The End of Watching Together: How Streaming Killed Our Shared Cultural Moments
There’s a moment in recent history that feels almost nostalgic now, though it’s barely a decade old. In 2014, Bradley Cooper took a selfie at the Oscars with a crowd of A-listers, and the world went wild. Ellen DeGeneres tweeted it, Samsung got free publicity, and 43.74 million people watched the telecast. It was a moment—one of those rare instances where it felt like everyone was part of the same cultural conversation. But here’s the thing: that moment wasn’t just a viral blip. It was, I believe, the last gasp of a shared monoculture that’s now all but extinct.
What makes this particularly fascinating is how quickly the landscape shifted. Back then, social media was still a unifier, not a divider. Live-tweeting an event felt communal, like you were part of a global living room. But fast forward to today, and the idea of everyone watching the same thing feels almost quaint. Personally, I think the rise of streaming is the biggest culprit. In 2014, Netflix was still a novelty, and traditional TV reigned supreme. Now? Streaming platforms have fractured our attention into a million pieces.
Take awards shows, for example. The Oscars used to be a cultural event, drawing tens of millions of viewers. Today, they’re lucky to crack 18 million. The Grammys, Emmys—same story. What many people don’t realize is that this isn’t just about declining interest; it’s about the sheer volume of choices we now have. With hundreds of streaming shows dropping every year, why would anyone bother tuning into a live event?
From my perspective, the pandemic accelerated this shift. Locked in our homes, we turned to personalized algorithms on YouTube, TikTok, and Netflix. Suddenly, our cultural touchstones became hyper-individualized. Sure, Tiger King was a phenomenon, but it was one of many. The days of The Walking Dead or Game of Thrones dominating watercooler conversations are gone.
One thing that immediately stands out is how this fragmentation reflects broader societal trends. We’re politically polarized, socially isolated, and algorithmically siloed. Streaming didn’t create these divisions, but it’s certainly amplified them. If you take a step back and think about it, the loss of shared cultural moments isn’t just about entertainment—it’s about the erosion of a common language.
This raises a deeper question: do we even want a monoculture? On one hand, it’s easy to romanticize the past, to long for a time when everyone was on the same page. But monoculture has its downsides too—gatekeeping, homogenization, and the pressure to conform. What this really suggests is that we’re in a transitional phase, one where we’re still figuring out how to balance individuality with community.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how the selfie itself has evolved. In 2014, it was a novelty, a symbol of shared joy. Today, selfies are ubiquitous, but they’re often solitary acts—a way to curate our personal brands rather than connect with others. It’s a small but telling shift.
Looking ahead, I wonder if we’ll ever return to a more unified cultural landscape. Super Bowls and Taylor Swift tours still draw massive audiences, but they’re exceptions, not the rule. If anything, the future seems to favor niche communities over mass appeal. And while there’s beauty in that diversity, I can’t help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for the days when we all watched the same thing.
In my opinion, the real challenge isn’t just about reviving monoculture—it’s about finding new ways to connect in a fragmented world. Maybe the answer lies in embracing the chaos, in celebrating the fact that we can all find our thing, even if it’s not everyone’s thing. But one thing’s for sure: the era of watching together is over. And I, for one, kind of miss it.
