Personal Log

On September 8, 2026, Star Trek will turn sixty. Six decades since its American television debut, six decades filled with alien worlds, grand ideas, and characters who have become far more than just entertainment for many of us. It’s really a reason to raise a glass and fire up the warp drive. I’m certainly joining in the toast. However, I’m celebrating something whose current incarnation reminds me, above all, of just how far a brand can stray from what once set it apart. For me, the 60th anniversary is therefore as much a birthday celebration as it is a moment to take stock after a very long farewell.

My journey began in 1972 with “Beam Me Up, Star Trek.” I was eight, had to battle my father’s sports show to watch the Enterprise, and ended up getting pretty scared. The idea that those beams could come through the window at night preoccupied me longer than the argument over what to watch on TV. Through comics in Zack magazine and the animated series, I gradually reconnected with Trek. By the time the reruns came on in the late ’70s, I was finally ready. Together with Star Wars, the Enterprise had finally won me over to science fiction.

Infinite Possibilities

What kept me hooked on Star Trek can’t be reduced to spaceships and phasers. What was decisive was the idea that humans can continue to evolve. That a future is conceivable in which knowledge counts for more than possessions, and an unknown life form first raises a question before anyone loads their weapons. The Enterprise could run into trouble without that immediately disproving the entire idea of a better society. Its crew was meant to overcome difficulties through competence, curiosity, and cooperation. This aspiration alone gave the adventures a direction that extended beyond the next battle.

Of course, it was never consistently brilliant. TOS had silly stories, wooden moments, and views that clearly show their age. TNG also needed time to get going and produced plenty of episodes that no one needs to take with them to a deserted island. But even where the execution fell short, an interesting question often remained. What defines a person? How far does our responsibility extend? When does help become interference? I don’t need a spotless past to recognize that such questions form a more solid foundation than yet another threat that supposedly will destroy everything.

A Change of Course Ahead

With TNG, my enthusiasm reached new heights. As for the movies, highlights like “The Undiscovered Country” and “First Contact” alternated with disappointments for me. Voyager too often felt like a familiar routine. Enterprise was quite inconsistent, but in its fourth season, in particular, it showed once again just how much was possible. At the same time, series like “Battlestar Galactica” and “Firefly” broadened my science fiction horizons. Eventually, I was no longer a hardcore Trekkie, but a fan of the genre for whom Star Trek retained a special place—without automatically being number one.

With the passage of time, I also view my own enthusiasm more objectively. Not every episode gets better just because I thought it was great as a teenager. Some dialogue seems awkward today; some conflicts are resolved too conveniently. I consider this disillusionment healthy, however. Acknowledging past weaknesses doesn’t mean one has to gloss over current ones. Precisely because I now apply the same standards to the older series as well, I’m not convinced by the convenient argument that any criticism of the new Trek is merely nostalgia. I’m not demanding a return to the studio sets of 1966. I’m demanding stories that work even without my childhood memories.

Dominion Ahead

When it comes to *Deep Space Nine*, this honesty requires a significant revision of my judgment. For a long time, I found the series too slow-paced and couldn’t really get into the drawn-out story arcs. From today’s perspective, I find the episodes centered on the Dominion War—in particular—now far less bad than I did back then. What’s more: this part of DS9 possesses a narrative strength that I underestimated at the time. The series takes the time to show that decisions have prerequisites and consequences. Loyalities shift, convictions come under pressure, and people carry their experiences into the next story.

What interests me here is less the spectacle of war than the test of endurance for the Federation. It’s easy to stand by principles as long as adhering to them costs nothing. DS9 asks what remains of those principles when defeat, fear, and loss shatter the easier answers. This gives the darkness a concrete form: characters must decide which boundaries to cross and how to live with themselves afterward. Not every episode is a success, and some of the longer ones still feel a bit drawn-out to me. But the pivotal conflicts carry real weight. That’s precisely why I can appreciate this part of Trek far more today than I did in the past.

In the Pale Moonlight

Above all else stands “In the Pale Moonlight.” For me, it’s one of the best TV episodes of all time—not just within DS9, not just within Star Trek, and certainly not just within science fiction. I mean television as a whole, across all genres. This episode doesn’t need any leniency from fans. Its strength lies in how precisely it observes a person gradually pushing their moral boundaries, piece by piece, while still finding reasons to see themselves as someone acting responsibly.

Sisko wants to draw the Romulans into the war against the Dominion and, to that end, goes along with Garak’s methods. What begins as a seemingly limited compromise turns into a chain of deception, guilt, and deadly consequences. In the end, there is no clean acquittal. Sisko must live with his involvement and deletes his personal log. The moral climax of the episode resonates with me precisely because the outcome is politically expedient. The story denies me the convenient option of simply equating success with moral correctness.

What excites me about it is the discipline of the storytelling. The episode stays focused on its central conflict rather than burying it under a constant stream of new revelations. Garak doesn’t need grand speeches to make him interesting; his actions and Sisko’s reactions are enough. I can understand Sisko’s desperation and still recoil from his decisions. This tension lingers long after the credits roll. So if I want to know whether a dark Star Trek can work, I don’t need a debate on principles. I just need to pop this episode in.

The Kelvin Break

For me, the end of what I considered “my Star Trek” came with the Kelvin timeline. The 2009 reboot was the decisive break. The familiar names were there, the Enterprise was there, and the screen was full of action. Nevertheless, I increasingly felt like I was watching an action series that had donned familiar uniforms. Pacing became an end in itself. Characters had to get to their familiar positions as quickly as possible, while the stories primarily served to set up the next spectacular moment. There was too little room left for the careful development of an idea.

That’s not to say I have anything against action in Star Trek. A battle can be great if I understand what the participants are risking, what options they have left, and why they make the decisions they do. It bothers me when speed is meant to replace that work. Nor am I satisfied with simply rearranging familiar names and emotional memories and trusting that the old meaning will automatically follow.

A movie must earn its impact on its own. Too often, the Kelvin films sold me recognition as depth and constant movement as suspense. To me, that wasn’t a convincing renewal, but rather a depletion of substance with a bigger effects budget.

Last Distress Signal

Nevertheless, hope hadn’t completely vanished back then. I could convince myself that the franchise had simply struck out in its own direction. Perhaps a new television series would once again create more space for ideas, believable relationships, and stories that didn’t constantly have to outdo their own pulse. After all, Star Trek had grown up on television. There, it could have learned once more to trust a conversation and to take a conflict seriously for longer than just until the next explosion.

Until Discovery, therefore, there remained the possibility that the break with Kelvin didn’t have to be final. This hope wasn’t a demand for a TNG clone. A new crew, different narrative forms, and a changed perspective on the Federation could very well have interested me. DS9 has since shown me particularly clearly just how productive such a shift in perspective can be. But change must justify itself through its results. When *Discovery* came along, I was waiting for stories that would show me why *Star Trek* needed this new format. What I got turned my doubt into rejection.

Structural Collapse

That’s why, on the sixtieth anniversary, I’ll say it without diplomatic sugarcoating: For me, *Star Trek* since *Discovery* is no longer *Star Trek*. The logo still exists, the rights are held somewhere, and the uniforms bear familiar insignia. Narratively, however, it has too often become an expensive sham to me. The series demands significance where it should be developing context, and demands emotional investment before it has sufficiently earned it. My problem isn’t that I’m expected to accept change. My problem is that bad stories are being sold to me as major developments.

To me, *Discovery* epitomizes this misstep. The constant escalation becomes numbing: when everything is once again on the line, it doesn’t automatically make me care more about the characters. Surprises lose their appeal when I have less and less confidence that the resolution will fit the question that was previously set up. The heavy focus on Michael Burnham also weakens the ensemble, in my view. A Starfleet crew should consist of people whose abilities and decisions collectively make a difference. Too often here, it feels like the supporting cast for a main character whose special significance the narrative must constantly reaffirm.

My issue becomes particularly clear in “Burn.” *Discovery* links this massive catastrophe to Su’Kal and his extraordinary connection to dilithium; his emotional state of crisis thus takes on galactic consequences. The series provides an explanation within its plot for this. Nevertheless, this resolution doesn’t convince me. After such a massive build-up, I perceive it as a dramaturgically grotesque mismatch between the mystery and the answer. Of course, science fiction is allowed to tell improbable stories. But a made-up explanation doesn’t become a satisfying story simply because someone dresses it up with scientific-sounding terms.

Screenplay Diagnosis

To avoid this turning into a misguided debate: My issue isn’t about politics, an agenda, or being “woke.” I’m not interested in the skin color of the person in the captain’s chair, nor in whom a crew member loves. For me, a story doesn’t fail because of that. It fails because of implausible decisions, weak dialogue, arbitrary rules, and conflicts that are conjured up and then swept aside as needed. Anyone who responds to this by labeling it a “culture war” is missing the point of my criticism. A bad screenplay doesn’t become good just because of progressive content.

It wouldn’t be any better with conservative content either.

Emotions aren’t the problem either. I want to empathize with the characters. To do that, however, I need to get to know them, understand their relationships, and experience why a particular moment changes them. When music, tears, and heavy-handed speeches are meant to do the emotional work, I get impatient. DS9 makes me reflect on Sisko’s self-justification. Discovery tells me far too often just how overwhelming everything is supposed to be right now. No production, no matter how elaborate, can mask this difference. Millions on the screen are no substitute for a convincing reason why a character speaks up or makes a decision.

My firm rejection is directed at the direction the series has taken since Discovery. This doesn’t mean that every subsequent scene is bound to fail or that no one can come up with a good idea anymore. But for me, individual highlights don’t make up for a fundamental loss of trust. Familiar bridges, familiar faces, and affectionate references aren’t enough either. I want to be able to talk about the show’s concept after an episode, not just about what I recognized. When a brand relies primarily on the significance built up by earlier stories, it’s consuming its legacy. It’s precisely this kind of consumption that I’ve come to see all too often in anything bearing the Star Trek name.

Moving Forward

So what am I celebrating after sixty years? I’m celebrating the curiosity this series sparked in me, and a vision of the future that wasn’t ashamed to embrace hope. I celebrate characters whose decisions have kept me thinking, and stories that, even upon repeat viewings, offer more than just the comfort of recognition. This now explicitly includes a different perspective on DS9. The fact that I can change my opinion about it is more important to me than the idea that, as a fan, I’ve always been right. Good stories are allowed to win me over, even if it takes a while.

For me, the end came with *Kelvin*. There was still hope until *Discovery*, but *Discovery* squandered it. That’s a bitter thing to say on your birthday, but an honest one. Sixty years of history don’t obligate me to applaud every new production. Rather, they show what’s possible under this name and what standards its sequels must live up to. So, happy birthday, Star Trek. For everything you’ve given me. Should you one day tell stories again that live up to that name for me, I’ll be listening. Until then, I’d rather pop in a good old episode—and fly with Sisko to a place where even the right outcome doesn’t free a person from their guilt.