-Davies as Vasco Rodrigues, and none other than Toshiro Mifune — Kurosawa’s eternal muse (and personally rated greatest actor of all time)— as Lord Toranaga, the series was a cultural event. Broadcast over five nights, it drew over 120 million viewers, won three Emmy Awards, and introduced mainstream America to Japanese culture in a way that had simply never been done before.
The 1980 Shōgun was a product of its time — rich, ambitious, and occasionally dripping with 80s melodrama — but beneath the soft lighting and slightly dated pacing lies a story told with immense heart and respect. The sets were grand, the costuming impeccable, and the performances sincere. Mifune, in particular, carries the gravitas of a man born to rule, while Chamberlain captures that perfect mix of bewildered arrogance and gradual awe that defines Blackthorne’s journey.
Old Honor vs. New Precision
Where FX’s 2024 Shōgun is sleek, cinematic, and reverent — a near-flawless modern retelling anchored by Cosmo Jarvis, Hiroyuki Sanada, and Anna Sawai — the 1980 version has a pulse all its own. It’s warmer, earthier, more theatrical. The imperfections are part of its charm.
The new series gives you historical precision; the old one gives you heart.
Watching them side by side is like comparing two master painters working from the same sketch — one working in oil, the other in watercolor. Both breathtaking, both valid, both eternal tributes to the same incredible story.
Why Shōgun Endures
Few novels can command respect across generations the way Clavell’s Shōgun does. It’s not just a tale of shipwreck and survival — it’s about transformation, cultural collision, and the cost of ambition.
Every time it’s adapted, it finds new life. The book made me fall in love with long, slow, immersive storytelling — the kind that rewards patience with transcendence. The kind that builds worlds you can smell, taste, and hear.
So while the FX version might be the definitive visual adaptation, the 1980 miniseries remains a relic of something rarer — a time when television reached for greatness and actually caught it.
#8 Cheers
Sometimes You Wanna Go Where Everybody Knows Your Name
And Cheers delivers that feeling in full, every single episode.
I swear I’m younger than this list is making me sound, but Cheers? Cheers is special.
Where Everybody Knows Your Name
Running for 11 glorious seasons from 1982 to 1993, Cheers isn’t just a sitcom. It’s a masterclass in character writing, a dialogue clinic, and one of the most effortlessly human shows ever made. Before shows like Friends, Cheers was already quietly proving that laughter could coexist with heartbreak, friendship with loss, and that a neighborhood bar could feel like home to millions of people who had never even stepped foot in Boston.
Set almost entirely inside the cozy wooden walls of a small basement bar called Cheers, the series follows former Red Sox pitcher Sam Malone (Ted Danson) — a recovering alcoholic and smooth-talking ladies’ man with more depth than he lets on. Alongside him are his lovable staff and regulars: Coach (Nicholas Colasanto), the sweetly clueless father figure; Diane Chambers (Shelley Long), the neurotic intellectual who crashes into Sam’s world like a hurricane of misplaced refinement; Carla Tortelli (Rhea Perlman), the fierce and foul-mouthed waitress with a heart buried somewhere beneath the sarcasm; Norm Peterson (George Wendt), the bar’s resident philosopher of apathy; and Cliff Clavin (John Ratzenberger), the know-it-all mailman with trivia for every occasion — and accuracy for none.
As the years rolled on, the family grew. Woody Harrelson joined as the earnest young bartender Woody Boyd, Kirstie Alley took over as the sharp-tongued businesswoman Rebecca Howe, and Kelsey Grammer arrived as Frasier Crane, the pompous psychiatrist who somehow made neurosis charming enough to get his own spinoff.
The Bar, the Banter, the Heart
What makes Cheers so timeless isn’t just the jokes — though the writing is some of the sharpest in TV history — it’s the rhythm. The bar hums with life. You don’t feel like you’re watching a show; you feel like you’ve just pulled up a stool and joined the conversation. Every punchline lands because it comes from a place of love, familiarity, or deep understanding of who these people are.
The show’s humor is disarming — it sneaks up on you, makes you laugh until you realize you’re feeling something deeper underneath it. That’s the secret to Cheers: beneath the laughter, it’s a story about found family — about people who are broken, lonely, or lost, and who choose to keep showing up for each other anyway.
And at the center of it all is Sam Malone. Ted Danson plays him with a perfect mix of confidence and quiet pain. What many don’t realize going in is that Sam is an alcoholic, and his drinking problem isn’t just backstory — it’s a living, breathing part of who he is. The end of his baseball career, the opening of the bar, the string around his neck holding the last bottle cap from the last beer he ever drank — all of it speaks to a man constantly walking the line between who he was and who he’s trying to be.
Whenever Sam starts flirting with the idea of drinking again, the audience feels it like a tremor. It’s the show’s unspoken alarm — the signal that something in his life is really coming apart. For a sitcom, that’s extraordinary. Cheers found ways to make you care deeply about a man’s quiet battles while still making you laugh until your sides hurt.
The Greatest Ensemble in Sitcom History
The cast of Cheers isn’t just good — it’s legendary. Ted Danson, Shelley Long, Rhea Perlman, George Wendt, John Ratzenberger, Woody Harrelson, Kirstie Alley, Kelsey Grammer… every single one of them is iconic. They didn’t just play archetypes — they invented them. Nearly every workplace or friend-group sitcom that came after (Friends, The Office, Parks and Recreation) owes a debt to Cheers.
Each episode feels like a perfectly mixed cocktail: one part wit, one part melancholy, two parts humanity.
A Bar That Became a Myth
And let’s be honest — the bar itself is a character. The polished wood, the dim lighting, the faint clinking of glasses — Cheers feels alive. It’s warm, familiar, eternal. You can almost smell the peanuts and hear Norm sighing as he settles into his stool.
It’s rare for television to capture something so intimate and communal. Cheers isn’t just about the jokes or the romance or the life lessons — it’s about belonging. It’s about that place in your life where you can walk through the door and everyone shouts your name.
So yeah — Cheers actually gets talked about a lot, even now, but even that still doesn’t feel like enough. Because for all its laughter and its legacy, Cheers remains something deeply human: a story about ordinary people choosing to be each other’s home.
#7 Dragon Ball GT
Everybody Loves Dragon Ball!
Everybody loves Dragon Ball Z.
But Dragon Ball GT?
Yeah — that’s my favorite. And I know that’s the kind of thing that’ll get you side-eyed at conventions, but I stand by it. Because while most fans write GT off as “non-canon,” I think it’s the most spiritually authentic continuation of Dragon Ball ever made.
And the key word there is spirit.
The Lost Spirit of Adventure
Remember what Dragon Ball used to feel like before the world-ending battles, before the gods, before “power levels” became the entire personality of the show? Back when Goku was just a wild kid with a tail, a stick, and a cloud — journeying across mountains, meeting strange people, chasing Dragon Balls, and growing up one adventure at a time?
That feeling — that childlike wonder — is what GT brought back.
Unlike Super, which often feels like an endless tournament with prettier animation, GT takes us back on the road. It remembers that Dragon Ball was never just about who could punch hardest; it was about exploration, friendship, humor, and discovery.
The first third of GT — the Black Star Dragon Ball Saga — might seem like filler to some, but it’s actually a deliberate throwback to those early Dragon Ball days. Goku (now turned back into a kid by the Dragon Balls themselves — poetic, right?) travels across the galaxy with Pan and Trunks, collecting the Black Star Dragon Balls before they destroy Earth. Every new planet feels like a Saturday morning adventure: weird aliens, mysterious ruins, comedic side quests, and old-fashioned Toriyama absurdity.
It’s a smaller story on a cosmic stage — and that’s exactly what made it feel so right.
The Lineage of Wonder
Even Dragon Ball Z, for all its cosmic brawls and death beams, started with that same energy. The Saiyan Saga, for instance, wasn’t just about fighting Raditz and Vegeta — it was about Gohan’s coming of age. Watching him cry, grow, and slowly tap into his potential felt like watching early Goku all over again. That blend of adventure, emotion, and danger is what hooked people.
But as Z evolved, it traded that wanderlust for spectacle. Don’t get me wrong — I love it. The Frieza fight is one of the most iconic moments in pop culture history. But by the time you get to Super, the formula had calcified: gods, tournaments, transformations, rinse, repeat. The humor’s there, the nostalgia’s there — but the soul? The spirit of exploration? Gone.
That’s where GT steps in like the forgotten child who still remembers how to play.
The Adventure Grows Up
What’s beautiful about GT is that it doesn’t just rehash Dragon Ball’s sense of adventure — it evolves it. The innocence of the early journeys is still there, but now it’s tinged with nostalgia, with maturity, with a quiet understanding that time has passed.
Goku isn’t that boy anymore — even when he’s physically turned back into one. He’s lived a life. He’s saved the world, lost friends, raised a family. Watching him adventure again feels different now — it’s the joy of revisiting something you thought you’d outgrown.
And the others have grown, too. Krillin’s older and at peace. Gohan’s a scholar now, raising Pan and stepping into a quieter role. Vegeta — moustache and all — has finally found something resembling domestic happiness. These characters aren’t static icons anymore; they’re people. Aging, evolving, living.
GT gives us the rarest thing in long-running shōnen: a changing future.
The Villains Born of Legacy
Then the tone shifts. The lighthearted adventures lead into the Tuffle Parasite Baby Saga, where the sins of the Saiyans’ past come back to haunt them. Baby isn’t just another power-hungry villain — he’s history’s revenge made flesh. A ghost of genocide. And when he takes over Vegeta, it hits with emotional weight because Vegeta’s arc, his guilt, and his pride are all on the line.
The villains of GT aren’t just enemies to punch — they’re reflections of the heroes’ journey.
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Baby is Saiyan arrogance.
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Super 17 is scientific hubris.
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Omega Shenron is karmic consequence — the literal embodiment of overusing the Dragon Balls themselves.
It’s poetic. The tools of their salvation become their downfall. It’s like the universe saying, “Your wishes have a cost.”
That’s myth.
The Style That Bleeds
And you can’t talk GT without talking style.
GT looks like a painting from another era — deep reds, golds, and shadow. It feels heavier, more mature. The music (especially in the Japanese version) has this wistful, jazzy, almost cosmic loneliness to it.
And then there’s Super Saiyan 4.
I’ll die on this hill: it’s the best transformation design in the entire franchise. Not a god, not an angel — but a beast. A primal evolution that reconnects the Saiyan to his animal nature, his roots, his fire. Red fur, golden eyes, black hair — raw, instinctive, powerful. It’s Goku becoming something ancient again. Something true.
The Ending — and Why It’s Perfect
When all is said and done, and Goku rides away with Shenron in the finale, it’s quiet. No screaming, no explosion, no victory dance. Just peace.
He’s not dying. He’s transcending. He becomes what he’s always been to the audience — a myth, a story, a memory that lives forever.
The boy who chased Dragon Balls becomes one himself — something eternal, something that grants hope just by existing.
Why GT Matters
GT isn’t perfect. The pacing’s uneven, some arcs drag, and yeah, there’s filler that could’ve been trimmed. But none of that changes the fact that GT understands something that Super never quite grasped:
That Dragon Ball isn’t just about fighting — it’s about living.
It’s about traveling to strange places, meeting new people, and learning what it means to grow up. It’s about innocence, loss, and rediscovery. It’s about family, legacy, and the beauty of adventure itself.
So yeah, you can keep your gods and your Ultra Instincts — I’ll take the aging heroes, the road trips through space, and the quiet moments where Goku looks at the stars and smiles.
Because for me, Dragon Ball GT isn’t just canon —it’s closure.
It’s the story that remembers how to dream.
#6 Sweet Home
The Closest We have Ever Come to Live Action Resident Evil
There are monster shows. There are apocalypse shows.
And then there’s Sweet Home — a Korean nightmare that feels like someone finally took Resident Evil, ripped out the camp, and replaced it with raw emotion, blood-soaked poetry, and existential dread.
What Is Sweet Home?
Based on the hit Naver webtoon by Kim Carnby and Hwang Young-chan, Sweet Home is a Netflix original series that first dropped in December 2020, and if you missed it, you missed one of the most unique takes on survival horror ever brought to the screen.
Set almost entirely inside a decaying Seoul apartment complex called Green Home, the series follows Cha Hyun-su (played by Song Kang), a suicidal teenager who moves in after the death of his family — only for humanity to begin collapsing around him.
But here’s the twist: the apocalypse doesn’t come from zombies or aliens. It comes from within. People across the world start transforming into monsters — grotesque, symbolic abominations that reflect their deepest desires and darkest impulses.
Think: The Fly meets Silent Hill meets The Last of Us — but drenched in neon melancholy and Korean tragedy.
Survival, Not Spectacle
Where American horror often leans on gunfire and spectacle, Sweet Home is about survival, community, and despair. The residents of Green Home aren’t heroes — they’re broken people trying to find meaning in a hopeless world.
There’s Seo Yi-kyung (Lee Si-young), a former firefighter haunted by loss. Lee Eun-hyuk (Lee Do-hyun), the pragmatic, calculating leader trying to hold everything together. Yoon Ji-soo (Park Gyu-young), a bassist who copes with apocalypse through dark humor. And Pyeon Sang-wook (Lee Jin-wook), a scarred enforcer with a violent past who becomes something almost biblical by the end.
Each episode peels back layers of their trauma — not with exposition dumps, but through choices, sacrifices, and haunting silences.
Horror with a Heart (and a Message)
What Sweet Home does better than almost any horror series of the last decade is balance visceral fear with human intimacy.
This isn’t just about body horror — it’s about spiritual horror. About what happens to people when the world ends, when kindness is no longer rewarded, when morality becomes optional.
At its core, the show asks a question more profound than “Who survives?”
It asks, “Who deserves to?”
Why Sweet Home Deserves the Hype
Because it’s fear and feeling in perfect balance. It’s violent and thoughtful. Tragic and beautiful.
It doesn’t just want to scare you — it wants to break you a little.
It’s what happens when a horror story stops asking, “What if monsters were real?” and starts asking, “What if we were?”
And that’s why Sweet Home is the closest we’ve ever come to live-action Resident Evil — not because of the creatures or the carnage, but because it captures the one thing Resident Evil has always been about:
The fragility of humanity when the world finally stops pretending to be civilized.
#5 High School of the Dead
The First of Two High School Zombie Outbreak Stories on this ListAnd my personal favorite anime and manga of all time. (I own everything, including the manga, hardcover full-color manga books, and every bluray including the OVA) I really love HotD.
If you’ve ever seen even a single frame from Highschool of the Dead, you probably think you already know what it is.
Guns, zombies, girls, jiggle physics — and an unapologetic amount of fanservice that could make Baywatch blush.
And yeah, all of that is absolutely there.
But beneath the wild, over-the-top presentation, HotD is one of the most stylish, emotionally charged, and surprisingly human anime of its kind — a series that understood both the thrill of apocalypse and the fragility of the people trapped inside it.
“The World Has Gone to Hell”
Based on the manga by Daisuke Satō (writer) and Shōji Satō (artist), Highschool of the Dead aired in 2010, directed by Tetsurō Araki — the same director who later brought us Attack on Titan and Death Note. And once you know that, everything about HotD makes sense.
The series opens mid-chaos. Society is collapsing. The dead are rising. And a handful of high school students — Takashi Komuro, Rei Miyamoto, Saeko Busujima, Saya Takagi, Kohta Hirano, and the school nurse Shizuka — find themselves forced to band together to survive.
On paper, it’s simple.
But the execution? Pure adrenaline.
HotD captures that first-day panic of an apocalypse better than almost any series before or since — that primal fear when everything still feels surreal, when the rules you’ve lived by suddenly stop applying.
It’s 28 Days Later meets Neon Genesis Evangelion with a dash of teenage hormones.
The Fanservice — and Why It Actually Works
Let’s address the elephant in the room (or more accurately, the physics-defying bullet-time scene). Yes — HotD is infamous for its fanservice. The camera angles are gratuitous, the clothes are tight, and some moments teeter on parody.
But here’s the thing: it’s all part of the tone.
Unlike many shows that shoehorn sexuality into their stories for no reason, HotD leans into it as part of its chaos. It’s apocalyptic indulgence — humanity literally and figuratively stripped bare. The sexuality feels primal, instinctual, a reminder that in the face of death, the will to live (and to feel alive) becomes overwhelming.
It’s both exploitation and commentary — a deliberate contrast between eroticism and existential fear. And somehow, it works.
A Visual Masterclass in Mayhem
The art style is where HotD transcends its reputation.
Shōji Satō’s designs are sharp, sleek, and kinetic — every frame bursting with motion. The action sequences are phenomenally choreographed: blades slicing through undead hordes, bullets glinting through sunlight, blood spraying like oil paint.
It’s not realism. It’s hyper-realism.
It feels like watching a comic book drawn in motion, with angles so extreme they border on absurd — and that’s exactly what makes it so exhilarating.
Even the color palette is distinct. Where most zombie media sticks to grime and desaturation, HotD uses saturated panic — hot pinks, electric blues, orange sunsets against blackened cities. It’s gorgeous apocalypse, and it knows it.
The Characters That Ground the Madness
What truly separates HotD from countless imitators is its cast.
Each survivor embodies a different worldview — and over the course of the story, those perspectives clash, fracture, and evolve.
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Takashi isn’t your typical shōnen hero. He’s messy, impulsive, haunted by guilt and indecision — but real.
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Rei is torn between loyalty and survival, her trauma simmering beneath her composure.
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Saeko — maybe the most fascinating of them all — hides her bloodlust behind elegance, wrestling with her own darkness in some of the show’s best scenes. Saeko is legitimately one of my favorite anime characters EVER.
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Kohta, the gun-obsessed otaku, transforms from comic relief to genuine backbone of the group.
By episode six, you’re not just watching survivors. You’re watching people trying to redefine their humanity.
And that’s what elevates HotD from guilty pleasure to genuine masterpiece: its ability to show that survival isn’t just about fighting monsters — it’s about confronting what kind of person you become when the world ends.
The Death of Daisuke Satō — and the Tragedy of an Unfinished Story
Perhaps the most heartbreaking part of Highschool of the Dead’s legacy is that it was never finished.
Writer Daisuke Satō passed away in 2017 at just 52 years old, leaving the manga incomplete. The final chapter was released in 2013, and while his brother Shōji continued other works, he chose not to finish HotD without Daisuke’s words.
That decision — to let it remain unfinished — feels strangely fitting. The story of Highschool of the Dead ends mid-journey, much like the lives of its characters: uncertain, unresolved, human.
And it left a void that no other zombie anime has quite filled since.
Why Highschool of the Dead Still Matters
For all its fanservice, explosions, and excess, HotD is far more than the sum of its moving parts. It’s stylish, fearless, and deeply emotional beneath its chaos. It dares to be ridiculous and profound in the same breath — a blend of pulp and pathos that few series could ever balance again.
It’s a reminder that even in the end of the world, there’s room for beauty, humor, lust, and love.
So yeah — it’s sexy, bloody, and unhinged.
But it’s also honest.
And that’s what makes Highschool of the Dead not just one of the most misunderstood anime of its time —but one of the most unforgettable.
#4 The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance
Along with Jim Henson's Labyrinth, the Original Dark Crystal Shaped My Love for Fantasy
And because of those two things, I've always loved puppetry, so much so that I still participate in it to this day.
The day that I went to the Atlanta Puppetry Museum and got to see all of the screen used Labyrinth and Dark Crystal puppets and props during an event they were having, I felt like I had achieved a lifelong dream.
So when a prequel to the Dark Crystal was announced I was flabbergasted. Nay, terrified. But...
Some shows feel like miracles the moment they’re made. The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance was one of them — a once-in-a-generation achievement in practical filmmaking, a resurrection of pure fantasy in an era obsessed with CGI.
And six years later, it still hurts that we never got more.
A Return to Thra
Released on Netflix in 2019, The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance serves as a prequel to Jim Henson’s 1982 cult classic, The Dark Crystal. Set long before the events of the original film, it tells the story of three Gelflings — Rian, Brea, and Deet — who discover the horrifying truth behind the crystal that sustains their world, and the tyrannical Skeksis who rule it.
It’s a story of rebellion, corruption, and unity — but more than that, it’s a love letter to a lost form of filmmaking.
While every studio in the world seems desperate to drown their fantasy in digital effects, Age of Resistance went the other way. It returned to the roots of practical artistry, using hundreds of hand-built puppets, intricate animatronics, and miniature sets, enhanced — not replaced — by CGI.
And the result was breathtaking.
The Art of the Puppet
Every frame of Age of Resistance feels alive because it is alive. You can see the craftsmanship in the folds of a cloak, the twitch of an ear, the way light plays off hand-painted eyes. These aren’t pixels — they’re physical creations, built and operated by artists who understand that movement means more when it’s tangible.
The Gelflings are delicate yet expressive, their faces capable of subtle emotion that CGI still struggles to replicate. The Skeksis — grotesque, decadent, decaying — are living nightmares, their exaggerated gestures dripping with malice. You can feel the weight of their presence, the texture of their world.
Every scene is a triumph of old-world artistry meeting modern precision. The production team used digital enhancements not as a crutch, but as a brushstroke — invisible unless you’re looking for it.
It’s not nostalgia. It’s proof that practical effects still have soul.
The Story and Its Soul
Beneath the visual wonder lies a story that’s as tragic as it is timeless. Age of Resistance doesn’t shy away from darkness. It’s a tale about corruption — political, spiritual, environmental. The Skeksis drain life from the Crystal, from Thra, from everything they touch, mirroring humanity’s own hunger for power.
The three Gelflings — each from different clans — begin separate journeys that intertwine into a full-blown revolution. Rian, the loyal guard turned fugitive, carries grief and courage in equal measure. Brea, the scholar, represents curiosity and the painful cost of truth. Deet, gentle and pure-hearted, becomes the emotional core of the entire series — a symbol of hope corrupted by sacrifice.
It’s Shakespearean tragedy in puppet form — a story that balances whimsy and despair with astonishing maturity.
And the voice cast? Flawless. Taron Egerton, Anya Taylor-Joy, Nathalie Emmanuel, Mark Hamill, Lena Headey, Simon Pegg, Helena Bonham Carter — every performance elevates the writing, giving the world of Thra the emotional depth of a live-action epic.
The Silence After the Song
And that’s where the heartbreak comes in.
Because it’s been six years since The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance premiered — and still, there’s no word of a continuation.
Despite critical acclaim, an Emmy win for Outstanding Children’s Program, and overwhelming fan support, Netflix quietly pulled the plug after one season. No closure, no announcement, just silence.
The show ended on a haunting note — the rebellion sparked, the darkness rising, the inevitable tragedy still ahead. The story begged for more, for the bridge that would carry it into the events of the original 1982 film.
But that bridge was never built.
And for fans who fell in love with Thra, that void still aches.
Why It Still Matters
The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance isn’t just one of the best fantasy series of the 21st century — it’s one of the purest acts of artistic defiance.
It proved that practical effects still have a place in modern storytelling, that craftsmanship and care can outshine any CGI spectacle, and that audiences will show up for sincerity when it’s offered to them.
It was beautiful, eerie, intelligent, and fearless — a story that honored Jim Henson’s legacy while pushing the boundaries of what puppetry could be.
Six years later, it stands as both a triumph and a tragedy: a reminder of what’s possible when art leads the production, and a warning of how easily such artistry can be abandoned in the name of convenience.
Sometimes, even the purest magic fades before it’s finished.
Before I go any further, I want to make something absolutely clear — any of these top three could’ve easily taken the #1 spot. The only reason things landed the way they did is simple: #3 was canceled, #2 actually got to finish its story, and #1… well, there’s still hope.
Hope that if we keep talking about it, keep celebrating it, someone out there will finally give it the continuation it deserves.
#3 Carnival Row
So Unique and So Good, It Inspired an Entire Novel Series of Mine
There are shows that entertain, and then there are shows that ignite something in you. Carnival Row was one of those rare, atmospheric marvels — a blend of fantasy, mystery, romance, and social allegory so distinct that it didn’t just stick with me after it ended… it inspired me.
In fact, it’s the reason a future novel of mine, The Muck-Kin Tales, even exists.
A World Drenched in Smoke and Magic
Premiering on Amazon Prime in 2019, Carnival Row was set in a richly imagined, Victorian-inspired world where mythological creatures — fae, fauns, pucks, kobolds, and more — had fled their war-torn homelands to seek refuge in the human city of The Burgue.
What they found instead was segregation, exploitation, and fear.
And that’s where the brilliance begins: Carnival Row isn’t just fantasy for the sake of spectacle. It’s fantasy as commentary — a mirror held up to classism, and industrial corruption. The world may have been draped in gaslight and fog, but its metaphors were crystal clear.
It was Charles Dickens meets Guillermo del Toro — equal parts beauty and brutality.
An Astounding Cast in an Astounding World
The cast of Carnival Row deserves every ounce of praise it gets — and then some.
Orlando Bloom delivers one of his best performances as Rycroft “Philo” Philostrate, a weary detective caught between duty and identity, harboring secrets that tie him to the oppressed races he’s sworn to protect.
And Cara Delevingne as Vignette Stonemoss? She’s fierce, vulnerable, and defiant — a warrior torn between love and rebellion, haunted by memories of war and betrayal. I was never a fan of Delevingne's before Carnival Row, but this role changed my mind on her.
Their chemistry is electric — not forced, not cliché, but lived-in, aching, and human.
Supporting them are an equally stellar ensemble:
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Tamzin Merchant as Imogen Spurnrose, a highborn woman whose prejudices unravel in the face of love.
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David Gyasi as Agreus, the puck who refuses to bow to human cruelty.
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Simon McBurney, Caroline Ford, and Andrew Gower, each adding texture and tragedy to the corners of The Burgue. Even Alice Krige shows up in a role probably made specifically for the former Borg Queen.
It’s one of those casts where everyone feels perfectly placed — like the roles were written with them in mind.
The Mystery and the Mood
At its heart, Carnival Row is a mystery.
Season One weaves a detective thriller through a living, breathing fantasy world — Philo chasing a string of ritualistic murders that reveal something monstrous both literal and societal.
The investigation is gritty, intelligent, and steadily peels away the polished veneer of the city to expose its rot. It’s a classic noir setup — but instead of alleyways and whiskey, we get cobblestone streets lined with fae brothels, airships gliding over iron spires, and the ghosts of colonialism in every shadow.
You can smell the coal smoke. You can hear the hiss of the lamplight. You can feel the grime under the world’s elegance.
Visuals That Belong in a Museum
Carnival Row is one of the most visually striking shows ever made — and I don’t say that lightly.
The set design is nothing short of extraordinary. The Burgue feels real — textured and tactile, with layers of industrial sprawl and fae slums that tell their own stories without a word of dialogue. The costumes are works of art: corsets and trench coats, wings and horns, stitched together with a kind of weathered beauty that looks lived-in rather than fabricated.
The CGI, too, is restrained and used to enhance rather than dominate — much like Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance did with puppetry. The fae flight sequences, the otherworldly fauna, the soft luminescence of faerie wings against the city’s perpetual dusk — every frame could hang on a wall.
It’s cinematic television at its finest — a show that looks like fantasy, but feels like history.
The Heartbreak of Greatness Cut Short
And then, just as it began to find its rhythm, it was gone.
Despite rave reviews for its worldbuilding, tone, and performances, Carnival Row was canceled after its second season — a final chapter that aired quietly in 2023. It concluded many threads but left the door open for so much more.
It wasn’t lack of vision. It wasn’t lack of love. It was the same familiar tragedy that strikes so many ambitious series — too expensive, too complex, too good for its time.
And that’s the part that stings most. Because Carnival Row wasn’t just a show; it was a world that deserved to keep breathing.
The Inspiration That Lingers
When I think about Carnival Row, I don’t just think about what was lost — I think about what it sparked.
The tone, the texture, the blending of fantasy and class struggle — it planted a seed that eventually grew into the early concept for my own future novel series, The Muck-Kin Tales. A story born from the same idea that magic and misery can coexist in the same alleyway. That fantasy doesn’t need to be pristine — it can be dirty, sweaty, broken, and still beautiful.
That’s the legacy Carnival Row left me: proof that fantasy doesn’t have to escape reality — it can dissect it, challenge it, and make it bleed.
Why Carnival Row Still Matters
Even now, years after its cancellation, Carnival Row stands as one of the most unique pieces of fantasy television ever made.
It wasn’t trying to be Game of Thrones. It wasn’t trying to be Sherlock. It carved its own lane — a grim, gorgeous, gaslit alleyway full of wings, gears, and whispered revolution.
It was art disguised as entertainment.
A world built of brass and bone.
And a story that, for me, never really ended.
Because while The Burgue may have gone silent, the echoes of Carnival Row still ring — in every story that dares to dream of wings trapped in cages, and in every writer who saw its beauty and thought:
Maybe I can build something like that too.
#2 Man in the High Castle
Can Someone, ANYONE, For the Love of God, Tell Me Why People Don't Talk About This?
How is it that everyone online loves to throw around the word “Nazi,” yet nobody seems to talk about The Man in the High Castle — a show that actually does something profound with that idea?
Because make no mistake: The Man in the High Castle isn’t just another alternate-history “what if.” It’s one of the best, smartest, and most haunting television series of the last 20 years — and somehow, it’s flown completely under the cultural radar.
The Premise — History, Rewritten
Based on Philip K. Dick’s 1962 novel, The Man in the High Castle imagines a world where the Axis Powers won World War II.
By the early 1960s, the United States is gone — carved in half between the Greater Nazi Reich in the East and the Japanese Pacific States in the West, with a neutral buffer zone in between. The show follows a handful of characters whose lives intertwine as they discover mysterious film reels depicting a different world — one where the Allies actually won the war.
Those films — and the mysterious figure behind them, the so-called “Man in the High Castle” — spark rebellion, paranoia, and a philosophical war over the nature of truth itself.
It’s science fiction meets political thriller, but told with the chilling realism of historical drama.
Rufus Sewell: The Performance of a Lifetime
Let’s talk about Rufus Sewell, because what he does here as John Smith deserves to be studied, remembered, and frankly worshiped.
John Smith is a former U.S. soldier who, in this twisted timeline, became an SS Obergruppenführer in the Nazi hierarchy. He’s not a cartoon villain. He’s not shouting and goose-stepping. He’s quiet. Charismatic. Calculating. The kind of man who loves his family and commits atrocities before breakfast.
Sewell doesn’t play him as a monster — he plays him as a man who believes he’s doing what’s right. And that’s what makes him terrifying.
Every scene with him is magnetic. You can see the conflict flickering beneath the surface, the cracks forming in his perfect fascist armor. Across four seasons, Sewell turns John Smith into one of the most complex characters in modern television — a man torn between ideology and love, loyalty and guilt, ambition and conscience.
It’s one of those rare performances that makes you understand evil without ever excusing it. But what he does best is show a normal person who had to make bad decisions for the better of his family and loved ones, not because he believed in them, but because he had no other choice. And when he is finally confronted with the truth, he would rather live in the comfort of his lies than ever change his mind for the sake of it.
These are struggles we face constantly in 2025 — people choosing comfort over truth, clinging to the warmth of their lies instead of confronting what’s real.
And yet, somehow, even while playing a Nazi, Rufus Sewell makes that struggle painfully human. He embodies that quiet war between belief and doubt, between conviction and conscience. You don’t just watch him wrestle with morality — you feel it.
He reminds us that evil isn’t always loud or obvious; sometimes, it looks like a man convincing himself he’s doing the right thing.
The Worldbuilding — Cold, Beautiful, and Believable
The brilliance of The Man in the High Castle is how normal it makes horror look.
New York under Nazi rule looks clean, efficient, almost utopian — until you notice the swastikas on every corner, the children pledging allegiance to the Führer, the quiet disappearances of anyone who doesn’t fit the mold.
The Japanese-controlled San Francisco, meanwhile, is a world of rigid order, traditionalism, and quiet oppression — all wrapped in haunting beauty. Every frame is meticulously crafted: art deco Reich architecture, rising sun banners, classic cars with imperial emblems. It feels lived-in, like history took one wrong turn and just kept going.
And through it all runs that eerie, pulsing sense of science fiction — the parallel realities, the mysterious films, the suggestion that somewhere, somehow, there’s a world where it didn’t happen this way.
That’s the genius of Philip K. Dick: he turns “what if” into “what is reality?”
The Supporting Cast and the Story’s Weight
Sewell might be the anchor, but the rest of the cast holds their own with equal gravitas.
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Alexa Davalos as Juliana Crain — the moral center of the series, whose search for truth drives the rebellion.
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Luke Kleintank as Joe Blake — the double agent caught between sides and identities.
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Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa as Tagomi — a Japanese trade minister who becomes one of the most quietly spiritual characters in modern sci-fi.
Their arcs are tragic, layered, and often devastating. The show doesn’t give you easy heroes. It gives you people — trying to stay human in a world designed to erase humanity.
Why Don’t People Talk About This Show?
That’s the question that frustrates me every time I think about The Man in the High Castle.
This series had everything:
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One of the best performances of the 21st century (Rufus Sewell — again, ridiculous.)
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Stunning production design that made its alternate world feel terrifyingly plausible.
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A daring blend of history, politics, and metaphysics that respected its audience’s intelligence.
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And a finale that, while divisive, dared to end on a note of hope instead of spectacle.
And yet? Hardly anyone talks about it.
Maybe it was too slow-burn for mainstream audiences. Maybe its commentary hit too close to home. Or maybe, in an age of constant outrage, people didn’t want to watch something that made them actually think about what fascism looks like when it’s dressed in normalcy.
But the irony is hard to miss: for a culture so quick to throw the term “Nazi” around online, The Man in the High Castle is the one show that actually forces you to sit in that darkness — and see how ordinary people become complicit in it.
A Legacy Worth Remembering
The Man in the High Castle ran for four seasons (2015–2019) and wrapped its story on its own terms — something few ambitious shows ever get to do. It never exploded in popularity, but those who watched it know: this was prestige science fiction, dressed as historical drama, performed by a cast that gave it everything.
It’s smart, haunting, relevant, and visually stunning — a masterpiece of “what if” storytelling that doesn’t just reimagine history, it challenges how we remember it.
So yeah — the world might have moved on, but I’ll keep saying it:
The Man in the High Castle deserves to be talked about in the same breath as Breaking Bad, The Expanse, or Westworld.
And if nothing else, it gave us Rufus Sewell’s John Smith — a man so brilliantly written and acted that he proves evil isn’t just born in monsters.
Sometimes, it’s built by men who simply stopped asking questions.
#1 All of Us Are Dead
Damn, this Show was Good...
Before we begin — let’s be clear. Any of these top three could’ve been number one.
But All of Us Are Dead sits at the top for one reason: it’s unfinished. Not canceled. Not concluded. Just… waiting.
And after three years of silence, it’s time we start talking about it again — because if we don’t, we may never get the second season this masterpiece deserves.
The Premise — High School, Ground Zero
Released on Netflix in 2022, All of Us Are Dead quickly became one of the most-watched Korean series worldwide — a South Korean zombie drama that blended heart-stopping horror with deeply human storytelling.
Set in a small town where a high school becomes the epicenter of a zombie outbreak, the show follows a group of students trapped inside their school as the infection spreads. It’s part Train to Busan, part The Walking Dead, and part Lord of the Flies — but somehow, it’s more human than all of them combined.
The beauty of All of Us Are Dead lies in its simplicity of setting and depth of emotion. What begins as chaos quickly becomes a story of sacrifice, morality, and survival — all framed through the lens of adolescence, where the apocalypse doesn’t just kill people, it ends childhood.
The Characters — Flawed, Real, Unforgettable
The cast — almost entirely made up of young, lesser-known actors — delivers performances that rival any prestige drama on television.
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Yoon Chan-young as Cheong-san anchors the series with raw intensity, grounding every moment of fear with genuine humanity.
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Park Ji-hu as On-jo balances quiet hope and grief in a way that feels painfully real.
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Cho Yi-hyun as Nam-ra, the stoic class president, and Lomon as Su-hyeok, the reformed delinquent, give us one of the most quietly tragic love stories in modern TV.
And the supporting characters — the bullies, the teachers, the parents — they all matter. They all feel. There’s not a single throwaway role in this show. Everyone is fighting their own war, and the writing gives each of them the dignity of purpose.
The show’s writers deserve a standing ovation for the way they balance emotional intimacy with large-scale horror. Every death lands. Every choice hurts. Every moral decision feels like a slow bleed.
The Zombies — Fast, Ferocious, and Different
Let’s talk about the zombies. Because All of Us Are Dead doesn’t just copy what came before — it evolves it.
These zombies are terrifying — fast, unpredictable, and horrifyingly expressive. But the real innovation lies in the mutations. Some infected don’t die — they become something else. Something in between. Stronger. Smarter. Still human enough to think, but dead enough to feel nothing.
It’s a haunting twist on evolution — suggesting that humanity and monstrosity aren’t opposites but stages of the same disease.
That concept alone — the half-zombie, half-human “hambies” — opens a door to endless possibilities. It’s not just clever; it’s brilliant world-building, setting the stage for stories that could go far beyond the school, far beyond the town.
The Writing — Brutal Honesty, Relentless Heart
There’s something special about the way All of Us Are Dead tells its story. The writing doesn’t just want to scare you — it wants to exhaust you emotionally. It understands that true horror isn’t in the blood or the screams; it’s in the silence after.
It’s in the phone call that never gets answered. The moment when a friend you love turns and you can’t bring yourself to kill them. The realization that surviving doesn't mean you're really alive.
It’s rare to see a zombie story so deeply personal, so rooted in the small tragedies within the apocalypse. Every episode feels like a gut punch followed by a warm hand on the shoulder. The show hurts, but it hurts beautifully.
The Style — Korean Cinema at Its Best
This is the second Korean series on this list (after Sweet Home), and honestly, there could’ve been more — Vincenzo, Kingdom, Hellbound, The Glory — Korea is dominating modern television.
But All of Us Are Dead stands out because it feels both massive and intimate. The cinematography is clean and cinematic, the pacing breathless but deliberate. The camera lingers on emotion as much as action — a tear, a tremor, a hesitation — all framed against collapsing hallways and burning playgrounds.
The score swells when it needs to, retreats when it doesn’t. It’s a masterclass in tone — brutal and beautiful all at once.
The Waiting — Hope Isn’t Dead (Yet)
And here’s where the heartbreak sets in.
It’s been three years since Season 1 ended — with multiple storylines left open, characters scattered, and the future uncertain. Netflix has neither canceled it nor confirmed a continuation. It’s trapped in that limbo — undead, ironically — waiting for the right moment to rise again.
But this show deserves more. It needs more.
Because what All of Us Are Dead did in its single season was more impressive than what some franchises manage in five. It gave us characters we cared about, horror that meant something, and a world still teeming with potential.
Why All of Us Are Dead Deserves to Live Again
It’s more than just a zombie series. It’s a story about youth and fear, about how even in the darkest moments, humanity refuses to die.
It’s smart. It’s devastating. It’s unforgettable.
And it deserves to finish what it started.
So yes — All of Us Are Dead is my #1. Not because it’s flawless, but because it’s unfinished. Because it earned its future.
And because if we don’t keep talking about it — if we let it fade into the endless scroll of forgotten Netflix originals — it’ll stay buried.
And that would be the real tragedy.
