Sitting through those eight hours, though, can be tough. At least, at first. The opening installments of Season Four may play like a nightmare to devoted fans: And now, the story of a once-incredible TV show desecrated by weird pacing, inconsistent character motivation, shoehorned cameos, and so-so writing. Why start one of the most anticipated seasons of TV ever with extended exposition from culturally overexposed guests Kristen Wiig and Seth Rogen? Where's the dysfunctional ensemble we've been waiting to see reunited? Was creator Mitchell Hurwitz not able wrangle all the actors together long enough to film the bantertastic scenes that made the old episodes so richly rewatchable? And that banter, when it shows up—why's it feel so one-dimensional?

Happily, these questions have good answers, though they don't start to present themselves till halfway through the season. It's best to think of Netflix's Arrested not as a rebooted sitcom but rather as a spinoff in a different, new medium whose closest predecessor may be the postmodern novel (suddenly, HBO's Visit From the Goon Squad project seems more doable). Hurwitz & co. aren't telling one story sequentially, but rather a lot of stories concurrently, all of which interlock to a larger story. This was always sort of the case with the show's original run, during which small jokes would be foreshadowed and called back and amplified and remixed. But back then, maintaining TV-friendly, scene-to-scene momentum and humor mattered more than anything. Now, even though each installment features a few amusing standalone plotlines, the pieces that connect across episodes are the main attractions.

That's why rewatching the season premiere after getting through the finale is a revelation: Scenes that once seemed empty of character and action are now cluttered with those things, happening just outside of the frame but enriching what's happening within it. Situations that initially scanned as implausible, even in the show's screwball universe, end up being covers for different, more-thought-out situations explained later. Quips that had felt inert on first encounter reveal themselves as punchlines to set-ups 10 episodes later. And a mystery that's ostensibly unsolved at season's end actually seems solved if you rewind to season's start.

These are neat narrative tricks, which take advantage of how devouring a bundle of videos online differs from tuning into an episode on TV once a week. But they're also remarkably suited for the story that Arrested Development has always wanted to tell. This is a show about liars—twins switching identities to make a buck, kids pretending to be moguls, moguls pretending to be altruists, cheaters cheating on cheaters. By fragmenting the narrative into a half-dozen or so points of view, by withholding info from the viewer at the same time as characters withhold it from each other, the program makes us appreciate just how all this lying works, how levels of deception accumulate until it's nearly impossible to remember where the truth really is.