Blog: Articles filed under science fiction

So last week, we witnessed the passing of yet another science-fiction franchise from television. Syfy broadcast the series finale of Stargate Universe on Monday, and I call it the demise of the franchise because the show’s cancellation has been a death blow to the promised SG-1 and Atlantis movies as well. Though it’s possible that MGM will bring the franchise back through comics, novels—or yes, even another movie or spin-off—for now there will be no more Stargate on television. That, to me, is far more tragic than the cancellation of a single series. Still, I‘m going to take a look now at Stargate Universe and its impact on my opinion of the franchise as a whole.

In the beginning, I remember a strong backlash to the show’s “darker tones” and charges that it Syfy wanted a “darker sci-fi” show to replace Battlestar Galactica. Apparently “light sci-fi” just doesn’t pay the bills, although the continual renewal of Eureka seems like it would belie this idea. Anyway, there was the usual clamour from the die-hard reactionaries that Stargate Universe wasn’t “the same” as the good-old days, and for that reason they were going to boycott the show.

Well that turned out well for the franchise, didn’t it, reactionary fans?

To be fair, the style of SGU did depart rather drastically from the previous two Stargate series. For me, these stylistic differences were far more troublesome than changes to the tone of the stories. I watched “Gauntlet,” the series finale, on Wednesday, and I discovered I am still not used to the tight-angle shaky-cam-style cinematography that, yes, makes the series seem more like BSG. I miss the more wide-angle filming from SG-1 and Atlantis. I could also have done without the montages, set to mopey music, at the end of every few episodes. I realize that this is common in television shows these days, probably because it is an inexpensive way to telegraph how various members of the ensemble cast feel. But that has never been Stargate’s style, and it just felt out of place. I want space opera, not soap opera.

The worst stylistic change, however, was the colour palette and the lighting. This is a personal pet peeve of mine. I despise dark, low-contrast sets; if I have too much trouble seeing what’s happening on the screen, why would I even bother watching the show? (Because it’s Stargate, that’s why!) I understand that the set designers want to distinguish between Destiny, a very old and antiquated ship, and the more advanced Ancient designs in Atlantis. Nevertheless, you’ve got people wearing black uniforms wandering around on a mostly-dark ship with black and brown walls.

So before the story even becomes a factor, Stargate Universe did feel different than the previous series, and not always in a good way. This was a significant stumbling block existing fans. I won’t pretend to guess what people new to the franchise thought when they first saw SGU. If they did become fans, it’s probably because of the plot and characters and not the lighting, but I could be wrong.

My reaction to the first season of SGU was probably along the lines of an optimistic “meh.” To be honest, I had a similar reaction to the last season or two of Atlantis, where I kept hoping for a good new antagonist to emerge (Todd doesn’t count). But no, the writers kept dragging back the Replicators like they were going out of style (which they weren’t; they were already out of style). Season 1 did a great job exploring the human element of being stranded aboard a somewhat-run-down spaceship with no way of getting back home. Yet the episodes were sometimes frustrating, and there was no reasoning with them once they dropped into “montage mode.” My frustration with season 1, however, stems more from a frustration with season 9 and 10 of SG-1 which then got carried over to SGU: where art the episodic television?

Stargate SG-1 had its beginnings in great, episodic storytelling. The Stargate itself, which is second only to the TARDIS as a storytelling device, is made for that format: each episode, SG-1 stepped through the gate, not knowing what they would find. Sure, there was a larger mythology, but it mostly stayed in the background while each episode’s story took centre stage.

Gradually, the series metamorphosed into a more serial format, culminating with the final two seasons, which were one large story that finishes in Stargate: The Ark of Truth. There is nothing wrong with serial television per se, and I love that format as much as I like episodic television, if not more. Yet once in a while I yearn for the halcyon, episodic days of this franchise, when one steps through the gate and confronts the unknown.

SGU should have been a renewal in that regard. New series, new galaxy, new rules. It made the first few tentative steps toward that goal, but then it faltered. For me, the single most disappointing thing about the series is the way it marginalized the Stargate, turning it into little more than a supply chain for Destiny. I feel like the show did not use the Stargate enough, despite the fact that, especially in season 1, it was used in almost every episode. When it was used, most of the time it led to worlds devoid of humanoid life, suitable only for a monster-of-the-week or some new supplies to keep Destiny stocked. That, for me, wasn’t enough. And I miss the humanoid life forms! I realize that the Ancients hadn’t visited the galaxies through which Destiny was travelling, so they couldn’t have seeded them with life like they did Pegasus and the Milky Way. But weird CGI blue fish aliens and soulless technology-destroying drones do not make awesome storytelling, especially when the former storyline got brushed aside like so much dust from season 1 and the latter just did not seem to die.

If that last paragraph seemed too vitriolic, it’s only because I want to voice my disappointment in SGU compared to what it could have been. Unlike some fans, I am not going to give the writers a blank cheque and blame Syfy solely for its cancellation. SGU was not great, and while it improved in leaps and bounds during season 2, it still had problems. Were these problems enough to merit cancellation? I don’t think so, and as much as anyone can be blamed when it comes to these events, the proper target is probably Syfy. But let’s qualify that.

Not living in the States, I don’t accurately know the extent to which Syfy promoted SGU. I am lucky enough to live in Canada. This is a nice place to live—government notwithstanding—but it also happens to have a specialty science-fiction and fantasy channel, SPACE, that actually, you know, cares about science-fiction programming. And so far it has not announced any wrestling in its line-up! I am so, so sorry, my American friends, that you have had to endure the bait-and-switch Syfy has achieved in the past two years. Now that it has changed its name and become the channel that will “imagine greater,” it seems ready to replace intriguing science fiction with wrestling and cooking shows. This is a betrayal of the first order, and I feel your pain. While I do not think that Syfy cancelled Stargate Universe only because it wants to make room for more “mainstream” entertainment, I think the cancellation, coupled with the shift in the network’s programming policies, demonstrates a lack of engagement with or interest in science fiction in general. That is a shame, because the Sci-Fi Channel has brought us great programming in the past. And the worst thing is that boycotting the channel entirely is a terrible idea, because there are still shows on there worth watching—and not watching them would just encourage Syfy to cancel them altogether!

Still, if there is anything this Syfy scandal has demonstrated, it is the need to support independent productions. Buy DVDs of your favourite show, introduce them to friends, and watch or buy web extras. Support the shows like Sanctuary that try to roll it alone. It’s clear that if science fiction is going to have a place on television, mainstream or sidestream or slipstream, it will get there because we put it there, not because there happens to be a network around that cares about science fiction.

And as for Stargate Universe: I am sad to see you go. We had our rough moments, but you were full of potential, and your writers had established enough credit to continue, at least in my opinion. The dynamics between the military and the civilian characters were excellent. Though still nominally under a military command, personified by Colonel Young, civilians like Nicolas Rush and Camille Wray had considerable input—not to mention the contributions of Chloe, Eli, Brody, Volker, Park, etc. And Stargate Universe carried its ensemble cast very well. It was a clean break from the four-person team format of the previous two series, and by season two the writers were well into pairing off characters. Finally, Stargate Universe embodied the themes so prominent in its predecessors: the precarious balance between exploration and protection, as seen in the interaction between the scientists and the military personnel. Colonel Young wanted to get his people home; Rush wanted to complete Destiny’s “mission.” Neither really knew if their goals were compatible. And now we’ll never know.

You were cut down before you could reach your prime, Stargate Universe, and I mourn your loss, both as a show and as the present flagship of one of the best science-fiction franchises in television history. I will miss you.

For perhaps the first and last time ever, “Oxford English Dictionary” was trending on Twitter last Friday. Why? Well, aside from an overdue recognition of this authority’s awesomeness, the OED was trending because its latest update adds entries for online initialisms such as OMG, LOL, and FYI. As if that were not enough to send language purists into apoplexy, but the OED now recognizes “heart” as a verb meaning “to love; to be fond of,” in the sense of “I heart pyjamas.” That’s right: Internet diction has taken over our most beloved of English language institutions. We must draw the line in the sand and say, “Enough! This far and no farther!”

Or not. Rather than looking at this as a compromise of the OED’s purity, we could take it as evidence of how our usage of the Internet has shaped language. I admit to uttering “OMG” aloud, telling people I “heart” things, and while I tend not to say “LOL,” because I‘m not sure how to pronounce it in a way that doesn’t sound stupid, I do love me some “for the win” (FTW, for those of you playing initialism bingo at home).

As the school year draws to a close, my Philosophy & the Internet course has started looking at the Internet in terms of posthumanism. For my fourth and final critical response, I’m looking at the first seven pages of the Prologue to My Mother Was a Computer: Digital Subjects and Literary Texts, by N. Katherine Hayles. The excerpt is accessible through Google Books. We first read an earlier piece by Hayles, in which she discusses the tension between the Enlightenment-influenced attitudes of liberal humanism and posthumanism. Now she has shifted toward an examination of various posthumanist visions, with a particular emphasis on embodiment.

I’ve always been fascinated by the posthuman as depicted in science fiction. If our species survives the coming decades, I think it is the only natural consequence of the increasing complexity in our technology. For the most part, I welcome our posthumanist future, but I have always found the idea of “mind uploading” a little disconcerting. I can’t get past the fact that uploading my mind to a computer would result in having a copy of the original rather than the real “me.” Not much in the way of a rational explanation seems forthcoming for this discomfort. I don’t believe I have a soul, so it’s not as if there is something unique that I miss during the duplication process. I think it just all comes down to what Hayles is talking about with the concept of embodiment.

Whereas in her previous books, How We Became Posthuman, Hayles argued against the disembodied version of posthumanism, she notes now that:

As new and more sophisticated versions of the posthuman have evolved, this stark contrast between embodiment and disembodiment has fractured into more complex and varied formations. As a result, a binary view that juxtaposes disembodied information with an embodied human lifeworld is no longer sufficient to account for these complexities. (3)

Nevertheless, she goes on to say that she has not abandoned embodiment as an important attribute of her posthumanist philosophy. Rather, she is suggesting that the increase in complexity requires a more nuanced understanding of the role of embodiment in posthumanism. This seems sensible enough to me. After all, the technologies that are making us posthuman are as much attempts to increase the abilities and soundness of our bodies as they are a way of expanding our mentalities. I wear glasses, which are a prosthesis that improve my physical condition. How much longer will it be before it’s possible to use nanotechnology not just to correct one’s eyesight but actually enhance it behind the human norm? Returning to reality for just a moment, we already have the ability to create protheses that exceed the ability of human limbs in certain tasks. So we are becoming “more than human,” but in a very embodied way.

Hayles thus wants to examine how our relationship with increasingly pervasive technology, which is both external and now internal to our bodies, influences our understanding of reality. She brings up the example of the Computational Universe model, refering to Stephen Wolfram’s book A New Kind of Science. I find the idea that we are living inside a universe generated by computation processes fascinating, and also a little mind-blowing. (As always, xkcd has a relevant comic.) I also admit it is kind of attractive—though I’m not sure how, from a physics perspective, it might be testable. However, Hayles is neither endorsing nor refuting the Computational Universe model. Instead, she wants to prod it with a pointy stick:

I offer my own commentary on the Computational Universe, including a critical interrogation of current research claims. My primary interest, however, is not in separating the Computational Universe as the means by which reality is generated from its function as a metaphor for understanding natural and cultural processes. Rather, I am interested in the complex dynamics through which the Computational Universe works simultaneously as means and metaphor…. (4)

Ah-hah! This provides the segue into what Hayles calls “a fundamental question. What resources do we have to understand the world around us?” (5). She lists three broad categories: mathematical equations, simulations, and “discursive explanations.”

As a mathematician, I feel obligated to comment upon her critique of mathematics as a method of understanding the world. She has “little to say” except to point to others, including Wolfram, who claim that mathematics is of “limited usefulness … in describing complex behaviors” because these “typically cannot be described by equations having explicit solutions” (5). This is correct in the sense that, even if we develop the mathematics to model such behaviours, the lack of an explicit solution means we have moved from precise mathematical statements to approximations and models—i.e., we are now in the realm of the second category, simluations. Moreover, while mathematics is very good at describing underlying, fundamental systems, it’s also very arcane. That is, it produces accurate descriptions, but there is a significant investment required to understand those descriptions. Mathematics, as a tool for understanding complex systems, is limited by its own complexity.

Thus, what I think the other two categories share is a reductive capability. Both simulations and discursive explanations allow us to simplify, and we can measure the quality of these explanations by how accurate they remain, in terms of corresponding to observations, despite their simplifications. It’s easy to observe this in science classrooms the world over. We still teach kids about Newton’s laws of motion, even though Newton’s laws are wrong in the sense that they have been superseded by and are incompatible with Einstein’s relativity. You can’t derive Newtonian motion, which is absolute, from Einstein’s theories. Yet, it turns out that for very basic, simple purposes, Newton’s laws are so close an approximation that it doesn’t much matter. Hence, we still teach Newton’s laws because they have made the transition from mathematical equations that describe reality to discursive explanations of reality.

Hayles also highlights similarities and differences between these latter two categories. She cites Friedrich Kittler’s interpretation of reading as a type of hallucinatory experience:

Kittler’s proposition that reading novels is like a hallucination highlights one of literature’s main fascinations: its ability to create vividly imagined worlds in which readers can “hallucinate” scenes, actions, and characters so fully that they seem to leap off the page and inhabit the same psychic space as the readers themselves. In this respect, literature functions more like simulations than do other discursive forms, because like computer simulations … literary texts create imaginary worlds populated by creatures that we can (mis)take for beings like ourselves. (6)

This reminds me of a Neil Gaiman quotation I love:

Books make great gifts because they have whole worlds inside of them. And it’s much cheaper to buy somebody a book than it is to buy them the whole world!

And this interpretation of literature as encompassing imaginary worlds is also reminiscient of how, in some science-fiction literature, alien beings (including artificial intelligences) often have difficulty grasping the “human” concept of fiction. They do not understand that humans have developed an entire mode of discourse predicated on untruth that nevertheless refers to and can faciliate an understanding of truth. That’s us: good old, paradoxical humanity!

But Ben, you’re asking, what does all this mean in relation to the Internet? I think the Internet as an artifact might be something we can point to when we say we are already posthuman. Also, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect that, in the not-so-distant future, we will be able to connect our minds directly to the Internet. This would not lead to mind uploading per se, but rather an expanded mentality in which we remain embodied but aware of more than just what we perceive through our bodies.

Most importantly, however, I think the Internet is going to influence our norms of interaction, the way we perform our identities, and the way we view the identities of others. That is why I mentioned the OED’s inclusion of OMG, LOL, and “to heart” at the beginning of this post—the Internet is changing us, though we might not always be able to understand in what ways. Just as the mainstream adoption of telephones changed how we interact, now that people are using the telephone less and instead emailing, texting, and Facebook messaging, how we interact with others changes as our modes of interaction change. We even break up differently because of social media.

Don’t get too excited though. Recall that the majority of the world isn’t so tech-savvy or Internet-enabled. It is easy for us to get excited about the Internet and start examining how using it is going to change our definition of being human. What about all those humans who aren’t “network citizens?” If the Internet does become a keystone of our transition to the posthuman, does this mean that people without access to the Internet will be excluded? Will we see a “posthuman digital divide,” where part of our species becomes increasingly embedded within these technological systems and other part remains isolated? Or is it happening already?

I had a difficult time coming up with a further resource. So I hit up TED and looked for a relevant talk, and I found “Kevin Kelly on how technology evolves”. It seems applicable to the ideas we’ve been discussing for several weeks now, discussing what technology “wants” and how it develops and self-organizes its complexity. One line toward the end really strikes me:

Our humanity is actually defined by technology. All the things that we think that we really like about humanity is being driven by technology. This is the infinite game. That’s what we’re talking about. You see, technology is a way to evolve the evolution. It’s a way to explore possibilities and opportunities and create more. And it’s actually a way of playing the game, of playing all the games. That’s what technology wants.

If philosophers like Hayles are correct that we are on the verge of, if not already in, a posthuman future, then this question of “what technology wants” will be paramount.

I mentioned at the beginning of this post that I’m fascinated by depictions of posthumanism in science fiction. If you have the time, I highly recommend you pull down some books from authors who hit on posthuman motifs: Charles Stross, Vernor Vinge, Alastair Reynolds, Iain M. Banks, Peter F. Hamilton, Neal Stephenson, and of course, the inestimable Nancy Kress. What these authors do is important not because their futures are likely or even possible, but in imagining what it will be like to be posthuman, they set the stage for discussions of what we are becoming.

I‘ve given it a great deal of thought, for it’s a complicated subject. However, I now believe that rebooting Star Trek is not a good idea.

The new Star Trek film, premiering this Friday, is a “prequel” in the sense that it takes place prior to the original series, but not a prequel in the sense that it actually results in an alternate timeline.¹ This allows J.J. Abrams to effectively shed the burden of forty-three years of Star Trek continuity and boldly go where Star Trek has never, never gone before.² Well, for the record, I think J.J. Abrams is wrong.

Yes, yes, I‘m well aware that for many people, J.J. Abrams is God, and oh-em-gee-how-could-you-say-such-a-thing?!

I’m not against rebooting Star Trek’s continuity per se. After all, Ronald D. Moore reimagined Battlestar Galactica, and that turned out rather well. Star Trek arguably has a more developed universe than Battlestar Galactica, however, which requires far more careful handling than simply overwriting the timeline. In that respect, Star Trek is more similar to Dune.³ It’s not the reboot that worries me—it’s the reasons for the reboot, and the ramifications of the reboot on both Star Trek as a franchise and the entertainment industry itself.

Abrams has repeatedly said that he’s not necessarily a fan of Star Trek in the way fans are (fanatically) and he tried to make a movie for people who like to see movies, not just for the fans. This strategy worries me, because it implies Paramount lacks confidence in the current Star Trek mythos‘ ability to attract more fans. We don’t want another Star Trek: Nemesis, after all.⁴

Let’s suppose that this is true. Suppose that, for whatever reason, our cultural climate is more attuned to the darker stories of Battlestar Galactica and Star Wars than the optimistic, semi-utopian future portrayed in Star Trek. If that is the case, then why are we trying to change Star Trek to fit into this new box? In doing so, we compromise the themes upon which Star Trek is based, and if that happens, then we don’t have Star Trek anymore—we‘ve got a new, mutated franchise inspired by Star Trek.

To some extent, we fans are complicit in this mutation of our beloved Trek. There’s a difference between loyal campaigning (to save the original series, for instance, or even the misguided efforts of those Enterprise loyalists) and attempting to sustain a franchise beyond its viability. Paramount wouldn’t have greenlit this movie were it not for the fans; regardless of intent, it’s the fans who are going to fill those seats—because of the title of movie and not its story. Because, let’s be honest here, fans: we’ve had the bald bad guy before (General Chang, Shinzon) and the evil uber-weapon (General Chang’s bird-of-prey, Shinzon’s Scimitar). This new film isn’t a fresh start for Star Trek; it’s a classic science fiction plot with cutting-edge special effects and the Star Trek characters.

Aside from the fact that it means starting from square zero, as far as fan base is concerned, why bother making another Star Trek movie at all? If Paramount is so concerned about the marketability of Star Trek, why not give Abrams a mandate to launch a new space opera movie franchise?

It pains me, as a Star Trek fan, to say this…. If this movie flops, it may be the final nail in the coffin of the dead horse that we’ve been beating. “Even J.J. Abrams, who is our Lord and Saviour, could not save Star Trek,” the Paramount executives will say. And maybe, just maybe, some overlooked script for a new space opera will get a second chance. On the other hand, if the movie is a success—and I suspect it will be, because it does look like a good movie—then the Star Trek franchise will have wind in its sails, but it won’t be Star Trek anymore. It’ll be the Abrams Science Fiction Franchise, Based on Star Trek Created by Gene Roddenberry. And all those franchises-that-could-be that wait in the wings for their turn will have to wait much, much longer.

To be clear, I‘m not saying Star Trek is definitely dead. I just don’t think that “any Trek is better than no Trek.” I‘d rather have a brand new science fiction franchise try to gather fans, and wait until such time as the Executives-on-High deem the market ready for a real Star Trek film.

I’m worried that by fervently attempting to resurrect Star Trek as a movie franchise, we‘re dooming the fledgling future science fiction franchises. We’re starting to get into territory where movie studios greenlight more and more adaptations of comic books and sequels to franchise films, putting their money on “safe” bets with pre-existing fans rather than taking a chance on new, more creative directions.

P.S. Another Firefly movie please, Universal!

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• [ 1 ] Yes, time travel—prepare for headaches.
• [ 2 ] Namely, Spock and Uhura. Yeah, that’s right.
• [ 3 ] Seriously, who are you trying to fool, Brian Herbert?
• [ 4 ] I know that by saying this, I’m just begging for a comment from the one guy out there who thought that Star Trek: Nemesis was the single best movie of all time. Bring it on.

Well here we are, the end of an era. Battlestar Galactica is over, which has made a lot of people very angry for various reasons.

Spoilers ahead.

I‘m too young to have seen the original Battlestar Galactica when it was on television, and I never watched the reruns. I’m not into it. The “reimagined” series ignited my interest, however, and I’ve watched the show since its miniseries became the backdoor pilot for a new television series.

To this day, my favourite episode remains “Kobol’s Last Gleaming”, the first season finale. It represents the best aspects of Battlestar Galactica’s storytelling techniques: the high stakes conflict, the spiritual and ethical themes interwoven into the story, and of course, the effortless use of the episode’s score to enhance the most emotional moments of the episode. Tonight’s finale was cast in a very similar vein to the first season finale, which is probably why I enjoyed it so much.

The show has received massive amounts of criticism in the last half of this season. To be fair, the Writer’s Strike caused the last season to be split in half, placing much more tension on the mid-season premiere than the writers had originally intended. From there, it was a slippery slope into the lands of Exposition, Retconning, and Plot Device that left many fans confused and upset. And I’d have to agree—the last episodes of season four, for the most part, are among the most terrible episodes in Battlestar Galactica’s run.

To the creative team’s credit, the finale did tie up most of the loose ends. It left just enough loose ends to keep things interesting—although it’s strongly implied that a “God” exists, we don’t learn exactly who Head Six and Head Baltar are—angels from on high? More importantly, we’re left wondering about the exact nature of Kara Thrace. Allusions to Mormon mythology aside, I understand those—like my dad—who are dissatsified with the lack of closure for Kara. But I wonder if an answer is actually superior to the question? Speaking of answers, however, I enjoyed the answer to the opera house vision. They dealt with that very artfully, mixing prescience with Cylon projection.

The first hour of the finale was just, in the vernacular, “frakkin’ awesome”. It was full of head-spinning action, Cylon centurions on both sides, old-school Cylons, and Baltar had a gun! Cavil had some great last moments, including when they almost had a chance for a Cylon-Human-Cylon peace.

I will never forgive Galen, no matter what Tigh says. And I will never sympathize with Boomer or forgive her for her choices. She had a chance for redemption until she kidnapped Hera.

Baltar, on the other hand, was more interesting. Right to the end he served his own self-interest—I have no doubt that he chose to go on the rescue mission to show himself that he could be heroric, and to save himself from being the pet of that annoying cult of his. I know I would have done the same thing in his place. Yet Baltar and Caprica Six manage to reunite and understand their place in “God’s plan” (if such a God exists). I loved the moment when Head Six and Head Baltar appeared to both of them.

The second hour was much like that part in Lord of the Rings between the end of the book and the last page—useless conclusion, in other words. Yes, it’s important for closure. I didn’t enjoy the idea that they would “abandon technology”—but whatever, I suppose if Lee thinks it’s a good idea, it’s got to be a good idea—right?

Overall, however, Battlestar Galactica’s final episode redeemed the series for the problems with the episodes preceding it. We received resolution to most of the major storylines. And we got some sweet special effects and amazing action scenes.

For those of who are reading this and haven’t watched an entire episode of Battlestar Galactica, you may be wondering why I watched this show. You may not even like “that sci-fi stuff.” You might think it’s uninteresting, or you might be passionately opposed to such “juvenile” tastes. The key to understanding a fan’s passion for Battlestar Galactica is to understand that it is science fiction—it’s the type of science fiction you get in novels by masters of science fiction, as opposed to the adventure-based space opera you find on television (sorry Stargate).

Science fiction is all about exploring ourselves, as humans, and our responsibilities as a species and to the universe. Battlestar Galactica showed us that science fiction television shows can be set in space, have killer robots, yet be relevant to current events. I’m not going to launch into an extended diatribe about how it tackled “relevant issues”—you can read blog posts aplenty about that, sure. If you doubt it, however, just remember that the cast of Battlestar Galactica were at a panel at the United Nations. Over the course of its four-year run, the series took a look at difficult issues about humanity—a laundry list would not do it justice.

Sure, Battlestar Galactica couldn’t keep everyone happy. That’s to be expected. Yet it resonated with enough people that it generated great debate. Yes, Battlestar Galactica is one of the best television shows ever because it made people think—not just about plot lines and character arcs, but about what it means to be human, what it means to evolve, and to question the nature of our world and our beliefs. Many television shows strive for such a legacy—few achieve it.