That Kind of Commitment
Incest. Betrayal. A kid gets thrown out a tower. This is how Game of Thrones introduces itself, and it’s nothing like the medieval fantasy I thought I was signing up for.
The series is based on George R.R. Martin’s novels, A Song of Ice and Fire—HBO’s version of it. Ten episodes. The plot structure is massive: seven kingdoms, three major families tearing each other apart over one throne, an approaching winter that’ll change everything, undead things waking up north of the Wall, Dothraki barbarians moving south with no concept of mercy.
I came to it expecting the usual medieval fantasy stuff—solemn music, heroes with honor codes, landscapes that are beautiful in a way that makes you forget how miserable the world actually is. Game of Thrones is not that. It’s built like a soap opera. Sex and power are the same thing. Betrayal happens in the next scene, and the show doesn’t pause to make you feel bad about it—it just moves forward.
It’s crude and doesn’t apologize. There’s constant nudity, constant violence. Bodies are part of the machinery of power. When a character seduces someone, the desire and the calculation are both playing out—no separation. That willingness to be ugly is what grabbed me.
The intricate plotting requires attention—too many names, too many schemes stacked on top of each other. But the show knows how to deliver immediate satisfaction: a shocking death, a revelation, someone losing their head for saying the wrong thing. The spectacle hooks me while the deeper story accumulates underneath.
What’s strange is that the trashiness doesn’t work against it—it’s part of why it works. The show doesn’t hedge or apologize; it commits fully to the ugly stuff. The sex and violence aren’t decoration; they’re the story. That kind of commitment is rare.
A few years ago I would’ve written it off as juvenile garbage. Instead I’m invested. The first season just wrapped in the States, and Germany gets it in November, though obviously people will find it online before then.