I was, and still am, a professed Lost devotee. Although I was less than thrilled with the series finale, the show remains one of my favorites.
At the end of each episode I experienced a strong, almost compulsive drive to know what happened next. No show made me hunger more for answers. And when an answer was given, it felt uncannily gratifying.
So how did the writers of Lost keep me, and millions of other viewers, addicted to their program through six seasons?
Recently a feud of sorts has developed between George R.R. Martin, author of A Game of Thrones, and Damon Lindelof, the mastermind behind Lost. When Martin was asked if he felt nervous about ending his series, he answered that he feared “pulling a Lost.” When Lindelof learned of this interview, he lashed out on Twitter, understandably miffed that his show has become synonymous with disappointing endings.
This exchange prompted me to consider a point of crucial importance to all writers. Specifically, how much do endings really matter? If a story is otherwise excellent, can a poor ending bring the whole thing to ruin? Conversely, can an outstanding ending elevate a mediocre story to greatness?
On May 23, 2010 one of my favorite television shows ended its six year run. For me, the airing of Lost’s finale was something akin to a religious experience. I had spent countless hours debating theories with friends and coworkers. I was emotionally invested in the characters. So when the finale began, I was filled anticipation. Finally, I would get answers.
Two and half hours later I posted the following status update: