When you're locked into identifying with one character, you stop seeing the others as fully human.
Across every medium and every era, audiences have instinctively searched for themselves in the stories they consume — a reflex as old as storytelling itself. A new Netflix adaptation of Lord of the Flies has prompted one critic to sit with an uncomfortable question: when we watch only for our own reflection, are we truly watching at all? The impulse to identify is not the problem; the problem is when it becomes the only lens we allow ourselves. To move from mirror to witness may be one of the quieter forms of growth art makes possible.
- A critic's instinct to track only Piggy — the thoughtful outsider — through a new Lord of the Flies adaptation reveals how quietly self-identification hijacks our experience of a story.
- When audiences lock onto a single reflection of themselves, the other characters lose their full humanity, becoming mere obstacles or props in someone else's arc.
- This habit doesn't just shape how we watch — it shapes what gets made, as creators learn to engineer identification and stories narrow into vehicles for self-recognition.
- The tension isn't between caring and not caring, but between holding identification lightly enough to also see what surrounds it.
- The path forward isn't to abandon connection with characters, but to stay curious about where our eye goes first — and honest about what we're missing while we look.
There's a moment in the new Netflix adaptation of Lord of the Flies when you realize you're not watching the story — you're hunting for yourself in it. One critic found herself tracking only Piggy, the thoughtful boy with glasses who gets dismissed for being different. She wanted him to survive. And that fixation revealed something uncomfortable about how stories get consumed.
It happens constantly, across books and films and television, often without our noticing. We scan a cast of characters the way we scan a crowd — looking for the one who thinks like we think, speaks like we speak. That's the one we follow. That's the one whose fate feels like it matters most. The impulse is almost involuntary.
But there's a cost. When you're locked into one character's arc, the others stop feeling fully human. They become obstacles or allies in your protagonist's story. You miss the texture of their own fear, their own logic — and you miss the actual story, which is messier and more interesting than any single reflection of yourself.
The stakes extend beyond the individual viewer. When audiences consistently follow characters who mirror them, creators begin engineering that identification — making the outsider more sympathetic, the smart character more central, the story a vehicle for self-recognition rather than genuine exploration.
The question isn't whether to stop identifying with characters — that would be both impossible and impoverishing. The question is whether we can hold that identification lightly enough to see what else is happening. The new adaptation doesn't resolve this tension. But noticing where your eye goes first, asking why one character's fate grips you more than another's — that's where something real begins. That's the difference between watching a mirror and becoming a witness.
There's a moment early in the new Netflix adaptation of Lord of the Flies when you realize you're not watching the story—you're hunting for yourself in it. I sat down expecting to follow the ensemble, the way the source material demands. Instead, I found myself tracking only Piggy, the thoughtful boy with glasses, the one who thinks before he acts, the one who gets dismissed by the others for being different. I cared about what happened to him. I wanted him to survive. And that fixation told me something uncomfortable about how I consume stories.
This is not a small thing. It happens constantly, in books and films and television, often without our noticing. We scan the cast of characters like we're looking for our reflection in a crowd. The smart one, the outsider, the person who speaks like we speak or thinks like we think—that's the one we follow. That's the one we root for. That's the one whose death or triumph feels like it matters more than anyone else's. It's a natural impulse, almost involuntary. We recognize ourselves and we lean in.
But here's what troubles me: when we do that, we're not really watching the story anymore. We're watching a mirror. And a mirror, no matter how well-lit, only shows you what you already know. The new adaptation of Lord of the Flies is built on the premise that a group of boys, stranded without adults, will create their own society—and that society will fracture along lines of power, fear, and survival. It's a story about what happens when civilization falls away. It's not really about any one boy. Yet I kept waiting for Piggy's scenes. I kept hoping he'd be the one to figure things out, to be proven right, to be vindicated. I was rooting for my own reflection to win.
There's a cost to that. When you're locked into identifying with one character, you stop seeing the others as fully human. They become obstacles or allies in your protagonist's story. You miss the texture of their own logic, their own fear, their own reasons for doing what they do. You miss the actual story, which is messier and more interesting than any single character's arc. You miss the point.
This matters because it shapes not just how we watch, but what gets made. If audiences consistently choose to follow characters who look like them or think like them, then creators start building stories around that instinct. They engineer the identification. They make the smart character smarter, the outsider more sympathetic, the one who mirrors you more central to the plot. The story becomes a vehicle for self-recognition rather than an exploration of something larger.
The question isn't whether we should stop identifying with characters—that's impossible, and it would be a loss. The question is whether we can hold that identification lightly enough to see what else is happening. Can we care about Piggy and also understand why Ralph leads, why Jack hungers for power, why the other boys follow? Can we watch a story without needing to see ourselves in it to feel it matters?
The new adaptation doesn't solve this problem. It can't. The problem isn't in the art; it's in how we approach it. But sitting with that discomfort—noticing where your eye goes first, asking why you care about one character more than another, wondering what you're missing while you're busy finding yourself—that's where something real might happen. That's where you stop being a mirror and start being a witness.
Notable Quotes
When you're watching a mirror, you're not really watching the story anymore.— The critic's reflection on the viewing experience
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
When you say you only cared about Piggy, what does that mean exactly? Were the other characters invisible to you?
Not invisible, but peripheral. I was tracking his scenes, waiting for him to appear, hoping he'd be proven right. The others were just moving around in the background of his story.
But that's not the story Lord of the Flies is telling, is it?
No. It's telling a story about how a group fractures, how power works, how fear spreads. It's not about one boy being vindicated. But I couldn't help looking for that anyway.
Why do you think that is? Why do we do that?
Because recognition feels like understanding. When I see myself in a character, I feel like I understand the story. But I'm really just understanding myself, which I already do.
So what's the alternative? Stop identifying with characters?
Not stop. Just hold it more lightly. Notice it happening. Ask what you're missing while you're busy finding yourself. That's when the actual story might come into focus.