GAME OVER: SLOW APOCALYPSE AND POPULAR CULTURE
by Robert Folger
For decades, apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic imagery has been a staple of popular culture. From atomic-age science fiction to zombie-infested dystopias, our cultural imagination has persistently circled around visions of collapse, annihilation, and survival. But today, something has shifted. Rather than fading, the fascination with apocalypse has intensified—and increasingly, it takes the form of serial storytelling. Recent series such as The Last of Us, Silo, Fallout, 3-Body Problem, The Rain, Sweet Tooth, or the new adaptation of El Eternauta stretch catastrophe over multiple seasons, transforming the apocalypse from a singular event into something protracted and ongoing—a kind of slow apocalypse.
This shift raises pressing questions: Why does the end of the world—played in slow motion—fascinate us more than ever? Why does it saturate our cultural imagination? And what does this lingering fixation reveal about our capacity—or incapacity—to envision the future? One explanation lies in the workings of the culture industry itself: as Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer famously argued, culture under capitalism becomes a product like any other—designed to soothe, distract, and depoliticise. The serialised apocalypse, with its appalling horrors and the uneasy pleasure it offers—the fantasy of living in a world freed from the constraints of civilisation and morality—thus becomes a commodity of despair: something to consume while the real world burns. But this view is only part of the story. In light of the unravelling of what, until recently, we considered the economic, political, and ethical foundations of our “Western world”—the historical point of departure for much apocalyptic thought and, through cultural imperialism, a globally projected norm—the theme of apocalypse no longer seems suited merely for escapism. And yet, paradoxically, apocalyptic narratives and imagery resonate more strongly than ever. Perhaps it is precisely because they seem to mirror our world. Climate breakdown, AI anxiety, authoritarian drift, pandemics, nuclear threats—all contribute to a cultural atmosphere thick with dread. Apocalyptic rhetoric has migrated from fiction into politics and public discourse, becoming a recognisable mood, a Zeitgeist. Watching Silo or The Last of Us is not just escapism—it’s recognition.
Yet these stories also function as coping mechanisms. The scale and abstraction of current crises can feel overwhelming, making it impossible for individuals to grasp and assess the threat and its consequences. An apocalyptic narrative with a beginning and an end—even if catastrophic—offers a form of comfort. It’s easier, as the saying goes, to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism—or endless uncertainty. Apocalypse tells us something is coming, that chaos has a narrative logic, that there is somebody to blame, and that some will be saved. In that sense, these stories restore a lost sense of meaning.
Still, the post-apocalyptic imaginary often fails to provide closure. We are stuck in narrative loops and the recycling of stale images of decay and horror: endless seasons, circular video games, reboots of destruction. The apocalypse no longer marks an end, but a stasis—Groundhog Day with ruins.
These stories don’t resolve; they simply stop, leaving us suspended in a state of resignation—yet also with the deceptive reassurance that the “real” world continues as usual. This also helps explain the particular appeal of post-apocalyptic settings in video games, which allow players to begin the disaster anew, again and again. Games replay collapse in infinite loops; shows like Squid Game trap us in cycles of horror disguised as entertainment. Paradoxically, however, the ubiquity of apocalypse in culture may carry a latent promise.
Might these narratives also serve as a call to action?
As Maurice Blanchot proposed in the 1960s, the apocalypse—precisely through its negation—can open the possibility of imagining humanity as the subject of history. More recently, Slavoj Žižek and Alenka Zupančič have emphasised that the apocalypse should not be seen as a literal end, but as a moment of radical unveiling (apokalypsis)—a rupture that forces confrontation with the real conditions of existence. Rather than signalling final destruction, it becomes a critical threshold: the point at which we can no longer look away and are, perhaps, finally compelled to act.
In the best of cases, cultural apocalypses might still awaken critical imagination, foster unexpected solidarities, and open a space for envisioning futures that are open. Yet for now, under the shadow of “Game Over,” we remain suspended: caught between anticipation and aftermath, waiting for an end that refuses to arrive, and haunted by the creeping realisation that it may already have happened.
