The Bittersweet Psychology Of Spoiler Grief: Why We Love Knowing What’s Coming – And Watch Anyway

WARNING: INCLUDES SPOILERS!

It seems the world is currently divided into two factions: those who were left shocked and sobbing after the earth-shattering twist in Netflix’s Forever, and those who knew it was coming (having read Judy Blume’s iconic novel) but dove in anyway, ready to have their hearts happily ripped out – all while glancing sideways to see how others handle the heartbreak. 

Then there are the ones still reeling from that death in The Last of Us. Some were utterly blindsided; others, who played the game back in 2013, saw it coming but still gasp, still grieve, still watch the fallout unfold like it’s brand new. And, half a world away – or maybe just in the next group chat – someone is watching The Handmaid’s Tale, fists clenched, muttering: “Surely they won’t kill her off. Not her.” But readers of The Testaments already know. And they can’t help but savour that potent mix of trauma, foresight, and just a hint of ‘I read the book’ smugness.

Whether it’s the shadow of Cedric Diggory’s death, the grim ending to Mark Darcy and Bridget Jones’ on/off relationship, Frankenstein’s monster running amok, Paul Atreides’ destiny unfolding, or the fates of beloved characters in Lord of the Rings, fans know: foreknowledge doesn’t soften the blow – it sharpens it. Yes, this is the bittersweet burden of adaptation-era fandom: the trauma you see coming still hits. And, weirdly, we want it that way.

Welcome to the Spoiler Suffering Club.

It’s no secret that we form real emotional bonds with fictional people. That’s not fan hyperbole, it’s psychological fact. “The development of parasocial relationships with characters can lead to a strong sense of connection and even feelings of intimacy,” explains chartered psychologist Aidan Kearney, who is also founder and director of Malleable Mind Ltd. When someone we love dies, even onscreen, we remember it – emotionally and somatically.

So when we watch that moment again, in a new format – when Keisha and Justin face *that* big decision all over, Joel dies again, or June walks into Gilead’s final act with a fate we already know the bones of – we’re not just observing, We’re remembering. Memory, Kearney notes, “isn’t just visual or semantic. We have emotional memories, too.”

That’s why revisiting pain doesn’t always feel punishing. Sometimes it feels like control. Catharsis. Closure. Even... comfort? “We may also experience a sense of gratitude for our own lives,” adds Kearney, noting that foreknowledge enables, “emotional regulation.”

Knowing what’s coming makes us less reactive, more reflective, but it doesn’t dull the emotion. “We may react emotionally to a scene even if we intellectually know what to expect,” he says. “It’s dual processing: logic and emotion coexisting.”

In short: we brace ourselves. We feel it anyway – and because we choose it, that pain becomes a kind of mastery. Emotional exposure therapy but with better lighting and a licensed soundtrack. That feeling is further amplified when we relive these pop culture traumas with others. “I love watching shows where I know what will happen because I’ve read the book or played the video game,” says Katie Fraser of The Bookseller. “The Last of Us is the best example of this on television at the moment. I knew what would happen in episode two of the second series but still watched it... while also watching my partner be completely horrified.”

This writer, too, admits that she devoured Game of Thrones from cover-to-cover, sobbed piteously through all of the Stark deaths, and then merrily sat down with her blissfully unaware mother to watch her be blindsided by Ned’s execution and the Red Wedding. Naturally, I’m doing it all over again with House of the Dragon – George R R Martin has essentially warned me himself that [REDACTED] is going to be brutally snuffed out before my eyes, and yet I apparently can’t stop, won’t stop watching. And I can’t stop messaging my poor mum to see how she’s finding things, either.  

Others go a step further. YA Book Prize judge Caroline Carpenter seeks out videos of people mass-watching the shows she’s currently tuning into. “I went down a bit of a rabbit hole,” she says. “Sometimes I find it interesting to listen to their theories or insights into the plot, maybe see another point of view, but mostly I think I enjoy seeing them react to the most dramatic or emotional moments. It’s almost like watching them again myself for the first time.”

Indeed, everyone I spoke to about this phenomenon was in agreement: misery loves company. “I cried so much at the end of The Notebook and my immediate thought was that I couldn’t wait to show it to my best friend,” said one. “I sat on the sofa and gleefully watched her break down – rather than the film. There’s validation in seeing someone have an emotional reaction that mirrors your own.”

Another finds joy at watching big crime thriller adaptations with their partner, who doesn’t know the plot. “Sometimes he’ll notice important details or read too much into unimportant moments, both of which give a little thrill as I watch him go through the process I went through. I prefer when he’s wrong, though – because he’s always smug when he turns out to be right!” he tells me.

It hammers home a vital point: there’s a certain power in being the one who knows. You sit with your popcorn while the people around you crumble – not (just) out of smugness, but for the emotional sleight of hand it allows. “Knowledge can afford the more experienced viewer a sense of superiority,” says Kearney. “It can even temporarily boost self-esteem.” He also adds that the deeply emotional content of a scene (and the impact it’s had upon someone) may prompt them to share it with another member of their group, so that they can all revel in that strangely bittersweet catharsis together.   

This isn’t cruelty, essentially – it’s communion. It’s the slow, exquisite pleasure of watching someone walk toward the wreckage you already survived. And whispering: Just wait.  

In a world of live tweets, spoiler warnings and countdown clocks, there’s a tension between protecting the unspoiled and revelling in the moment of emotional knowing. The internet has created a new breed of fandom: one that shares and processes pain collectively. It’s a delicate balance of when it’s safe to ‘spoil’ and when we let others stumble into their own heartbreak. Let’s not undermine the electrifying sensation, too, that comes from locking eyes with another fan – across a room or timeline – who’s just lived through the same pop culture torment that you have also endured. It’s like two battle-worn soldiers meeting across dimensions.

We call it fandom, but it’s really tribal behaviour. “Fans find themselves in imagined communities,” Kearney says. “They conform to group norms and support each other as a way of belonging.”

Thankfully, there are plenty of opportunities for us all to embrace the dark magic of communal wallowing still to come. There’s the upcoming adaptation of Suzanne Collins’ Sunrise on the Reaping to ready ourselves for, for starters, and HBO’s divisive Harry Potter series, too. Theatre kids everywhere can’t wait to sob (in perfectly choreographed unison) to Wicked: For Good when it drops this November. And Emerald Fennell’s Wuthering Heights is guaranteed to brutally break our hearts all over again. “Then there’s the new stage show of The Hunger Games,” says Katie. “I know how it ends and what will happen and I’m still booking tickets – as are hundreds of others.”

There it is again; this idea that pop-culture-induced traumas are something to be shared with others – strangers or not. Perhaps, then, when you post a meme about being emotionally wrecked again, or warn your friend “do not get attached”, what you’re really doing is holding out your hand. Saying: come join the club – we’ve got tissues. And maybe that’s what keeps us coming back. Not just the pain, but the permission. To feel, to process, to connect. And to do it all again with someone new beside us.

Because in the Spoiler Suffering Club, there’s always room for one more.