The Death of the Main Character

Bella Swan. Rory Gilmore. Katniss Everdeen. Hannah Horvath. Hermione Granger. Joey Potter. Carrie Bradshaw.

These were not simply characters. They represented cultural touchstones. They characterized a generation's preferences, worries, and aspirations. You could mention them in conversation, and everyone would know who you were referring to. You could dress up as them for Halloween and be recognizable.

Now, ask the same question about Gen Z.

Who are our defining protagonists? What characters will we look back on in twenty years and think, "That was us? That was our childhood. That was our teens." 

The silence is very telling.

We are the generation that grew up with streaming, algorithms, and never-ending doomscrolling. And somewhere along the way, the main character died.

Millennial Character Canon

Think of the late 2000s and early 2010s. Twilight was everywhere. The Hunger Games filled bookstores and theaters. Gossip Girl and The Vampire Diaries were watercooler hits. Game of Thrones was a global sensation. Harry Potter was still casting a spell.

These were not simply popular franchises. They defined an entire generation. They became cultural phenomena that changed the trajectory of entertainment. They gave Millennials characters to root for, analyze, and dispute over on online forums. Team Edward or Jacob? Gale or Peeta? Dean, Jess, or Logan? These questions were not solely about fictional choices. They were discussing values. About identity. About who you were.

Millennials gave off that "main character energy" long before the phrase even existed. They grew up believing they were the main protagonists of their own stories. And the media they consumed reinforced that belief.

But something shifted.

The Streaming Overload

The first culprit is obvious: excessive content.

The growth of streaming has resulted in countless shows that are either perfectly adequate or simply horrible. There are just too many characters to keep track of. There are too many shows to invest in. Too many stories compete for our attention.

When you have hundreds of possibilities at your disposal, you do not commit. You take samples. You scroll. You move on.

The consequence is what critics refer to as the "mid" era of television. Shows aren't horrible enough to be remembered. They are not good enough to become iconic. They simply exist. As do their characters.

According to Deloitte's 19th annual "Digital Media Trends" survey, Gen Z and millennials are increasingly turning to social media for entertainment, drawn in by data-driven personalized recommendations. According to the same survey, 56% of Gen Z believe that social media content is more relevant than traditional TV shows and films, and almost half have a deeper personal connection to social media creators than to TV personalities or actors.

We do not watch enough television to develop the deep bonds that our grandparents developed. We are overly focused on watching each other.

The Rise of the Influencer

Here is where the real shift has begun. Ordinary people have replaced fictional characters. 

Reality TV stars, influencers, YouTubers, podcasters, and TikTokers are now treated as "characters" that consumers may follow and interact with on social media. Why spend a series of episodes attempting to decipher the intricacies of a protagonist when you can have an intimate, parasocial relationship with a stranger on your phone?

Think about it. Who do you know better: the protagonist from the last series you watched or your favorite influencer? Who feels more authentic to you?

For Gen Z, the answer is frequently an influencer.

We have access to their lives in real time. We witness their unfiltered moments. We leave comments on their posts, and sometimes they respond. It is not simply passive consumption. It's real interaction. It is a relationship.

And it has fundamentally altered what Gen Z expects from characters.

Aesthetics Over Characters

This is where things truly get interesting.

Gen Z does not appear to like solo protagonists in the same manner that Millennials did. We want aesthetics. We want tropes. We want ensembles.

Consider what shows Gen Z genuinely enjoys. Euphoria is about a vibe, a visual language, a specific type of heightened teen angst, rather than a single main character or characters. Wednesday is about aesthetics. It is about Tim Burton's gothic sensibility more than it is about Wednesday Addams as a fully formed character.

A 2024 multimedia content analysis published in the Korean Citation Index investigates precisely this topic. The study looks at how Burton's Gothic visual codes and long-form narrative frameworks mirror Z-generation characteristics including self-expression, emotional management, and the tension between autonomy and social validation. The study focuses on how the series' main characters function as metaphors for digital-era teenagers navigating identity, peer recognition, and personal agency. The White Lotus is about the ensemble, the interactions between characters, and the archetypes they embody.

Even when we do identify ourselves with characters, we frequently do so as style tropes rather than individuals. Each cast member of a show like Euphoria developed a distinct style archetype: edgy, glam, ethereal, and chaotic. We don't want to be Rue. We want to dress like Rue.

TV shows and films have evolved into style bibles, influencing entire aesthetics that Gen Z not only consumes but also inhabits. According to T2 Online's 2025 analysis, Gen Z not only wears fashion, but also performs it. "They don't get ready—they storyboard," the article states. "They don't just follow trends, but remix them, meme them, give them a filter and a backstory.” It's less shopping therapy and more retail theater. You are not simply purchasing clothing; you are auditioning for your own role.

The character is simply not the point. The aesthetic is.

“Which One Are You?” Ensemble

This preference for aesthetics over personalities accounts for the rise of ensemble casts.

Shows like I Love LA aim to create a realistic, "Which one are you?" type of TV ensemble. The idea is not to have a single iconic protagonist. The idea is to develop a set of archetypes to which viewers can project themselves.

However, this approach does have a drawback. Aside from the protagonist's straight-man boyfriend, the characters in I Love LA have relatively similar traits. Maia, the protagonist, is an oddly specific character with a voice that sounds more like Twitter than a real person. Everyone speaks in the same dry, "cool-girl" tone, as critic Kyndall Cunningham noted in her Vox review of the program.

When everyone is an archetype, nobody is really a character.

And that's the problem. Archetypes alone cannot serve as a cultural touchstone. You need specificity. You need nuance. You need a person.

The Main Character Burnout

There is another aspect at work here: we are exhausted.

Gen Z has been told throughout our lives that we are the main characters. "Main character energy" became the motto of the late 2010s. However, around 2025, that energy began to run out.

According to a 2025 study performed by The Harris Poll for Naropa University, 94% of Americans report feeling mentally overloaded at times, with 97% of Gen Z experiencing the problem. More than two-thirds (68%) of Zoomers believe that they frequently prioritize other people's emotional needs over their own, and 61% say they don't know where to turn when they are emotionally overwhelmed.

We're bored of performing. Tired of curating. We're tired of being the main character in a story we didn't want to be in.

Gen Z has come to the realization that we can only ever control ourselves. As Harper's Bazaar India observed in its 2025 perspective on main character burnout, we have begun to put our foot down and prioritize what provides us peace of mind.

Being the main character is exhausting. It means constantly striving, optimizing, and performing. It means believing that your life is a story and that you are responsible for making it a positive one.

As Philstar Life pointed out in their 2025 year-end assessment on Gen Z culture, an increasing number of us are opting to live without an audience, and discovering that life, unperformed, is all the richer for it.

The TikTok Effect

And then there's TikTok.

TikTok has profoundly altered how we consume and relate to content. It's not about the characters. It is about moments. About trends. About vibes.

On TikTok, a character is not someone you follow for several seasons. A character is a soundbite. A facial expression. A single phrase of dialogue that can be adapted into a viral meme that could potentially change the trajectory of history itself.

The platform rewards fragmentation. It rewards the easily consumable. It values the aesthetic over the narrative entirely.

This has influenced how we watch everything else. We don't watch shows like we used to. We are watching them through the lens of TikTok. We're looking for the moment that goes viral. The outfits we can recreate. The line we can quote.

We're not looking for characters. We're looking for content.

A Generational Divide

There is obviously a greater generational difference at work here.

Millennials grew up in a media-sharing culture. There were fewer options, so you watched the same shows as your friends. You talked about them in school the next day. They were shared experiences.

Gen Z grew up in a world where media is customized. Algorithms display what you want to see. Your For You Page differs from your friend's. Your Netflix recommendations differ from your roommate's.

There is no shared cultural canon because there is no shared culture. There are subcultures. Niches. Algorithms that show us only what we want to see.

As one cultural analyst put it in a Substack examination of the Millennial-Gen Z divide: "Millennials and Gen Z have beef like no two adjacent generations I've ever seen. Mostly because it has played out on the internet and created many memes as people of both generations point out each other's quirks.” The most intense discussions are usually between '90s Millennials and early '00s Zoomers, which creates some ambiguity regarding where one generation finishes and the next begins.

What Comes Next?

So, where does this leave us?

The death of the main character isn't always a tragedy. It's a shift. A meditation on how our relationship with the media has changed.

We are the first generation to grow up with this level of choice, access, and fragmentation. We do not have a unified cultural canon because we do not have a single civilization. We have subcultures. Niches. Algorithms that show us only what we want to see.

It takes time for iconic TV characters to establish themselves. Maybe we simply haven't given our generation enough time. Maybe the next Don Draper or Carrie Bradshaw is out there, just waiting for the ideal show, time, and cultural convergence.

Or maybe not.

The main character may be gone for good. Replaced by influencers, aesthetics, and the never-ending doomscrolling have taken their place. Replaced by the realization that each of us is the protagonist of our own life and that we don't need main characters to define who we are.

In any case, something has altered. Gen Z is at the forefront of this movement.

We are no longer searching for heroes. We are searching for ourselves. We are discovering ourselves in bits and pieces within the shared experience of a generation that is unwilling to be characterized by a single narrative.