“Wait, I haven’t seen it yet!”

How many times has a conversation been aborted by that phrase? And, more importantly, how necessary is that perennial interjection, that shrieking attempt at making the pause button a feature of analogue life?

Don’t get me wrong. I have no desire to ruin someone’s enjoyment of a TV show or film (or, for that matter, a book). Nor am I unwilling to refrain from blathering on about the latest episode of The Young Pope or House of Cards should someone have missed it. I do bristle a bit at the perceived need to insert “spoiler alert” messages in film reviews and television recaps, though. I mean, honestly, what did you think you would be reading about when you clicked on that link? Everything but the plot? But, hey, I can skim to the good bits and enjoy the decadent fruits of pre-knowledge without much regard to the unnecessary gatekeeping verbiage. (Inevitably in obnoxious caps though it may be: SPOILER ALERT! As if some awful accident were imminent. I’ve seen medical waste labeled with more understatement.)

But: if people really need to be reminded in print that they’re about to learn something they don’t want to, fine. I guess.

However, when it comes to conversation, consider these questions: Is there a statute of limitations on spoiler alerts? What constitutes spoilage in the first place? And what has made it so that our friends and coworkers feel entitled to impose their own digital realities on the here and now?

As to the first point, I answer with a resounding yes. Exceptions? Certainly. I get that people reserve certain shows or films for later viewing. And sometimes, it is the polite option to simply skip to a new topic if discussing said show or film will somehow diminish someone’s viewing experience. I would counter, though, that sometimes it is also the polite choice to allow the conversation to proceed (with or without you) should the work in question be a point of enthusiasm. I have been part of many a large conversational group whose momentum was derailed by someone protesting that they had not seen a show — sometimes one that had not been on the air for years — and indignantly demanding a redirect of the discussion. I’m sorry assholes, but Tony Soprano dies, Nancy Botwin becomes a legal weed empress, and that gorgeous woman who gets Forest Whitaker all hot and bothered in The Crying Game? She’s trans. (Come on, The Crying Game is from 1992. The secret is out.)

If any of the above “spoiled” anything for you, I’d submit this: you might want to adjust the way you watch. You see, I’ve had many a plot point revealed to me in advance and I can’t think of one time it actually ruined anything for me. In part, I’ll admit, that’s a matter of taste. I tend to most appreciate elements of cinema that are specific to the viewing experience itself. That is, they can’t be spoiled. I like lavish cinematography, perfectly delivered lines, perfectly timed arches of the eyebrow — the moments of real transcendence. And while I’m enjoying those, the plot unfolds before me organically and I’m thus often find myself surprised by information that I “knew” before watching.

Perhaps that somewhat precious viewing style holds no appeal for you, though. Understandable. Maybe, instead, your investment in the cinematic arts is purely plot-based. That’s fair. And I’m happy to accommodate that sensibility in conversation by skirting certain narrative lynch pins if that’s the kind of crowd it is. Myself, I frequently read entire plot summaries ahead of time.

However: when your enjoyment appears to be predicated more on control of the play button than on any real appreciation of the material, I start to lose sympathy. To me, talking about movies and books is one of life’s great pleasures. It’s far too rare now that I hear “Was it good?” or “Did you like it?” after the inevitable “I haven’t seen it yet!” announcements. Many people, I think, have succumbed to the terror that the hermetic seal around their “experience” might be breached by soliciting such information. Like a flower tea ball, it must slowly blossom in the tepid waters of their unimaginative minds, with any incursion of prior opinion or analysis ruining the ultimate effect. These noisy victims of the on-demand era expect each reveal, each unfurling development, each death, each sex scene to happen on their time only.

There is, it must be acknowledged, an obvious appeal to this gift-wrapped approach. And I don’t entirely doubt the sincerity of those who defend its sanctity. The infrastructure — and impetus — are there to be sure. TiVo, on-demand, Netflix. Our culture has all but told us that we possess a universal pause button. During the rarely-gentle correctives that result, I’m always reminded of Kathy Najimy in Hocus Pocus, farcically jabbing a remote control at an irate Penny Marshall in an attempt to turn her off. It’s inevitable that this sense of control should seep from its digital constraints into the real world. What I find most astounding (and irritating) about the phenomenon is the sanctimony and self-righteousness with which these armchair warriors patrol the borders of what might be acceptably alluded to and declaim the ruination sure to follow if those nebulous borders are traversed. I feel as if I’ve spent the last decade watching this new bourgeois entitlement — the utterly unspoilt viewing experience — coalesce in staticky menace like Samara from The Ring. And now, damp and angry, it hangs over every conversation that veers toward the cinematic, ready to smother it or paralyze it with fear.

The ultimate effect of this tendency is, predictably, stultifying. The ever-precious experience may be preserved — and I find it most often is; so few are willing to proceed once the spectre of spoilage has been raised — but at what cost? Civility, for one: in what other context are otherwise nice people so comfortable telling others to simply shut up? And, more importantly, a sense of the magic of cinema. If you have no faith that a film or show will be more than just a series of events, why bother watching at all?

I suspect that, in their heart of hearts, even the most martial spoiler alert enforcers retain the capacity to let the movies work their magic. How else to explain the popularity of historical dramas, which if anything, has increased? One of the most fantastic scenes I’ve seen on film in recent memory was one that was, even before filming began, “spoiled.” In the 2015 adaptation of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall, the doomed Anne Boleyn stands on a platform, awaiting the executioner’s axe. As the hushed crowd waits, she finds the eyes of Thomas Cromwell, who helped to put her there. The onlookers gasp as she is led to the block and decapitated. A tauter, tenser moment I’ve rarely witnessed on film.

I’m sure that some might imagine a similar fate for me given some of the heretical statements above. Before you go in search of a suitable blade, might I suggest first skimming through the classics on Netflix? Are you seeing a wasteland of spoiled plots? Or are you looking forward to Bogie and Bergman bidding melancholy adieu? To Rachel getting off the plane? Romeo and Juliet taking their poison? To Jack finally letting go and slipping beneath the waves?

Put down the axe. And chill.