No matter how old you are, no matter how untouched by human emotion you pretend to be, it is going to happen to you. You are going to develop feelings for a soapy TV drama aimed at American teens. If your formative television watching years occurred in the 90s, there were innumerable opportunities to develop unexpected infatuations: this was the decade of My So-Called Life, Party of Five, Felicity, Buffy and – rising like a phoenix above all its angsty contemporaries – Dawson’s Creek.

In the late 90s, screenwriter Kevin Williamson was being hailed for his part in reinvigorating the horror genre with his smart, sarcastic, self-aware scripts for the hugely profitable Scream series, I Know What You Did Last Summer and The Faculty. Williamson’s way with hyper-articulate, wise-beyond-their-years teen characters made him an object of desire for the US TV networks, which, as always, were struggling to maintain a grip on the short attention spans of the adolescent audience. Rather than the scares and gore with which he made his name, and to which he would later return, Williamson’s first TV vehicle was a sensitive, emotional series based, loosely, on his adolescence as an aspiring film-maker marooned in a small, picturesque coastal town, surrounded by his tight-knit group of friends and family.

Dawson’s Creek – which made its debut on 20 January 1998 on The WB, a now-defunct, teen-centric network that also housed Buffy, Charmed and Supernatural – may have been low on blood but it was high on hormones and, more than that, feelings. High-school shows had become phenomena in the past, most notably Beverly Hills, 90210, least notably Saved By the Bell. But no previous series pandered to teens the way Dawson’s Creek did. No one had ever flattered teenagers’ self-esteem by portraying them as smart and capable of intense self-reflection, allowing them to be conversant with pop culture beyond what was on the radio or in the multiplex at that moment in time and, crucially, able to talk in long, considered, usually perfectly constructed sentences. Williamson’s characters didn’t mumble, spout slang or converse in sullen monosyllables; they revelled in their intelligence and the way it made them stand out in their small town.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest It’s great when you relate ... (left to right) Michelle Williams, James Van Der Beek, Joshua Jackson, Katie Holmes, Meredith Monroe and Kerr Smith. Photograph: Rex Features

Right from its opening moments, Dawson’s Creek starts a conversation that will continue over the subsequent six seasons. The pilot begins with Dawson Leery (James Van Der Beek) and his childhood best friend and soulmate Joey Potter (Katie Holmes), the night before they start high school, lying face down on his bed watching ET. As has been their custom since they were seven, Dawson expects Joey to sleep over and listen to him expound at length about his ambition to become the next Spielberg. But Joey has other ideas: “Sleeping in the same bed was fine when we were kids, but we’re 15 now.” Dawson looks confused, as he will do over the next six seasons. “And I have breasts,” she explains. “And you have genitalia. I just think our emerging hormones are destined to alter our relationship and I’m trying to limit the fallout.” Dawson responds that they should continue to spend the night on his bed: “Proof that we can still remain friends, despite any mounting sexual theoretics.”

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By the time the theme tune kicked in, the viewing audience was already intrigued by these verbose, candid teens. Then the other half of the main ensemble was introduced. Jen Lindley (Michelle Williams), the sophisticated new girl who just breezed in from the big city. She was enigmatic, but also damaged and vulnerable. Finally, Pacey Witter (Joshua Jackson), Dawson’s lunkhead best friend who, unlike the others, doesn’t just ruminate at great length about sex, he actively pursues it, aggressively flirting with a hot, 40-ish customer at his video store. When that customer turns out to teach at his school, Pacey’s ardour is undampened. In fact, it’s so undampened he mocks her reticence at getting involved with a 15-year-old student by sneering: “You blew it, lady, because I’m the best sex you’ll never have.”

Fans enamoured by the pilot only grew more devoted by the constant outpourings of emotion and the continual evolution of the group dynamic. But as much as they wept along with the plots and quoted the most overcooked dialogue, there was something about a particular character that very quickly began to grate on even the most ardent admirer. Sarah D Bunting co-founded the pioneering and famously snarky TV recap site Television Without Pity, which began life as Dawson’s Wrap, a site solely devoted to reviewing the minutiae of the show. She was not the series’ most ardent admirer and is well aware of the grating qualities of the aforementioned character: “In the early series, Dawson is sort of a doofus, but in the way most teens are. But then he became a score-keeping, judgmental, self-satisfied guy whose hair was an affront.”

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Kevin Williamson was aware enough to label season two of Dawson’s Creek Pacey’s Pond: not only did Joshua Jackson have more credible chemistry with Katie Holmes, whom he briefly dated in real life, but Pacey quickly eclipsed Dawson as both the series’ most relatable character and its moral centre. There is no greater instance of Pacey’s season two greatness than the introduction of the rich, emotionally crippled McPhee siblings, Andie (Meredith Monroe) and Jack (Kerr Smith).

Initially, the brother and sister functioned as fresh love interests for Joey and Pacey. Faced with the revelation that Andie struggled with mental health issues and Jack faced struggles with his sexuality, Pacey stood by both siblings, supporting Andie through her problems and, when a teacher callously outed Jack in front of the class, spitting in the bigot’s face. In 2000, Jack was confident enough to give his boyfriend US network television’s first gay kiss. The same ground-breaking episode, the finale of season three, also contained a moment that, for better or worse, ensured Dawson’s Creek’s immortality.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest All the feels ... Benjamin McKenzie as Ryan, Mischa Barton as Marissa, Adam Brody as Seth and Rachel Bilson as Summer in The OC. Photograph: Snap Stills/Rex/Shutterstock

Finally confronting the fact that Joey and Pacey belong together, Dawson sets Joey free of his clinginess with a self-sacrificing monologue. “You want him like I want you. You love him like I love you. The only difference is he loves you back the same way. And I’m not gonna be the one who stands in the way of you getting that. You’re free.” And then James Van Der Beek dug deep inside himself and summoned the emotion necessary to convey the weight of those words. The actor’s face crumpled, his mouth contorted, he didn’t just cry: he Ugly Cried. In fact, he Ugly Cried to the extent that he gave birth to the Crying Dawson Face that instantly became an iconic screenshot and, latterly, a ubiquitous meme. For those aware of the meme’s origin it’s a reminder of the emotional incontinence of the show; for those that aren’t it’s become a virtual shorthand for #feelings.

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Subsequent seasons split up the core group to further education and, in Dawson’s case, the pursuit of his Hollywood dream. The high point of the post-school years was the introduction of Busy Philipps as Audrey, the only naturally funny character on Dawson’s Creek, and also the reason for the delightful and enduring best-friendship between Philipps and Michelle Williams. After this fractious period came the Dawson’s Creek finale in 2003, in which creator Williamson made a pair of momentous decisions. First, he killed off Michelle Williams’s Jen, a character who should have been allowed a graceful exit several years ago when it was evident no one knew what to do with her. Second, he alleviated any fears of a last-minute Dawson and Joey reunion by coming down firmly on the side of Joey and Pacey. Self-aware to the end, he gave Dawson the appropriately narcissistic ending of becoming the creator of his own coming-of-age drama, The Creek.

Although ridiculed in its declining years, Dawson’s Creek cast a significant shadow over its particular genre. Unlike many 90s teen drama ensembles, the Dawson’s Creek cast continue to work and – in the case of the underutilised Williams – to much greater success than could have been anticipated. Williamson made a welcome return to horror, in particular the long-running Vampire Diaries, whose smouldering, immortal, blood-sucking brothers betrayed the occasional sensitive moment between bouts of neck-snapping and decapitation.

The characters on Dawson’s Creek felt more, read more, cared more, cried more and, above all, talked more than any previous depictions of TV teens. Irritating though it may have been, the level of discourse set a new standard for the portrayal of fictional adolescents, one from which we’re still benefiting today. Without Dawson’s Creek and the self-possession with which Williamson imbued his alter egos there would be no OC, no Gossip Girl and, currently, no Riverdale. For its many faults, Dawson’s Creek can ultimately be credited with ending the era of the Dumb Teen Show, raising the bar and irrevocably changing the face of young-adult TV.

All of Dawson’s Creek is available to stream on All4