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SOME YEARS AGO, I WENT through a divorce and lived with my sister’s family for a time. They went to bed early, which left me with the run of a big house in Toronto. This meant the run of the Netflix.
I had never used Netflix before. I have always been a late adopter, perhaps the last adopter—less Luddite, say, than laggard. In any case, I didn’t use the platform well. Instead of scrolling through the seemingly endless rows of tiles organized into categories—“Trending Now,” “True Crime,” “Reality TV”—I cued up reruns of the sitcom Community. I even rejected Netflix’s suggestions supposedly customized just for me (“Because you watched Community . . .”). I wanted comfort food, not a buffet addressed to catholic tastes.
The sheer volume of stuff on offer—which only seems to intensify during Hollywood’s awards season—can paralyze your mind. But Netflix charges a flat fee, so you can be cavalier about your choices. The platform abets sampling and second thoughts. You can leave things half-finished on your plate—or you can binge. It’s all you can eat. It’s all good.
But the constant press of incoming material means you can tear through an entire season of something, sincerely enjoy it, and barely recall an episode a week later. Streamed content, as forceful and ephemeral as wind, demands about as much mental space as it does shelf space.
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Illustration by Tung Chau
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James' World 2 
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