I don’t know when the word “spoiler” entered my vernacular (and I’m actually not sure when it started to become popularly used as either a warning or condemnation), but I’m glad it has.
Although I myself don’t particularly like spoilers (I turn up my headphones a bit if people near me at work discuss an episode of Lost I haven’t seen, and I try to remember not to visit entertainment blogs and websites if I know of the possibility of spoilers), I find the passion that surrounds these tiny nuggets of information astounding.
Perhaps the greatest spoiler moment in recent history was when Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released, and people had the opportunity to “ruin” the book for with three simple words.
It’s fascinating on both ends of the spectrum: first, why do some people get satisfaction out of intentionally spoiling (or is it now spoilering?) twists/endings for others? And second, why do some people cling so strongly to the belief that hearing a spoiler (be it intentional or not) is so…wrong?
I imagine we have active spoilerers for the same reason that people like to post blatant negative generalizations on message boards, or shoot their teammates in video games, or edit Wikipedia articles to contain random naughty words, or draw on the fire warning signs by elevators. There’s something in most of us that derives a bit of sinister fun out of what we consider relatively harmless vandalism. Nobody really suffers when I vandalize a random Wikipedia article or draw flames on the guy running down the stairs on the fire warning sign. When I spoiler something for someone, that person doesn’t really suffer any kind of enduring mental distress.
The argument that a spoiler has ruined a show or movie or book is a weak argument. A piece of media isn’t just about the twist or the ending, although M. Night Shymalan may argue differently.
But it makes a certain kind of sense. When you hear a spoiler, it’s as if you’ve lost a bit of innocence; like the cold hard fact that Santa doesn’t exist (oops, SPOILER, if you’re a kid) has suddenly been thrust into your face again as an adult.
Spoilers feel wrong, for some reason. When I accidentally read one online (which is much more common now because of DVR technology) or overhear it, I do feel a bit sad for a moment. But it logically makes little difference. I’ll still watch an episode of Survivor, even if I know who’s going to get voted off. I’ll still watch a movie, even if I know one of the main characters dies in the middle of it. Maybe I’ll watch it in a slightly different way, but if spoilers actually ruined things for me, it would mean I’d never watch an episode of TV or movie or read a book more than once.
So maybe it all boils down to this: if a spoiler ruins something for you, it probably wasn’t that good to begin with.