I’ll start by saying this upfront: I know I’ve been gone for a while. Life got busy, I was swamped, and I honestly didn’t have the time or energy to keep up with this blog. But with Christmas around the corner, I figured this was as good a time as any to come back and actually say what’s been on my mind. Lately, I’ve realized I’ve grown tired of most modern entertainment.
Apart from the occasional recent movie—which I usually don’t even finish—I’ve lost interest in a lot of what’s considered “popular” today. Minecraft doesn’t hold my attention anymore. I haven’t felt any excitement for superhero films, Wicked, Fallout, Invincible, or many of the shows people constantly recommend. They’re supposed to grab you instantly, but for me, they just don’t. And it’s not boredom—it’s burnout. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that modern content often feels like it’s missing something important: soul.
So I started looking backward instead.
The 80s.
The 90s.
The 2000s.
Even the early 2010s.
I revisited The Raccoons from the 1980s and had a genuine “wow” moment. The music was memorable. The writing had heart. The stories were thoughtful without being preachy. It respected the audience. The same goes for so many films and shows from the 2000s—there was a clear sense of care in how they were made. The camera work mattered. The pacing mattered. The characters felt like people, not talking points. What frustrates me about modern entertainment isn’t progress—it’s priorities. Everywhere you look now, content feels designed around buzzwords: modern audience, representation, the message. Social media constantly pressures creators to make stories that check boxes instead of telling meaningful narratives. Characters often feel like they exist to serve an agenda rather than to grow naturally within the story.
When I look at things like FNAF, Minecraft-related media, Stranger Things, K-pop tie-ins, or the flood of demon-hunter-style shows, it all feels mass-produced. Polished, sure—but empty. Built to trend, not to last. That doesn’t feel like art to me. Now, to be clear, I’m not saying all modern content is bad. Godzilla Minus One is a great example of how modern storytelling can still work. It focused on emotion, restraint, and strong visual storytelling instead of nonstop spectacle. It reminded me of older films that trusted atmosphere, camera angles, and character-driven stakes to carry the story.
That’s why I keep returning to older content. But yet we look back kept our stuff from the past like dvds or vhs and that is older content that goes beyond just liking the shows or movies themselves. It’s the experience i think about how we used to watch things—DVDs stacked near the TV, VHS tapes rewound and ready, waiting all week for a show to come on at a specific time. Sitting in the living room, lights dimmed, sometimes with family, sometimes alone, but always present. You didn’t scroll while watching. You didn’t half pay attention. You watched because that moment mattered. And when something ended, that was it. No autoplay. No algorithm pushing the next thing. Just silence, reflection, maybe a comment like, “That was really good,” before the TV went off. That feeling is gone now. Back then, owning media meant something. DVDs and VHS tapes weren’t just plastic—they were memories. You remembered which movie skipped, which tape had worn-out sound, which DVD menu music still played in your head years later. Music videos felt the same way. You’d catch them on TV, or maybe record them, and they stuck with you—not because they were viral, but because they had identity, sound, and atmosphere.
Even the comments today reflect that loss. Scroll through any old clip or re-upload and you’ll see it:
“I remember watching this after school.”
“I used to sit on the floor in front of the TV.”
“This brings me back.”
Those comments aren’t about hype—they’re about shared memory. Modern content doesn’t give us time to form those attachments. Everything is disposable. If something doesn’t grab you in ten seconds, you’re told to move on. New shows, new trends, new music—constantly replacing each other before they can mean anything. Older content had room to breathe. Think of how shows from the 80s, 90s, 2000s, even early 2010s weren’t afraid of quiet moments. Music videos focused on mood and sound instead of chasing trends. Films trusted camera angles, pacing, and emotion. You weren’t being shouted at by editing or messaging—you were invited in. That’s why nostalgia isn’t just “rose-tinted glasses.” It’s remembering a time when entertainment felt personal. When watching something meant being there. When stories weren’t designed to be consumed and forgotten, but experienced and remembered. And maybe that’s why so many of us still hold onto old DVDs, VHS tapes, playlists, and reruns—not because we hate the present, but because we miss when art felt like it was made by people, for people. Not just because of nostalgia—but because it feels human. It feels like someone cared about what they were making. Until modern entertainment starts prioritizing passion, creativity, and genuine storytelling again, I’m more than happy revisiting the shows and films that understood those values in the first place.
I’ll gladly sit back with the old stuff—the shows, the music, the memories—and remember what it felt like to just watch, listen, and be present.
