Series and Movies that break expectations — but in a bad way

I want to talk about what makes a piece of culture bad. Alice-in-the-Borderland, for example: bad, yet disguised within a concept I’m a sucker for.

I believe it’s the same phenomenon I observed while watching Attack-on-Titan, The-Platform, and The-Cube. Really captivating premises, but much feels off. It’s as if the way characters behave almost never aligns with what the viewer expects — and we slowly get used to it. Eventually, this strangeness is incorporated into our expectations. Not only is this off-putting, but subsequent moments further exacerbate the problem.

The uniqueness of the concepts taps into a mysterious part of my brain that compels me to keep watching. And then I continue watching only to satisfy the desire to see the concept explored to its end — to see what the authors and directors came up with. But this doesn’t make a show good. It’s primal, too primal; the substance isn’t there.

By “substance,” I mean a coherent story. One that tells itself — without relying on (what I consider) lazy narrative devices like flashbacks and long monologues. A good story isn’t afraid to surprise us — by breaking expectations. We anticipate something, but it doesn’t happen. That’s the surprise.

What happens next is what’s decisive.

Game-of-Thrones, especially the early seasons, excels here. You witness character development, and soon you get used to having your expectations broken again and again. But you’re not confused when Lord Frey acts as he does during the Red Wedding. From a humane perspective, it’s shocking; but from a narrative one, it makes perfect sense. The story caught us off guard, but it added up. We could interpolate Lord Frey’s behavior and justify it internally.

Contrast that with Alice in Borderland — a prime example of a strong concept executed poorly. Think Squid Game but on a larger scale and with anime aesthetics. Players must compete in games to earn “life visas” to survive. And maybe I’m being unfair — perhaps “they’re just acting like they did in the manga.” But an adaptation faces a choice: blandly port the original, or make it shine in its new form. They chose the former.

There’s a disturbing lack of questions when there should be more. A lack of reaction when there should be some. Cultural differences? Maybe. But the more I think about it, the less satisfying it feels to blame the acting. I wanted the concept to work — not just as an idea, but in the realm of narrative expectations. I wanted the story to be good.

To be fair, I loved some aspects. I like how anime often provides structure to abstract ideas. This show uses a clever system: each game has a playing card that indicates both difficulty and type. A 4 of Hearts is a difficulty-4 emotional game. It’s intuitive, shareable, and opens space for fan speculation and invention. A clear win.

And the Beach — a hedonist cult mandating swimsuits — was brilliant. Conceptually, it’s chef’s kiss. But lore-wise and acting-wise? Disaster. Every game ends in the last possible second. Throwaway characters blurt dumb, expository lines: “No… it can’t be… They are manipulating us—” Of course they are, dumbfuck! You’re in some alternate dimension playing lethal games, and now you realize this? And you shout it in front of everyone?

And the protagonist — the most textbook depiction of a nerdy gamer. Alienated father, golden-boy brother, self-doubt. So predictable it hurts.

Then they decide to chase after suspicious cars — not sneakily, just outright sprinting down an empty street. The best part? It kind of works…? Until they get caught five minutes later near the enemy base, after a dramatic little chat. That might’ve been the most believable moment in the whole thing.

Seriously, what?

This Narrative-Dissonance — between promising premise and broken execution — highlights a recurring flaw in certain speculative fiction: the idea alone is compelling, but the narrative architecture collapses under scrutiny. Good stories must do more than dangle a mystery or provoke a primal hook; they must earn trust through consistent internal logic and character integrity. No amount of clever framing or aesthetic flourish can substitute for the absence of story.