Game of Thrones won’t return until 2019, and people are angry. Forget the explanations for the delay – after all, if it’s winter in Westeros, it’s probably sensible to shoot in winter – the yowls of disappointment ringing out across the internet have been hard to miss.

Because Game of Thrones is the biggest TV show on television. It’s Dallas with dragons. It’s EastEnders with nudity. It’s The Apprentice with a very slightly more liberal worldview. And we’re so close to the end (SPOILERS). The enemy is at the gate. An ice dragon is blue-flaming down the barricades. A man is unwittingly having it off with his auntie on a boat. The climax is so near, and so tantalisingly out of reach.

The delay stings now that we live in an age that encourages us to wolf down entertainment in great greedy gobbles

The delay stings, especially now we live in an age that encourages us to wolf down entertainment in great greedy gobbles. Entire shows can be barrelled through in an afternoon. We have immediate access to every song that’s ever been recorded. If we want to consume something, we’re conditioned to expect it.

This goes double for Game of Thrones. The series has always catered to fans of instant pleasure. Want to know what happens in the next episode? Read the book. Can’t be bothered to read the book? Look at Wikipedia. Books have run out? There’s a small army of photographers in Belfast taking long-lens snapshots of every single moment of production, and dozens of Redditors decoding them for spoilers. But this new post-book, high-security series is the only time in the show’s history where nobody actually knows what’ll happen next. It’s uncharted territory.

But, hey, that’s probably a good thing. Game of Thrones is a big, expensive spectacle of a series. Everything you see onscreen, everything you hear, every twist and turn, is the result of hundreds of people putting in endless hours of toil. Their work is so great that it demands to be experienced the way the creators designed. But every sneaky Google, every blurry paparazzi shot of two characters shaking hands on a beach, acts to diminish the impact.

It’s the televisual equivalent of the Stanford marshmallow experiment, where children were left alone with a treat and told that they’d get another if they could resist eating it for 15 minutes. Only a third of the children managed not to eat the treat, and that’s likely to be the case with Game of Thrones. If someone uploaded pre-FX versions of the final series to YouTube – even though the footage was grainy and largely consisted of Tyrion reacting to a football on the end of a broomstick – could you summon the strength of mind to wait for the finished broadcast? Hand on heart, I’m not sure I could. Yes, I’d want to wait for the two-marshmallow hit of the full spectacle, but I’m hungry now and waiting is for divvies.

Speaking personally, my desire for instant pop culture gratification is one of my worst impulses. When the last Harry Potter book came out, I read the final page first. Last weekend I Googled a film before it was over, just to see how it’d end. I’m one of apparently a tiny minority who doesn’t go all puce and constipated at the very hint of a spoiler. But, hopefully, I’m starting to change.

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When one of my favourite shows – Netflix’s The Good Place – went on a mid-season hiatus last year, I almost lost my mind with thwarted anticipation. But it returns today, and I’ve found myself appreciating the wait. It’s given me a chance to reflect on why I enjoy it so much, rather than mindlessly devouring it like a one-man locust plague. And I haven’t ploughed through the new series of Black Mirror, either. Admittedly this is because I’d probably fling myself off a bridge if I watched more than an hour of unrepentant bleakness a week, but I’m still counting it as a win.

So, frustrated Game of Thrones fans, I’d like to remind you that there is joy in waiting. Anticipation and pleasure go hand in hand. Everything from a good meal to a first kiss is only improved when it’s withheld a little, and I’m sure the same can also be said for watching Jon Snow realise that he’s just boned his aunt. Let’s all just hang on in there. And if you can’t, you’ve always got those spiffy new stamps to lick.

• Stuart Heritage is a Guardian writer