I remember the exact moment the bubble burst. I was three episodes into a shiny new Netflix thriller, the kind with a billion-dollar budget and a cast so stacked it should’ve been illegal. The plot was moving. The tension was real. And then, the main character sat down in a dingy diner. The camera lingered. A waitress appeared. She had no name, no lines that mattered, and she was only there to deliver a plate of fries.
But the camera didn’t cut away. It stayed on her face for a full twelve seconds.
For twelve agonizing seconds, the universe of the show stopped. I wasn’t thinking about the conspiracy. I wasn’t worrying about the hero. I was staring at a woman who looked like she’d just realized she forgot to pay her electric bill. And I thought: Why are you making me care about this?
That’s when I realized we’re living in the age of the side character takeover. And honestly? It’s exhausting.
The Problem with Everyone Being the Main Subject
Here’s what most people miss: not every character, scene, or plot thread needs to be the center of the universe. We’ve gotten so obsessed with depth, backstory, and “everyone has a story” that we’ve forgotten the basic rhythm of storytelling. You know, the one where you focus on the main subject and let the rest fade into the background.
I’ve found that modern entertainment suffers from a strange kind of attention-deficit. We’re so afraid of leaving anyone out that we try to make everyone the hero. Every cop on the force gets a tragic childhood. Every waitress in the diner gets a secret life. Every background extra in a fantasy battle gets a slow-motion close-up.
Let’s be honest: it’s making stories bloated.
Think about your favorite movie from the 90s. The Shawshank Redemption. How much screen time did the prison guards get? Barely any. They were functional. They were props. But nobody complained because the main subject was clear: Andy Dufresne and his friendship with Red. The guards didn’t need a ten-minute monologue about their troubled marriages.
So why can’t we do that anymore?
The Hidden Cost of the "Everyone Matters" Trend
I get it. We live in a time where representation matters. Where we want to see ourselves on screen. Where every life has value. That’s beautiful. But somewhere along the way, we confused making space for everyone with making every single person the star of the show.
Here’s the cold truth: when you try to make everyone the main subject, you end up with no main subject at all.
I recently watched a critically acclaimed drama where the first episode introduced seven characters. By the end of the episode, I’d learned the name of the barista, the history of the landlord, and the childhood trauma of the mail carrier. Did any of it matter to the central mystery? No. Did it make the show better? Absolutely not. It made it feel like a Wikipedia page for people who didn’t exist yet.
The hidden cost is narrative momentum. Every time you shift the spotlight to a side character, you break the spell. You’re essentially telling the audience: Forget about what you were invested in. Care about this instead.
That’s a dangerous game. Audiences have limited emotional bandwidth. If you ask them to care about fifteen different characters, they’ll end up caring about none of them.
The 3 Things Every Story Needs (That We’re Forgetting)
I’ve been writing and consuming entertainment for over a decade, and I’ve noticed a pattern. The stories that stick with us—the ones we rewatch and recommend—all follow a simple structure. They don’t try to be everything to everyone. They focus on three critical elements:
- A clear main subject – Someone we can root for, hate, or obsess over. Not a committee.
- Supporting characters as tools – They serve the main story, not their own. Their backstory exists only to illuminate the protagonist or advance the plot.
- Strategic restraint – Knowing when to say “no” to a cool idea because it doesn’t serve the central theme.
Think about Breaking Bad. Jesse Pinkman was a fantastic supporting character. But the show never forgot that Walter White was the main subject. Even when Jesse got his own storylines, they always looped back to Walt. That’s discipline. That’s craft.
Now compare that to a recent blockbuster where the side character gets an entire flashback episode that has nothing to do with the central plot. You know what that feels like? It feels like homework. It feels like the writer’s pet project that nobody had the courage to cut.
Why Your Brain Secretly Hates the Overstuffed Story
Here’s something I’ve learned from years of binge-watching: your brain has a natural limit for how many subjects it can track at once. Psychologists call it “cognitive load.” When you overload a story with too many characters, subplots, and backstories, your brain starts to check out.
I’ve caught myself doing it. I’ll be watching a show, and a new character appears. The camera gives them a dramatic close-up. Music swells. And I think: Great, another storyline I have to remember. My brain sighs. My attention drifts. I pull out my phone.
That’s the kiss of death for any entertainment. You’ve lost me. And you lost me because you tried to make not the main subject into the main subject.
The truth is, the best stories are selfish. They don’t care about being fair. They don’t care about giving every character equal time. They care about one thing: telling a compelling story about the person or idea at the center. Everything else is decoration.
Think about The Godfather. Do we know much about the Corleone family’s chef? No. Do we care? No. Because the story is about Michael. And the supporting characters—Clemenza, Tessio, even Sonny—exist to serve Michael’s journey. That’s why the movie is a masterpiece.
The Surprising Way to Fix Modern Storytelling
Okay, so what’s the answer? Do we just cut every side character? Of course not. That would be boring. But I think we need to embrace a concept that’s become almost taboo: the art of the background.
Let background characters be background. Let them serve a function. Let them be the pizza delivery guy who accidentally walks in on a murder. Let them be the bartender who pours a drink without a word. Let them be not the main subject.
I’m not saying we should dehumanize them. I’m saying we should respect the hierarchy of narrative. The main subject is the sun. Everything else is a planet orbiting around it. When you try to make a planet into a sun, you break the solar system.
For writers and creators, this means making hard choices. It means saying, “I love this character, but they don’t belong in this scene.” It means resisting the urge to explain everyone’s backstory. It means trusting that your audience is smart enough to understand that not every person on screen needs a biography.
For viewers like us, it means being honest about what we actually want. Do we want a sprawling, unfocused epic where everyone gets a moment? Or do we want a tight, gripping story that knows exactly who it’s about?
I vote for the latter.
A Personal Challenge for You
Next time you watch a show or movie, pay attention. Notice when the story shifts to a character who shouldn’t be the main subject. Ask yourself: Is this serving the story, or is it just filling time?
You might be surprised at how often the answer is “filling time.”
I’ve started doing this, and it’s changed how I watch everything. I’ve become more ruthless. I fast-forward through side character backstories that feel like padding. I skip the “origin episodes” for minor villains. And you know what? I enjoy the story more. I’m not exhausted. I’m not annoyed. I’m just… in it.
That’s the gift of restraint. That’s the power of knowing that not every character needs to be the main subject.
So here’s my call to action: next time you create something—a blog post, a video, a piece of art, a dinner party story—ask yourself: Who is the main subject? And then have the courage to let everyone else fade into the background. Your audience will thank you.
Because in the end, the most memorable stories aren’t the ones that try to include everyone. They’re the ones that know exactly who they’re about—and refuse to apologize for it.