The Skip Intro Button Is a Tiny Coward and I Want My 45 Seconds of Anticipation Back

I was three episodes deep into a rewatch last week when I realized I hadn't heard a TV theme song in months. Not one. No horns, no synth, no inexplicable shot of a diner sign. Just the cold open, the Netflix logo, and me smashing 'Skip Intro' like it owed me money. That's when it hit me: we didn't just skip opening credits. We quietly deleted the only foreplay television had left.

This is not a boomer nostalgia tantrum. I love convenience. I have the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel and a streaming queue that looks like a hostage negotiation. But the 'Skip Intro' button is a tiny coward, and I want my 45 seconds of anticipation back.

The Crime Scene: A Button That Solved a Problem We Didn't Have

Netflix rolled out 'Skip Intro' back in 2017. The pitch was simple: you're bingeing, the credits are in the way, click the button, get to the story. Fair enough. But somewhere between then and now, the button stopped being a shortcut and became a lifestyle. We don't watch intros anymore. We preemptively flinch toward the remote the second the cold open ends, like a dog that hears the treat bag.

The opening credits used to be a handshake. A mood board. A tiny promise that said, 'Hey, you're about to hang out with these people for a while.' Now it's dead air with a progress bar. We optimized the ritual out of the room and called it progress. That's not innovation. That's a crime scene with really good lighting.

An Unscientific Ranking of Intros Still Worth Surrendering To

I conducted a completely rigorous study, which is to say I sat on my couch and yelled at my TV. Here are the intros I refuse to skip, ranked by how much they make me feel like a person instead of a content-processing unit.

1. The Simpsons. The couch gag is a 35-year-old bit that still lands. You never know what you're gonna get: a surreal animation, a guest director, a couch that eats the family. It's the last great 'don't touch that dial' moment in TV. Also, Danny Elfman's theme is the sound of childhood and mild chaos. Untouchable.

2. Succession. That piano riff and the grainy home-movie footage? It's a 90-second thesis statement about wealth, memory, and the fact that every one of these people is a monster in a very nice coat. I skipped it once. I felt dirty. Never again.

3. The White Lotus. The choral weirdness, the wallpaper, the slow zoom into a painting that looks like it's judging you. It's the only intro that makes me feel like I'm on vacation and also about to be murdered. That's the sweet spot.

4. Severance. Creepy, sterile, and weirdly hypnotic. The show is about a workplace that erases your soul, and the intro is a tiny animated reminder that your job is also erasing your soul. Fun for the whole family!

5. Peacemaker. Hair metal, interpretive dance, and a man in tighty-whities. It's stupid in the best way, and it knows it. That's the bliss.

Honorable mentions: Only Murders in the Building for the whimsy, Gilmore Girls for the 'la la la' that instantly lowers my blood pressure, and Cheers for the simple fact that everybody does, in fact, know your name. I'm not crying. You're crying.

The Guillotine List: Intros That Deserved the Button

Not every theme song was sacred. Some were hostage situations. I'm not naming names, but I am absolutely naming names.

• Law & Order: SVU. The clang is iconic, but the 47-minute recap of grim procedural footage before it? Skip. Immediately.
• The Crown. Beautiful, sure. But it's four minutes of slow-motion crowns and string music that makes me feel like I'm at a museum exhibit about homework.
• Emily in Paris. A postcard montage set to accordion music. It's not an intro; it's a tourism ad with a superiority complex.
• Yellowstone. Sixty seconds of horses, mountains, and a man staring at dirt. We get it. The land is mean. Move on.
• Wednesday. The cello is cool for exactly one episode. By episode four, it's a threat.

These intros didn't get murdered. They got euthanized. There's a difference.

The Binge Economy Killed Anticipation

Here's the thing about binge-watching: it's great until you realize you've turned a story into a spreadsheet. You finish one episode, autoplay kicks in, and suddenly you're 11 hours deep, blinking at the sun like a mole person. The intro used to be a palate cleanser. A moment to process what you just watched and wonder what's coming next. Now the next episode starts before you've even decided if you liked the last one.

We didn't just skip the intro. We skipped the pause. The anticipation. The little hit of 'ooh, what happens now?' that made weekly TV feel like an event. Streaming gave us everything at once, and then we complained that nothing feels special anymore. Gee, I wonder why.

A Modest Proposal: Save the Intro, Kill the Autoplay

I'm not saying every show needs a 90-second orchestral overture. Some intros are filler, and some shows should just get to the point. But the button has made us lazy. We skip by default, not by choice. We've turned a small pleasure into a reflex, and that's a sad way to live.

So here's my proposal: watch the intro. Just once. Let the theme song wash over you. Let the credits tell you what kind of show you're about to watch. Let yourself be a little bored for 45 seconds, because boredom is just anticipation wearing sweatpants.

And if you can't do that, at least turn off autoplay. Give yourself a full minute between episodes to sit with the fact that you're alive and watching television instead of just processing content. That's the ignorant bliss, baby. Not knowing what happens next for a whole 45 seconds. We should all be so lucky.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go apologize to my remote.