Championing an underappreciated television show can be a joy, an inside secret you’ll share with other fans who have stumbled upon the same discovery. Sure, it’s no fun to feel like you’re the only person in your friend group watching, for instance, Veronica Mars—I certainly did back in the aughts—but as more people caught up and caught on over the years, finally getting to talk about the biggest twists and the best performances felt thrilling. Pushing a show, especially one that’s been canceled or ignored by most prestige award shows, can be an uphill climb, but I find the trek worthwhile.

This list is an effort to get you started on your journey. My colleagues and I have compiled some of our favorite recent series that we wished had gotten more attention—including a biting comedy about Hollywood, a surprisingly clever drama about artificial intelligence, and an engrossing docuseries about a once-beloved reality-TV family. One of them, we hope, will be your new favorite show to introduce to others. — Shirley Li

Tiny Beautiful Things

No show has made me sob harder this year than Tiny Beautiful Things, an adaptation of Cheryl Strayed’s essay collection that compiles her responses as the anonymous voice behind the advice column “Dear Sugar.” But just as the clarity of Strayed’s prose makes her work more than mere self-help writing, the thoughtful artistry of the series elevates the show beyond just a tearjerker. The half-hour dramedy follows Clare (played by Kathryn Hahn in the present, and Sarah Pidgeon in flashbacks), a writer whose grief over the loss of her mother (Merritt Wever) continues to affect her—as a parent, as a lover, and as a reluctant advice columnist. The narrative weaves some of Strayed’s own story—captured in her memoir, Wild—with fictional scenarios that would come off as overly sentimental were they not anchored by the ensemble’s fine-tuned performances. Tiny Beautiful Things folds the past into the present, and Strayed’s words into Clare’s thoughts, resulting in a moving and intimate portrait of heartbreak and healing. — S. L.

Watch it on: Hulu

Amanda Matlovich / Netflix

Glamorous

At first blush, Glamorous feels like a shiny new entrant in the well-worn category of workplace comedies where an industry veteran is paired with a plucky young ingenue. Kim Cattrall plays Madolyn Addison, a model turned beauty mogul who recruits an aspiring influencer named Marco Mejia as her assistant; there’s no shortage of outlandish hijinks, heartwarming intergenerational-learning moments, or bonding within a tight-knit crew of diverse and easily distracted colleagues. But the role of Marco is made particularly intriguing by the actor Miss Benny, whose own life—first as a beauty-loving YouTuber, and later as a young person contemplating a public transition—informs much of the character. Without giving away too much, Miss Benny imbues Marco with curiosity, verve, and heart, all of which make Glamorous a delight to watch alongside Cattrall’s vibrant and sometimes-vulnerable performance. Come for Cattrall—who is mostly missing from the second season of Max’s entirely uncanny Sex and the City reboot—and stay for the earnest queer-coming-of-age story. — Hannah Giorgis

Watch it on: Netflix

Shrinking

The first episode of Shrinking—which stars Jason Segel as Jimmy, a cognitive behavioral therapist on a self-destructive path after the death of his wife—seems to suggest a high-concept setup. Hungover at work one day, Jimmy has a revelation: What if he just told his patients the truth about their life instead of waiting for them to figure it out? Cue the hijinks. (Or, in Shrinking’s case, some jarring acts of violence.) Thankfully, though, the show dispenses quickly enough with the vague philosophical wrangling to settle into the more rewarding mode of the Bill Lawrence Workplace Sitcom. Created by Segel and Lawrence along with the latter’s Ted Lasso co-writer, Brett Goldstein, Shrinking also stars Harrison Ford and Jessica Williams as therapists at Jimmy’s office, Lukita Maxwell as his teenage daughter, and Christa Miller as his neighbor Liz. The more the show relaxes into being a quirky comedy about sweet weirdos, the better it becomes. Williams, at this point, has the kind of charisma that could power a continent, and her character’s antagonistic friendship with Liz, an empty-nester trying to channel her thwarted ambitions into offbeat hobbies, sets up one of the funniest double acts on TV in a while. — Sophie Gilbert

Watch it on: Apple TV+

Crash Course in Romance

Back in April, Netflix’s co-CEO Ted Sarandos announced that the platform would be investing $2.5 billion in South Korean content over the next four years, noting that Korean creators’ “stories are now at the heart of the global cultural zeitgeist.” One of the offerings is Crash Course in Romance, a drama featuring an all-star cast of Korean actors that follows Haeng-seon (played by Jeon Do-yeon), a former national handball player who serves as a primary guardian for her teenage niece and younger brother. The series, which aptly depicts the pressures that students face in hypercompetitive academic environments, is anchored by the unlikely connection between Haeng-seon and Chi-yeol (Jung Kyung-ho), a popular math instructor at the private tutoring company where Haeng-seon lands a gig. But the show also has plenty of schoolyard drama, judgmental helicopter parents, and—why not—a murder mystery. — H. G.

Watch it on: Netflix

Max

100 Foot Wave

Given the way it combines interviews with big-wave surfers and incredible footage of swells and churning seas, 100 Foot Wave could be considered both a visceral look at an extreme sport and an enthralling nature documentary. The show tracks the trials of these surfers, chronicling their hunt for the big one, their training process, and, of course, their eventual enjoyment—or painful endurance—of the ride itself. Competition and ocean science go hand in hand for athletes such as Garrett McNamara, whom the first season follows as he journeys to the small fishing town of Nazaré, in Portugal, to surf the titular mythical wave. Season 2 expands the field to incorporate several of his competitors, yielding a more scattered but no less enthralling show. Each episode contains at least one goose-bumps-inducing shot of a gigantic wall of water looming over a minuscule surfer; as a viewer, you can’t help but get, well, swept away. — S. L.

Watch it on: Max

Perry Mason

HBO’s short-lived reimagining of the classic legal drama was a prestige take on the procedural—which meant a first season that felt gritty, dark, and, as my colleague Sophie Gilbert wrote, “needlessly bleak.” But Perry Mason is worth the attention, both for Matthew Rhys’s performance and a second season that is an achievement in noir storytelling. Perry is an unusual character in today’s TV landscape: A private investigator at the series’s start, he has none of the gleeful showmanship of, say, Benoit Blanc. By Season 2 he’s a defense lawyer, and his deep commitment to justice, though admirable, makes him a melancholic presence among his peers. Yet the show understands that his world-weariness makes him the perfect vehicle for exploring the flaws of the institutions for which he works. Perry Mason is ultimately not a crime drama, but rather a show that, gradually and hauntingly, depicts how courtroom debates can be more dehumanizing than the crimes themselves. — S. L.

Watch it on: Max

[Read: The dark truth about Perry Mason]

Mrs. Davis

If Black Mirror is a show that uses sinister and even sadistic vibes to tell ultimately trollish stories, Mrs. Davis is the opposite: a breezy romp through civilization that’s also a remarkably sophisticated parable about faith. Betty Gilpin is sublime as Simone, a Nevada-based nun who finds herself pitted against “Mrs. Davis,” an AI whose ability to give people exactly what they want has drawn in virtually everyone on Earth. Created by Damon Lindelof and Tara Hernandez, the series traffics in typically strange and mesmerizing Lindelofian imagery (exploding horses, sacred falafel, rollercoasters of death) without ever sacrificing its joyful tone. Along the way, you might end up pondering the nature of artificial intelligence, isolation in a hyperconnected world, and whether pleasure trumps meaning—but you’re equally welcome to just enjoy the ride. — S. G.

Watch it on: Peacock

Apple TV+

Platonic

Would you believe there’s a second under-the-radar Apple comedy from one of the creative minds behind Forgetting Sarah Marshall—this one co-created by that movie’s director, Nicholas Stoller? Platonic, made by Stoller with Francesca Delbanco, is about the chaos that’s set off when Sylvia (Rose Byrne), a dissatisfied stay-at-home mom, reconnects with her best friend from college: Will, a genial slacker (Seth Rogen, of course) whose lifestyle is oppositional to hers in every way. Sylvia is prematurely fogeyish, with a striking array of Anthropologie cardigans; Will is stuck in late adolescence, decked out like “Bad Guy”–era Billie Eilish. Which life state, the show wonders, is worse? In some ways, Platonic mines similar territory to Friends From College, Stoller and Delbanco’s 2017 divisive Netflix comedy about arrested development, but the chemistry between Byrne and Rogen is so gratifying that Platonic is easier to enjoy. — S. G.

Watch it on: Apple TV+

The Other Two

Forget The Idol. The Other Two is the only show that sees the entertainment business for what it is: a ludicrous circus of egos fueled by pure, unrefined shamelessness. The half-hour comedy, which follows Brooke (played by Heléne Yorke) and Cary (Drew Tarver), the older siblings of a Justin Bieber–like pop star, is an audacious and often surreal satire of Hollywood’s extravagance and poisonous nature. This season has been especially relentless in its dissection of Hollywood’s moral pliability. In one episode, Cary is hired to voice a formless animated glob that Disney is marketing as the studio’s first openly gay character. In another, Brooke vows to “do good” and quits her job as a manager, then immediately breaks the vow when she realizes she’s no longer welcome at industry parties. The pair can be insufferable as they pursue fame, but in many ways, they represent how we can’t help but get sucked into the power-hungry vortex of celebrity culture in our age of infotainment and influencers. Even the show itself, which was canceled this week, was reportedly burdened by some of the very issues it mocked. — S. L.

Watch it on: Max

[Read: The Other Two is a winning portrait of a Gen-Z world]

Amazon Prime

Shiny Happy People: Duggar Family Secrets

If, like me, you’re feeling a little burned out by gaudy documentary series about blank-eyed cult leaders committing horrifying acts against their followers, then allow me to make a case for Shiny Happy People, a rigorous and sensitively told investigation into the cultural phenomenon that was the Duggars. Over four episodes, the directors Olivia Crist and Julia Willoughby Nason examine how the teachings of a fundamentalist Christian sect were sanitized and served up for mass consumption via an anodyne TLC reality show, 19 Kids and Counting. In 2015, Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar’s oldest son, Josh, apologized after reports alleged that he had molested multiple underage girls as a teenager, and the show was canceled. But the real story, as Shiny Happy People lays out, is how the ministry that informed the family’s lifestyle appears to have enabled much more widespread cultures of patriarchal abuse in America. — S. G.

Watch it on: Prime

Somebody Somewhere

At the end of last year, my colleague Megan Garber wrote about the poignant first season of Somebody Somewhere, the standout 2022 show that introduced viewers to Sam (played by Bridget Everett, whose real life also served as inspiration for the series), a bereaved 40-something struggling to cope with the loss of her sister, Holly. Somebody Somewhere opened after Holly’s death, with Sam flailing her way through life in her hometown of Manhattan, Kansas, where she’d returned to care for her sister in her last days. In its second season, the quiet series is somehow even more charming. Not much has materially changed for Sam, but she and the small band of misfits who embraced her in the early stages of her midlife crisis remain close: Joel (Jeff Hiller)—who in Season 1 ushered Sam into his clandestine “choir practice” at a local church—is now her roommate. Somebody Somewhere remains at its best when it relishes the rare pleasure of unhurried character study: Sam and Joel’s banter feels easy and lived-in, even when they’re helping each other navigate difficult memories and present pains. The illicit cabaret nights at church may be gone, but Sam’s voice still fills the room. — H. G.

Watch it on: Max

London College of Communication's MA documentary photography and photojournalism course graduates' work.

Over recent decades, the price of higher-education tuition has risen faster than costs in any other major consumer category, outpacing even medical care and housing. Despite that, for a while, applications kept flooding in—and for good reason: College was still worth it. As the MIT economist David Autor argued in 2014, “the real lifetime earnings premium to college education has likely never been higher.”

Yet today, the value of college is slipping in Americans’ eyes. Fifty-six percent of respondents to a recent survey said a four-year degree was a “bad bet.” Enrollment has been declining since its 2010 peak—a change explained partly by the shrinking pool of 18-year-olds but also by high-school students simply opting out. From 2018 to 2021, the proportion of high-school graduates entering college fell by 7 percentage points—a decline driven by falling enrollment in two-year programs in particular.

These numbers reflect only one dimension of the various threats now facing higher education. Academic departments across the country are hollowed out and underfunded; the personal finances of graduate students and non-tenure-track faculty members are precarious; and students are fearful of losing their high-stakes financial wager on a degree.

[Ben Sasse: How to really fix higher ed]

One common response from industry observers and policy makers is to urge institutions to focus exclusively on the value students are getting for the money they’re spending: placing a priority on vocational and STEM education (preferably delivered online and at scale) while paring back amenities, student services, administration, and supposedly unremunerative humanities coursework. After all, the argument runs, if colleges refuse to rid themselves of their excesses, they may find that someone else will do it for them. The Bloomberg business columnist Adrian Wooldridge recently compared the United States’ higher-education sector to “the country’s car industry in the 1970s, just before it was taken apart by the Japanese—hampered by a giant bureaucracy, contemptuous of many of its workers, and congenitally inward-looking.”

The comparison works because Detroit’s mid-century offerings tended to be oversize, overloaded with features, and overpriced. By contrast, Japanese imports—Toyotas, in particular—were smaller, cheaper, and more fuel-efficient. When oil prices rose in the 1970s and the value proposition of large cars grew dicey, Japanese automakers were able to grab market share from American manufacturers. For U.S. colleges to avoid such decline, the thinking goes, schools must strip down to create an affordable and job-ready product.

The impulse to cut education to the bone is not new. A century ago, a wave of school reform swept the country, propelled by the psychologist Edward L. Thorndike’s reductionist theory of learning. Thorndike believed that learning was a solitary act readily quantifiable through testing, which was also, he and his allies believed, a sound measure of students’ innate intelligence.

Thorndike’s sometime-colleague and competitor, John Dewey, disagreed. Dewey argued that learning was a social, experimental process—too complex to be usefully pared down to its constituent parts. At his Laboratory School at the University of Chicago, students worked together on interdisciplinary projects, motivated, according to his alternate theory, not by some distant reward but by curiosity about the subject.

By the 1910s and ’20s—the heyday of Taylorist scientific management—Dewey’s romantic, unquantifiable vision of learning didn’t stand a chance. A generation of reformers committed to efficiency and standardization used tools such as credit hours, common grading systems, and uniform curricula to square off schools’ idiosyncratic edges.

Students, too, underwent standardization. Thorndike believed that native intelligence was fixed and unimprovable, and so an important function of school was to winnow out supposedly undeserving students. “The one thing that the schools or any other educational forces can do least,” he wrote in 1903, was increase students’ “powers and capacities.” Lamentably, he connected this notion with race, arguing for separate vocational and technical training programs for Black Americans.

By the 1920s, administrative mandates were coming to dominate classrooms—even if the lessons were still run by teachers, in all their variety. Thorndike had dreamed of someday eliminating them. “If, by a miracle of mechanical ingenuity,” he mused in 1912, “a book could be so arranged that only to him who had done what was directed on page one would page two become visible, and so on, much that now requires personal instruction could be managed by print.”

Such a book is no longer so hard to imagine. Artificial intelligence could plausibly remove that last bastion of personal, “soft” influence from education. This possibility is alarming to those of us who believe in student-teacher relationships—particularly because, in an ironic twist, AI’s existence may place a premium on hard-to-automate problem-solving and interpersonal skills. Even if AI-powered instruction doesn’t displace existing colleges and universities, it might still create a tiered system: one with teachers, another without.

Already, educational standardization has brought unintended consequences. Especially harmful is the pervasive idea that learning—the fundamental objective of school—must serve double duty as the means to constantly sort adept students from those assumed to be inept. As we described in our 2020 book, Grasp: The Science Transforming How We Learn, a cognitive price must be paid when courses are optimized to compare students with one another. Such sorting gets in the way of context-rich, curiosity-fueled learning that leads to lasting knowledge and potent skills.

In fact, if today’s higher-education sector and 1960s-era Detroit resemble each other, that’s because the same destructive degree of standardization found on the auto assembly line has been applied in teaching. Detroit’s workers performed simple, repetitive tasks, and when defects appeared, they weren’t empowered to act on the issue—only to flag it. This supposedly efficient practice produced tremendous waste: expensive repairs on completed cars, piles of defective parts, and a legacy of mechanical problems for motorists.

Toyota, by contrast, trusted its small teams of workers to stop the production line and work backward to root out the cause of any defects. Suppliers built new parts only upon request, which meant fewer faulty items. Instead of requiring individuals to perform a task over and over, Toyota assigned several jobs to its teams while seeking their insights into how to improve production. To the delight of Americans who took a chance on them, the resulting cars proved remarkably reliable. By 1987, the company’s Takaoka plant was producing cars at twice the speed of General Motors’s plant in Framingham, Massachusetts, with a defect rate a third of GM’s.

[Read: Why is college in America so expensive?]

Wooldridge’s point that U.S. higher education should be more like 1970s Toyota is well taken—but not because Toyota outdid Detroit in eliminating human complexity. Rather, it showed that the greatest efficiency can be achieved by putting that pesky human element to good use.

Higher-education institutions should consider pursuing a similar strategy: investing in students and teachers while stripping away obstacles in their path. Online instruction can be used to reduce costs, for instance, but instead of simply shunting classes onto Zoom, schools should confine lectures to prerecorded video and open up valuable class time for in-person work and discussion. Co-op programs that send students into the workforce can help them develop job-ready knowledge and industry relationships. Curricular programs that mingle STEM and humanities courses can establish a mixture of hard and soft skills that will have lasting value by enriching context and cultivating curiosity. More esoteric institutional measures—such as breaking the bachelor’s degree into portable “micro-credentials”—could provide flexibility for the students who have lately decided against even a two-year degree.

At the beginning of the 1960s, Americans could buy just two types of cars: a mass-produced one, which was affordable for most but of inferior quality, or a hand-built one, which made superior quality available to only a wealthy few. Japanese manufacturers soon debunked this trade-off, showing that efficiency and quality could coexist. In higher education, a thoughtless approach to efficiency could entrench the pre-Toyota dynamic, leading to a small set of elite schools offering a human-centered education while everyone else makes do with an algorithmic junk version. We don’t have to limit ourselves to such a choice. We can have the best of both worlds—if we have the audacity to build it.