I once watched a woman at Comic-Con weep actual tears because someone referred to her favorite character as “poorly written.” Not the actor. The fictional person. The collection of words invented by a showrunner who probably forgot that character existed halfway through season three. She wept like someone had insulted her child. And in a way, she probably felt they had.

That’s the thing about modern fandom. Somewhere between “I enjoy this thing” and “I would die for this thing,” a switch flips. Entertainment stops being entertainment and starts being identity. And once that happens, everything gets weird—and sometimes genuinely dangerous.

The Evolution of “I Like This”

Fandom has always existed. Ancient Romans had their gladiator faves. Victorian theater-goers formed rabid followings around particular actors. But the scale and intensity of modern fandom operates on a different frequency entirely.

Blame the internet, obviously. Before social media, being a fan was largely a private experience. You liked a band, you bought their albums, maybe you wore their t-shirt. You might find fellow fans at concerts or through fan clubs, but your day-to-day identity existed independently of your interests.

Now? Your fandom is your social media presence. Your handles reference it. Your bio declares it. Your entire online persona orbits around specific properties. The American Psychological Association has noted that parasocial relationships—the one-sided bonds we form with media figures and characters—have deepened significantly in the social media age, creating genuine emotional attachments that can rival real-world relationships.

Which sounds harmless enough until you realize: if a fictional relationship rivals a real one, what happens when someone threatens that fictional relationship?

From Consumption to Catechism

Here’s where things get sticky. There’s a difference between enjoying something and believing in something. The first is a preference. The second is closer to religion.

Modern fandoms don’t just appreciate their chosen media—they evangelize for it. They create elaborate justifications for why their show is actually profound. They construct reading lists that “prove” their favorite author intended secret meanings. They build entire ideological frameworks around properties that were originally designed to sell toys or advertising time.

And look, I’m not immune to this. I’ve written thousands of words analyzing reality television as cultural text. I’ve made arguments about The Bachelor that I’m not entirely sure even I believed at the time. But there’s a line between taking popular culture seriously as an object of study and treating it like sacred scripture—and a lot of fandoms have sprinted past that line without even glancing back.

The Belief Threshold

When does fandom cross from enthusiasm into identity? I’d argue it happens at what I’ll call the Belief Threshold—the moment when criticism of the property feels like criticism of the person.

Think about it. If someone says “that movie sucked,” and your response is “you just didn’t understand it,” you’ve crossed the threshold. You’re no longer defending the movie—you’re defending yourself, because your taste and your identity have fused into something you can’t easily separate.

This is why fandom debates get so vicious so quickly. We’re not arguing about whether a TV show is good anymore. We’re arguing about whether someone’s entire self-conception is valid. And that’s a fight people will take to some genuinely ugly places.

The Danger Zone: When Belonging Turns Toxic

Let me be clear about what I mean by “dangerous,” because that word gets thrown around a lot in cultural criticism. I’m not talking about the “danger” of enjoying bad art or wasting time on the internet. I’m talking about:

• Harassment campaigns organized against critics, creators, or fellow fans who dissent from community consensus
• Identity collapse when a property ends, changes direction, or reveals itself to be something other than what the fandom believed
• Financial exploitation by companies who recognize they’re dealing with true believers rather than casual consumers
• Political radicalization through fandom communities that adopt broader ideological stances and push members toward extremes

These aren’t hypotheticals. They’re documented patterns that repeat across different fandoms with depressing regularity. The toxicity of video game fandoms, the doxxing campaigns in K-pop circles, the death threats sent to writers who make “wrong” creative choices—this is what happens when entertainment becomes identity and that identity feels threatened.

Research from the journal Media Psychology has demonstrated that individuals with strong parasocial relationships are more likely to engage in aggressive defending behaviors when their faves are attacked. The brain, it turns out, doesn’t cleanly distinguish between threats to people we know and threats to people we feel like we know.

The Corporate Playbook: Weaponizing Devotion

Here’s what makes this truly insidious: the companies producing this entertainment know what they’re doing.

Disney didn’t accidentally create a generation of adults whose entire personalities revolve around Marvel properties. They engineered it through calculated release strategies, cross-platform storytelling, and marketing that explicitly encouraged fans to make the franchise part of their identity. “I am a Marvel fan” isn’t just a statement of preference—it’s an identity category that Disney can monetize indefinitely.

The same goes for bands whose members encourage “stan” culture, game developers who build communities that function like tribes, and book publishers who market series as lifestyle brands. When your customer base defines themselves through your product, you don’t have customers anymore—you have congregants. And congregants will keep tithing long after casual consumers walk away.

This isn’t conspiracy thinking. It’s just business strategy applied to human psychology. The problem is that the humans in question often don’t recognize what’s happening to them.

So What Do We Do About It?

I’m not going to sit here and tell you to stop loving things deeply. That would be hypocritical coming from someone who once wrote a 4,000-word essay about what Love Island reveals about modern romance. Passion for art—yes, even commercial art—is genuinely valuable. It connects us. It teaches us things. It gives us shared language and shared experience.

But we need to get better at recognizing when our passions have started wearing us rather than the other way around. Some questions worth asking yourself:

• Would you still have things to talk about with your friends if your fandom disappeared tomorrow?
• Do you feel personally attacked when someone dislikes something you love?
• Have you ever spent money you couldn’t afford because “supporting the franchise” felt like a moral obligation?
• Would you be friends with someone who shares none of your fandom interests?

If the answers make you uncomfortable, that’s probably worth sitting with. Not because enjoying things intensely is wrong, but because identity built on commercial products is identity built on sand. The corporation will eventually cancel your show. The band will break up. The game will shut down its servers. And you’ll still need to be a whole person when that happens.

FAQ

Isn’t deep fandom just a form of community? What’s wrong with that?

Nothing is wrong with community! The issue isn’t connection—it’s when that connection becomes conditional on maintaining a specific relationship with a specific piece of media. Healthy communities can survive members changing their minds or moving on. Identity-fused fandoms often can’t.

Does this mean all intense fandom is unhealthy?

No. You can absolutely be deeply passionate about something without making it your entire identity. The distinction matters. Being a “huge Star Wars fan” is fine. Being someone who cannot conceptualize themselves separate from Star Wars is where problems emerge. There’s genuine psychological research suggesting that overidentification with media correlates with poorer coping mechanisms when that media ends or disappoints.

Are some types of media more likely to create this kind of identity fusion?

Properties with extensive worldbuilding—long-running series, shared universes, anything that rewards encyclopedic knowledge—tend to create stronger identity fusion. If you’ve spent years learning the history of a fictional world, that knowledge becomes a form of expertise, and expertise becomes a form of identity. Media that encourages completionist behavior is particularly effective at turning casual enjoyment into something more consuming.

What about representation? Isn’t identity-fandom different for marginalized people?

This is a fair point and worth taking seriously. When media finally represents a group that’s been historically excluded, the attachment isn’t just about entertainment—it’s about visibility and validation. But even here, building your entire identity around a single representation carries risks, because that representation is still owned by a corporation that can withdraw or distort it at any time. Representation matters. Basing your sense of self on someone else’s commercial product remains fragile, no matter how meaningful that product is.

Fandom at its best is joyful, connective, and creatively generative. It can spark art, forge friendships, and make us feel less alone in the world. But joy and identity aren’t the same thing. We can love something without becoming it. We can belong to a community without losing the ability to criticize it. And we can take our entertainment seriously without letting it take over the whole house.

Your favorite show is not your personality. Your favorite band is not your entire social circle. Your favorite franchise is not your family. And remembering that distinction might be the difference between a lifelong passion and a slow-motion identity crisis.

I have watched Emily in Paris twice. Not because I think it’s good—I think it’s a lavender-scented hand grenade lobbed at anyone who has ever visited France. I watched it because something in my brain needs to yell at Lily Collins’s beret collection. And I’m not alone. Every Monday, a quiet army logs into their streaming service of choice, loads a show they despise, and settles in for an hour of furious note-taking. We are the hate-watchers. And honestly? We might be the only ones paying attention.

The Anti-Fan Is Still a Fan

Let’s get the obvious objection out of the way: if you hate something, why watch it? The question sounds reasonable until you apply it to literally any other human activity. Why eat an entire bag of flaming-hot chips when you know your stomach will stage a revolt? Why read the comments? Why call your ex? Humans are drawn to friction. We like things that resist us.

Hate-watching—defined loosely as consuming media specifically because you find it objectionable, absurd, or maddening—has been around since people first gathered to throw tomatoes at bad theater. But the streaming era has formalized it. We don’t just stumble into bad shows anymore; we seek them out with intention. We make spreadsheets. We coordinate group texts. We build rituals around our contempt.

And that ritual is a form of engagement that the cultural establishment refuses to take seriously because it doesn’t look like reverence. But reverence is boring. Reverence tells you nothing. Hatred—specifically, the kind of hatred that makes you watch every season of a show you claim to despise—tells you everything.

What Your Hate-Watching Habit Says About You

Hate-watching is diagnostic. It reveals what you care about by showing you what violates your expectations. When I sit through an entire season of a prestige drama I find insufferable, I’m not wasting time—I’m mapping the borders of my own aesthetic values. Every groan, every eye-roll, every text message that reads “I cannot believe this character said that” is data.

Consider the phenomenon of The Bachelor. Millions of people watch it weekly while loudly declaring it trash. They’re not wrong—it is trash. But those same viewers can tell you the structural differences between seasons. They can identify production manipulation. They can articulate exactly why one season’s lead was worse than another’s. They’ve developed a critical vocabulary around a show they supposedly don’t respect.

That’s not passive consumption. That’s forensic engagement. The hate-watcher is the truest critic because they have no incentive to perform appreciation. They’re not angling for a quote on a book jacket or a studio relationship. They’re watching because they cannot look away from the car crash, and in the process, they’re noticing every dent.

The Hierarchy of Watching

We like to imagine a clean spectrum: good taste on one end, garbage on the other. But media consumption doesn’t work that way. Here’s what I propose instead:

• Passive watching: You’re half-present. The show is background noise. You couldn’t summarize last week’s episode.
• Appreciative watching: You like it. You pay attention. You maybe recommend it to a friend.
• Academic watching: You’re studying it. You take notes. You’re probably writing an essay.
• Hate-watching: You’re furious. You’re paying more attention than anyone in the other three categories. You will remember specific lines of dialogue years from now.

That last one is the killer. Hate embeds information. Anyone who watched True Blood through its final, disastrous season can still quote dialogue from it. Meanwhile, the perfectly pleasant procedural you watched last Tuesday? Gone. Evaporated. Your brain didn’t need to store it because nothing in it provoked a response.

The Economics of Outrage

Networks and streamers have figured this out, of course. They just don’t have the decency to admit it. When a show trends on Twitter because everyone is mocking it, the platform doesn’t distinguish between love and hate. A view is a view. A trending topic is a trending topic. This is why we get shows that seem almost designed to be hate-watched—they’re engineered to provoke the specific kind of outrage that generates memes, group chats, and think pieces.

But here’s where I diverge from the usual hand-wringing about outrage cycles. The complaint is always that we’re being manipulated, that our hate is just free labor for content mills. And sure, sometimes it is. But the assumption that hate-watchers are dupes strips them of agency. When I choose to watch something I expect to hate, I’m not being tricked. I’m making a calculated decision to engage with cultural material on my own terms. I know exactly what I’m doing.

The academic term for this kind of engagement is anti-fandom, and scholars like Jonathan Gray have written about it extensively. Anti-fans don’t just dislike media—they develop dense, detailed relationships with it. They create counter-narratives. They build communities around shared disdain. They produce an enormous volume of secondary cultural material: memes, parody accounts, video essays dissecting exactly why something fails.

In other words, hate-watchers are doing the same work as fans. They’re just doing it with more spite and, often, more precision.

Why Sincerity Is Overrated

There’s a persistent belief that authentic cultural engagement means sincere appreciation. If you don’t love something, you’re not really engaging with it. This is nonsense. Sincerity is the easiest thing to fake. I can tell you I loved a film and mean nothing by it. But if I spend six hours hate-watching a show and then another hour writing a 2,000-word email to my friend about why the third season’s timeline makes no sense, that’s engagement. That’s care. Twisted, maybe. But care nonetheless.

The cultural establishment—by which I mean the people who write grant-funded essays about the importance of public television—treats hate-watching as a pathology. Something to be cured. They want us to watch things “mindfully” or “with intention.” As if sitting through a thoughtful documentary you immediately forget is more intentional than rage-watching four hours of a reality show you can critique on seventeen different axes.

Hate-watching is honest because it doesn’t require you to perform enjoyment. You don’t have to pretend the weak script is “intentionally stylized.” You don’t have to find depth where there is none. You can sit with your discomfort, your boredom, your contempt, and let those responses teach you something about what you actually value.

The Case for Taking Guilty Pleasures Seriously

I don’t believe in guilty pleasures. I believe in pleasures that the culture has trained you to feel guilty about. The guilt isn’t personal—it’s political. It’s the result of a class system that says some art is worth your time and some isn’t, and that your consumption habits determine your worth as a person.

But the things we hate-watch tell us more about our values than the things we sincerely admire. Nobody hate-watches something that doesn’t touch a nerve. You don’t hate-watch a show that leaves you indifferent; you just don’t watch it. The hate implies a stake. Something in that show is failing to deliver on a promise you cared about, or succeeding at something you find threatening, or revealing a truth you’d rather not confront.

So the next time someone catches you watching something you claim to hate, don’t be embarrassed. You’re not wasting time. You’re conducting field research. You’re mapping the boundaries of your own taste. You’re engaging with culture in the most honest way possible—by refusing to pretend you don’t care.

FAQ

Isn’t hate-watching just feeding engagement metrics to bad content?

Yes, technically. But the alternative—only consuming things you approve of—creates a sanitized cultural diet that teaches you nothing. Engagement metrics are a blunt instrument; they can’t distinguish between love and hate. What matters is what you do with your experience. If your hate-watching leads to better criticism, sharper conversations, and a deeper understanding of why certain stories fail, then the view count is beside the point.

How is hate-watching different from just being a hater?

A hater complains without watching. A hate-watcher complains because they watched—closely, repeatedly, with attention to detail. The hater says “this show is bad” and moves on. The hate-watcher says “this show is bad, and I can prove it using evidence from episodes four through nine, and also the lighting in season two was doing something interesting before the writers abandoned it entirely.” One is dismissive; the other is obsessive. Obsession, even negative obsession, produces insight.

Can you hate-watch respectfully?

This depends on what you mean by respectfully. If you mean: can you engage with something you dislike without attacking the real people involved? Then yes, absolutely. Hate-watching goes wrong when it becomes harassment. But disliking someone’s creative work—and being vocal about it—is not the same as targeting them personally. The best hate-watchers I know reserve their sharpest criticism for the work itself, and they can articulate exactly where and why it fails. That’s not disrespect. That’s criticism at its most engaged.

The Pottery Class Peak Was Always Going to End

Let’s be honest about what happened. Somewhere around 2022, pottery became the aesthetic equivalent of sourdough starters and plant-based protein powder. Your coworker’s mom took a wheel-throwing class. Your cousin documented her wonky bowls on TikTok. By mid-2024, Google search data showed “pottery classes near me” had reached its absolute zenith globally in Q2. Then the inevitable happened: the thing everyone was doing became interesting to no one. By Q1 2026, those searches had dropped 22 percent. The ceramics renaissance didn’t decline gradually. It collapsed like a poorly wedged clay body.

This wasn’t a failure of ceramics as a medium. Pottery is ancient, legitimate, and genuinely meditative. The problem was that it got flattened into a wellness commodity, something you did between yoga and your oat milk latte. Every gallery in every secondary market started hosting ceramic exhibitions. Every Instagram influencer with a minimalist aesthetic suddenly owned handmade stoneware. The underground art scene watched this happen with the same exhausted expression you get when a dive bar gets a three-paragraph write-up in a major lifestyle magazine. You know what’s coming next.

When Good Art Goes Mainstream, the Underground Moves

This is the predictable rhythm of how culture actually works, despite what the TED Talk circuit wants you to believe. Something emerges from the margins. It’s weird, challenging, and requires effort to understand. Early adopters get genuine value from it. Then the market notices. Brands sense opportunity. The thing gets packaged, marketed, and distributed to the masses. By the time your dentist is doing it, the actual innovators have already relocated to the next frontier.

The ceramics peak wasn’t an anomaly. It was a symptom. It proved that the underground art world runs on a finite resource: novelty, specifically the kind that can’t be immediately monetized or packaged for Instagram. The second ceramics became accessible and affordable and aesthetically coherent to the mainstream, its days as the underground’s favorite medium were numbered. The scene needed something that looked wrong. Something that felt dangerous. Something that required knowledge of construction materials and industrial processes rather than a weekend workshop.

Ferro Cement Is Having Its Moment Now

Enter ferro cement. And hypertufa. And structural composites. Between January and October 2025, Etsy searches for “ferro cement sculpture” and “hypertufa art objects” jumped 180 percent year-on-year according to Etsy Trend Report 2025. That’s significant. It means the trend has already broken through to the broader maker economy. But here’s the data point that actually matters: over the same period, gallery representation of industrial sculptural materials exploded. According to NADA Art Fair Emerging Trends, sculptural works using ferro cement, rebar composites, and other industrial construction materials represented 19 percent of emerging artist booths at NADA’s November 2025 fair. In 2022, that same category occupied just 3 percent of booth space.

This is the indicator that matters more than any algorithm. When the galleries start noticing. When collectors start asking questions. When established artists who weren’t thinking about concrete start thinking about concrete. Blick Art Materials, the supply retailer that functions as a barometer for professional art production, recorded a 290 percent increase in ferro cement and structural additive sales between Q1 2025 and Q1 2026. That’s not hobby-level demand. That’s serious practice.

Ferro cement is fundamentally different from pottery in almost every useful way. It’s industrial. It’s permanent. It requires knowledge of material science, not just intuition. It doesn’t photograph as softly on Instagram. It references working-class construction rather than artisanal craft. It reads as political rather than therapeutic. Of course the underground moved here.

The Sadie Coles Moment That Signals Peak Visibility

When high-level galleries in major markets start mounting work exclusively in a material, you’re watching the exact moment before that trend becomes unavoidable. London’s Sadie Coles HQ, a genuinely significant contemporary gallery, mounted a group show in February 2026 featuring seven artists working exclusively in industrial construction materials. It sold out its entire inventory on opening night. That’s the critical transition point. That’s when what was emerging becomes established.

Here’s what that means for timing: if you’re paying attention to the underground art scene right now, you have maybe six to nine months before ferro cement and industrial composites start trickling into design magazines and lifestyle blogs. Maybe a year before someone opens a “ferro cement studio space” in a gentrifying neighborhood near you. Maybe eighteen months before it becomes aspirational and vaguely commodified. That’s how the cycle works.

What’s Moving After Ferro Cement

The real question isn’t whether ferro cement will peak. It will. Everything peaks. The question is what the underground art world is already looking toward while the rest of us are just discovering industrial composites. There’s always something weirder, less photogenic, more materially demanding happening in warehouse studios in cities where nobody’s paying attention yet.

The emerging artists working with these materials right now are already thinking beyond ferro cement. Some are exploring biocement and mycelium-based composites. Others are investigating rammed earth and adobe in contemporary sculptural contexts. Some are returning to clay but combining it with industrial additives and aggressive surface treatments that make it look intentionally wrong. The pattern is clear: the movement is toward materials that feel raw, toward processes that seem almost hostile to beauty, toward work that requires you to understand something about how things are actually made in the physical world.

Watch for what gets rejected at the next major fair. Pay attention to what galleries are still calling “too industrial” or “too conceptual” or “too difficult to display.” That’s where the actual innovation is happening. The underground art scene moves because it has to. Because capitalism ruins everything good, and the only survival strategy is constant relocation to whatever space hasn’t been monetized yet. Ferro cement had its window. It’s closing. What comes next is already being made by someone in a studio you’ve never heard of, in a neighborhood you don’t know exists yet.