You know how it ends, so why are you still here?

Saber cómo va a terminar Lost, además de la primera pregunta que le hacen a los actores, debe ser algo tan aburrido como eso que alguien alguna vez propuso: contar la historia de modo cronológico. Un asesinato a quemarropa de lo mejor que tiene el show: la forma de utilizar la intriga para matarnos lenta y dolorosamente.

Algo que J.J. Abrams, su creador, (no se pierdan su charla en el TED) hace de forma muy consciente. Dice a Wired:

What I’m getting at is hardly news to anyone: We’re smack dab in the middle of the Age of Immediacy.

True understanding (or skill or effort) has become bothersome—an unnecessary headache that impedes our ability to get on with our lives (and most likely skip to something else). Earning the endgame seems so yesterday, especially when we can know whatever we need to know whenever we need to know it.

People often ask me how Lost is going to end. I usually tell them to ask Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, who run that series. But I always wonder, do they really want to know? And what if I did tell them? They might have an aha moment, but without context. Especially since the final episode is a year away. That is to say, the experience—the setup for a joke’s punch line, the buildup to a magic trick’s big flourish—is as much of a thrill as the result. There’s discovery to be made and wonder to be had on the journey that not only enrich the ending but in many ways define it.

El placer de recorrer el camino aunque no sepamos el destino final, el valor de la experiencia antes que el del resultado. Me gusta eso.

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