For audiences in the 2010s, Game of Thrones became the defining example of a modern television tragedy. Not because the story itself was tragic, but because a show once hailed as the greatest of all time unravelled right before people’s eyes. Its fall raises a wider question: why do so many TV series deteriorate right when they reach peak popularity? More importantly, what drives creators to deviate from rich, well-crafted source material even when it is working?
The early seasons of Game of Thrones were exceptional because they had something many shows lack: a fully realised literary backbone. George R. R. Martin’s novels are layered with political meaning, character psychology, and philosophical reflection. Deaths carried weight, thematic purpose, and long-term consequences. Ned Stark’s execution in season one was shocking, but not because it was gratuitous – because viewers had been conditioned to believe that the protagonist cannot die. The subversion felt earned, it was not manipulative.
Even with a limited budget that could not accomodate any battle sequences, season one was captivating. The strength came from the dialogue, world-specific moral logic, and the cast’s performaces. Nothing needed spectacle to work.
As the series grew into a global blockbuster, the creative philosophy began to shift. The showrunners spoke about making the series more appealing to “mothers and NFL players” at Austin Film festival – essentially broadening the audience by leaning into larger-scale battles, simplified emotional beats, and reduced political density.
The battles were visually impressive, but the narrative strain became visible. Dialogue became thinner, motivations weaker, themes less nuanced. By the final seasons, lines like “maybe it is all just cocks in the end” replaced the careful, layered conversations that once defined the show.
A significant turning point was the showrunners’ reported interest in moving on to their next major project: a series of Star Wars films. Several articles, industry reports, and fan discourse suggested that this played a role in condensing the planned story into significantly fewer seasons. Indeed, the consequences of this potential situation were immediate in the show: character arcs collapsed, foreshadowing became irrelevant, and plot threads that had been intricately built over the years were rushed to conclusion.
Yet interestingly, the showrunners have publicly denied that Star Wars had anything to do with the accelerated ending. Instead, they claimed the show was shortened because they had reached the end of the published books and did not feel that they could continue without Martin’s detailed roadmap, even if they had the major points and basic story structure from him. But this raises a much more significant question: why were the writers so comfortable deviating from the very same backbone they were now lacking in earlier seasons, where entire arcs – most famously the Dorne storyline – were rewritten, condensed, or skipped altogether. If fidelity to the books was suddenly essential, why was it treated as optional when the story still had room to breathe?
In addition, in the final three seasons following the end of this complete backbone, a consistent, deeper structural problem can also be pointed out. Once the show moved beyond the books, it began imitate its own surface traits rather than the underlying logic that once made it compelling. Characters stopped making choices rooted in their established psychology and instead moved along the shortest path towards predetermined plot beats. Symbolism began to be treated as a shortcut Dragons equalled power, the North simply equalled honour, instead of letting those meanings grow naturally through character decisions. This shift made the world feel smaller, as if the writers were reverse-engineering epic moments instead of allowing them to emerge from accumulated narrative weight.
Ironically, it seemed to be the case that the rushed ending contributed to the loss of the Star Wars project altogether. Here the elephant in the room becomes impossible to ignore: Did commercial ambition undermine the artistic integrity of the show? Was the downfall a product of blockbuster thinking: prioritising spectacle and scale over coherent narrative development?
Every adaptation has the right to make changes. Books and TV are different media. But Game of Thrones’ fall raises a deeper question of why diverge from a source that was not broken? Entire book arcs were removed, reordered, or replaced, often without clear narrative gain. This is especially noticeable when we consider that the ending, even if loosely aligned with Martin’s intended outcome, felt incomplete, as though executed without the careful buildup required.
It is worth acknowledging, however, that not all deviations were failures. Some of the show’s changes were widely praised. For example, Jorah Mormont’s expanded emotional depth made him far more compelling that his book counterpart, and show original characters like Ros served as effective narrative glue, offering a grounded perspective on the political and sexual economies of King’s Landing. These moments show that adaptation can enrich a story when changes serve thematic coherence rather than convenience.
All of this together, particularly the reaction to the show’s finale, also invites speculation about the books themselves: Is Martin delaying The Winds of Winter because the show’s backlash reshaped public expectations? Is he rewriting to avoid repeating what fans hated? Or is he intentionally waiting to release the book posthumously to sidestep the discourse entirely? Whatever the truth, the TV ending highlighted how precarious adaptation becomes when the original vision is abandoned too soon.
In comparison, HBO’s The Last Of Us illustrates both sides of the adaptation spectrum. In season 1, the show adhered closely to the game’s narrative rhythm – sometimes even shot-for-shot – whilst making selective additions that elevated the story, such as the expanded episode exploring Bill and Frank’s relationship. These were not deviations for deviation’s sake: they deepened themes already present.
Season 2, however, became a point of controversy. Fans objected to plot changes and to alterations of key points in character appearance, personality, and motivation. In the game, Abby’s muscular build symbolised years of singular determination and grief; it is narratively meaningful. Unnecessary changes that obscure such meaning raise the same issue as seen in Game of Thrones: when adaptations alter details that matter, what are they gaining, and what are they sacrificing?
Comparitavely, The Clone Wars is instructive because it bucks this usual trajectory: rather than collapsing as it grew, the show matured. There are four clear reasons why the series improved over time. Together they read like a little masterclass in how to steward an expanding fictional world.
1. Stewardship and clear creative voice. Dave Filoni’s role as supervising director and long-term steward mattered. From early on, he treated the series as an extension of the original films’ themes, like the fallibility of institutions and the cost of war, gradually deepening those concerns rather than abandoning them for spectacle. Filoni has repeatedly spoken about learning from each season and bringing the craft back into later runs, which allowed the show to evolve deliberately rather than drift.
2. Investments in character arcs. Ahsoka Tano, teenage Jedi padawan to Anakin Skywalker, intitially faced immense backlash from fans due to her brash nature. However, throughout the show, she had a trajectory from this brash apprentice to a disillusioned, morally complex figure who walks away from the Jedi Order. Rather than episodic reset buttons or neglecting a character that faced intital backlash, later seasons committed to long arcs that let choices have consequences and allow deep growth. That patient character work gave emotional weight to the politics and battles on screen. Retrospectives and creators alike identify Ahsoka’s development as central to the shows tonal shift.
3. Narrative ambition, longer arcs, and thematic depth. Where early seasons leaned episodic which was good for worldbuilding and toy-friendly adventures, later seasons embraced serialised storytelling with multi-episode arcs, moral complexity, and political intrigue that echo the films’ darker undercurrents. Critics and rankings frequently point to seasons three to five as the high point, noting a better balance between action set-pieces and emotional stakes. This structural shift allowed the show to explore the slow corrosion of institutions: a theme that resonates with the prequel’s warnings about hubris and decadence.
4. Technical and tonal maturation. Over time the animation, choreography, and production values improved, which let directors stage battles and intimate scenes with comparable care. The improvement was not only cosmetic – jokes were dialled back, episodes took on darker textures, and the show stopped treating conflict as a mere spectacle. Filoni himself has described how experience and time allowed the team to return to the series with a clearer sense of how to end it, including a planned time jump that paid off narratively.
Put together, these elements explain why The Clone Wars did not merely “stay afloat” as it expanded but became better in quality. Rather than outrunning a guiding architecture, Clone Wars built and extended one. The writers used expansions as an opportunity instead of an excuse. That contrast is revealing next to Game of Thrones. Where the show’s later seasons sometimes felt hurried or disconnected from their earlier logic, Clone Wars shows how patient stewardship, investment in serialised arcs, and a willingness to let characters, not just spectacles, carry the story can turn an animated tie-in into sophisticated franchise storytelling.
The pattern is clear: success changes the rules of storytelling. When a show is small, hungry, and tightly focused, it can afford to be risky, subtle, and character driven. When it grows into a global franchise, the incentives shift: for spectacle, for pacing that first TV seasons, and for commercial opportunities that promise more eyes and more revenue. Adaptation is not the enemy; thoughtless adaptation is. Deviations from source material can be revelatory: they can deepen themes, create new emotional bets, and give supporting characters richer lives, but only when they have a clear dramatic purpose and resect the logic that made the original compelling.
If creators want to keep the magic, they need to treat expansion like a stewardship, not a race. That means protecting narrative architecture, trusting slow builds, and resisting the temptation to trade meaning for momentary shock. Fans do not object to endings, they object to endings that feel unearned. The real failure is not that stories end, but that they stop feeling inevitable. At the end of the day, the shows that survive success are not the ones that get bigger fastest. They are the ones that keep asking the same question they began with and keep answering it honestly.