True Crime and our Obsession with Terror

Over the past ten years, true crime has evolved from a niche interest into one of the most dominant genres in television and film. From binge-worthy docuseries like Making a Murderer and The Staircase to scripted dramas like Dahmer and Mindhunter, our screens have become saturated with real-life horror. What was once considered morbid curiosity is now mainstream entertainment. But why are we so drawn to these stories of violence, deception, and death?

At its core, true crime scratches a primal itch: the need to understand danger in order to survive it. These stories are our modern-day cautionary tales. When we watch The Tinder Swindler or Dirty John, we’re not just rubbernecking at someone else’s trauma—we’re taking notes. Who can we trust? What red flags did they miss? Could that happen to me?

This hunger for understanding is wrapped in a paradox: we want to feel terror, but from a safe distance. We want to stare into the abyss without falling in. The rise of prestige true crime reflects this tension.

Shows like The Jinx and Don’t F**k With Cats are meticulously edited to build suspense, turning real investigations into psychological thrillers. They’re structured like narrative puzzles, giving audiences the illusion of solving a crime alongside the filmmakers. We feel smart, engaged—and just disturbed enough to keep watching.

There’s also a deeper psychological layer at play. In an increasingly chaotic world, true crime offers the illusion of order. Even in the messiest murders, there’s a beginning, a motive, and—ideally—an ending. In a time of mass misinformation, institutional failure, and political unrest, these stories offer a strange sense of closure. Justice may be elusive in real life, but on Netflix, it’s often only six episodes away.

Yet this obsession isn’t without its moral complications. The rise of “murdertainment” has blurred the line between education and exploitation. Critics have rightly pointed out that true crime often centers the killer’s narrative while erasing or simplifying the victim’s humanity. Shows like Dahmer were called out for retraumatizing the victims’ families, who were not consulted. There’s a fine line between exploring darkness and commodifying it. The TV show You, really tackles this as the final moments force us to ask ourselves if the murder is the problem or if maybe, "its you."

The last decade has also seen a shift toward more socially conscious true crime storytelling. When They See Us focused on systemic injustice and racial profiling. The Keepers spotlighted institutional abuse. These projects signal a maturing genre, one that interrogates not just who did it, but why the system allowed it. We’re beginning to see that the most horrifying monsters aren’t just individuals, but the structures that protect them.

In the end, our obsession with true crime is a mirror—a reflection of our fears, our need for control, and our desperate hope that evil can be understood, or at least contained. As the genre continues to evolve, the challenge will be how to tell these stories ethically, responsibly, and with the empathy they demand.

After all, behind every episode is a real life, forever altered.