23 Overshadowed TV Episodes You Need to Revisit

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The one where: Rick and Hershel go to a bar.

Eclipsed by: The barn massacre in "Pretty Much Dead Already" (Season 2, Episode 7)

As The Walking Dead begins its fifth season, the show’s countless zombies have basically been pushed back to second-fiddle status. They’re no longer the biggest threat facing Rick Grimes and his not-so-merry band of underwritten sidekicks—it’s all of the other survivor groups marauding around the outskirts of Atlanta, from the cannibals to the backwoods redneck stereotypes. And that shift in villainous power officially kicked into gear in “Nebraska,” the reasonably quiet second mid-season premiere episode.

Before The Walking Dead returned with “Nebraska” in February 2012, it had ended with gunfire, a walker massacre, and the inevitable reveal that missing Sophia was an undead barn dweller all along. Dozens of flesh-eaters were mowed down, and Rick had to man up and shoot Sophia the Cadaver in the head. I’ll agree with any Dead head that “Pretty Much Dead Already” is one of the show’s best episodes, but its follow-up, “Nebraska,” is, in my opinion, just as strong.

And its strength rests in that grungy bar Rick, Glenn, and drunken, depressed Hershel find themselves in when those two interlopers show up. Their names are Dave and Tony, and they’re Rick’s in-your-face reminder that his crew isn’t alone in the zombie apocalypse. They’re also the two assholes who force Rick to drop his good-guy sheriff act and murder two non-zombies in cold blood to protect his own. For that, “Nebraska” represents the turning point when The Walking Dead started honoring Sam Peckinpah as much as George Romero. —Matt Barone

The one where: The Wildlings finally attack The Wall.

Eclipsed by: "The Mountain and the Viper," (Season 4, Episode 8)

How the hell can you view The Battle of the Wall as anything more than a measly skirmish—that plays out almost exactly as anyone could've predicted—after you've just witnessed this a week earlier?! For what it's worth though, predictability is underrated, especially on a show that lives to go as far left of society in general's expectations.

After skull-crushing our hopes and dreams yet again, seeing the good guys win a hollow victory should've been comforting, because that's as happy as things get on Game of Thrones. Instead, the episode firmly rooted at the Wall just left us masochistically itching to get back to the trauma and injustice for all back at King's Landing, and practically yawning while Hollywood blockbuster-level action choreography unfolded before our eyes. Seriously, great job, Neil Marshall. Just, poor, poor episode arrangement. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: Jack chases after a mysterious man (vision?) in the jungle while the castaways face a water crisis.

Eclipsed by: "Walkabout" (Season 1, Episode 4)

John Locke yelled "Don't tell me what I can't do!" and nothing was the same. It's easy to get swept up in the fan favorite tragic character regaining use of his legs as Michael Giacchino's iconic score swells to emotional highs, and for good reason. It's a series peak matched only by the pilot, so good that like an appearance from the Smoke Monster who would come to steal Locke's visage, it casts a huge shadow over de facto leading man Jack's first flashback. Rewatch the episode though and you'll see that "White Rabbit" holds its own, creating a narrative one-two punch that only beefs up Lost season one's classic status.

It's the first time we see the very influential Ghost of Christian Shephard, but apart from mythology it's one hell of an hour that puts the until-now sturdy, level-headed Dr. Jack through the emotional wringer. And when he finally gets it together and returns to beach to find the castaways at each other's throats over a water crisis, he makes the classic "Live together, die alone" speech. Sure enough, the episode concludes with one of the most quietly beautiful montages in the series, stopping at Jack and Kate. She asks him where he's been. He tells her his dad died back in Sydney. "I'm sorry, Jack." "Me too." Powerful stuff. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: Hank gets closer to Walt and Jesse than ever while The Cousins demand a green light on Walt from Gus.

Eclipsed by: "One Minute" (Season 3, Episode 7)

The pulse-pounding shootout between Hank and The Cousins may be the defining moment of Breaking Bad, at that point in the series at least. Not to take away from that tour de force moment in modern TV, but the tension and dread in Breaking Bad's third season begins mounting way before that. If "One Minute" is the series earning its stripes as the go-to for pulse-pounding sequences, then "Sunset" is when the BB writers exposed themselves as both masochists and escape artists. From there, they'd go on to consistently write Walt and Jesse into corners that seemed virtually inescapable, only for Walt to Hail Mary Houdini out at the last minute. Thusly, Hank tracking down the Crystal Castle with Walt and Jesse inside is the epitome of an OMG development. That's season finale type shit. That it's the sixth episode in a 13-episode season sends a clear message courtesy of Vince Gilligan and his team: fuck your rulebook and fuck your expectations.

And while Hank and Walt unknowingly outmaneuver each other, The Cousins are circling the edges like impatient sharks eager for the main course. The cold open displays their slasher movie-level efficiency, but unmatched park rangers do not a satiated bloodlust make. They want Walt's head on their axe, and Gus wants a healthy chef in his super lab kitchen. The compromise, decided at the visually gorgeous meeting that lends the episode its title, becomes almost as obviously clear as the way Walt slithers away from handcuffs yet again. Of course, "Sunset" could in no way prepare for the showdown that follows it. But the fact that another tense face-off was imminent before we'd even finished decompressing from this one was nerve-wracking, in the best way. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: Marie goes to a bunch of open houses—but not as "Marie"; Skyler pressures Walt to launder his money.

Eclipsed by: The back half of season four.

Season four is when the GOAT talk officially started. Beginning with Gus Fring's revenge-coup, the season concluded with a string of relentless episodes that more than validated the Walt versus Gus arc's slow build. We'll always remember Walt's maniacal laugh of defeat as the camera slowly pulls up, aptly framing him in a coffin, and the spy vs. spy battle that ensued and ended with Gus losing [half] a face. But in the downtime between Gus opening his henchman's neck like a FedEx package and Jesse's trip to Mexico are a handful of quieter but still great hours that help season four add up to an all-time classic. Most notably, there's Marie's most shining moment throughout the entire series, which finds her using random open houses as an escape to assume new identities, anything to keep her away from Hank and his miserable pity party.

The emotional devastation doesn't stop there either, as Jesse continues to struggle with murdering Gale. Pinkman's never had a moment as heartbreaking as asking Walt if he wanted to go go-kart driving for Christ's sake just so he wouldn't be alone with his thoughts. Not that it helps. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: George meets J. Peterman's mom; George refuses to share his ATM code with anyone, even his fianceé.

Eclipsed by: "The Soup Nazi" (Season 7, Episode 6)

If you were ranking Seinfeld-isms and episodes by their lasting impact, then "Soup Nazi" is a 9.6 on the pop culture scale, easily. That said, it makes sense why everyone seems to sleep on the equally laugh-out-loud episode that follows it. Season seven is the last year of Seinfeld's golden run, before Larry David left and shocked the country with our four narcissistic heroes barely registering a shrug at George's fianceé's sudden death. Each episode is a banger, from George's engagement to Susan's ill-fated invitations and everything in between, including this oft-forgotten half-hour that finds George stuck on a bro-date with the mercurial J. Peterman.

There are no insta-catchphrase quotables, but damn if I don't die right alongside Mama Peterman as she yelps out George's titular bank code every single time I catch it on TBS, NBC, The CW, WGN etc. And that code? It's "bosco," as Kramer expertly deduces in the second-best scene where he analyzes—and ethers—George's character in one fell swoop. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: Seth and Summer have an eventful Valentine's Day; Marissa's plan to fix things with Ryan post Oliver-gate is complicated by Theresa's arrival in Newport.

Eclipsed by: Oliver's reign of terror

After everyone's favorite deranged rich boy not named Patrick Bateman almost offed everyone's favorite deranged rich girl Marissa Cooper, viewers were exhausted. Oliver Trask took the kids of Newport on an emotional rollercoaster, devastating the Marissa/Ryan relationship that only took half a damn season to build. This made "The Heartbreak" seem like a weak episode, an underwhelming attempt to switch storylines to the Ryan/Marissa/Theresa love triangle. But anything that follows an almost murder-suicide would seem pretty uneventful.

However, revisit the episode an see if you feel differently. Standing alone, it's one of the most sexually charged O.C. hours ever, kicked off with Seth and Summer's hilariously anticlimactic first time, literally speaking. Every one on the show is trying to jump each other's bones—Jimmy and Haley, Luke and Julie, and Marissa and Ryan, who's already being preyed on by Theresa. Ultimately, it all comes back to Seth and Summer, who finally find themselves comfortable in a relationship with each other, and inspire millions of horny adolescents to get it on to the tune of Ryan Adams' "Wonderwall." Episodes of witty-banter-as-foreplay aside, this is the real start to Seth and Summer. —Tara Aquino

The one where: Tony and Christopher go for a drive.

Eclipsed by: "Made in America" (series finale)

It's hard to say if any episodes of the The Sopranos can be rightfully called "underrated" or "overshadowed." Like any long-running series, some episodes were better than others, but the show operated on such a high level that virtually every hour is now seen as a classic. Of course there is one episode that looms over all—do I even have to say the name?—which still makes the news every time David Chase so much as leaves the house. But as fine as that episode is, the final season's highest high isn't "Made in America," but "Kennedy and Heidi." You know, the one where Tony ingests hallucinogens rather than onion rings.

The episode's first few minutes are possibly the series' most brutal. While season six had no compunction about killing major characters (I can't see a model trains without thinking of poor Bobby), the gut-punch murder of Christopher that opens the "Kennedy and Heidi" is perhaps the most disturbing. (Even the fact that Christopher is listening to The Departed soundtrack can't prepare you for what's to come.) After the funeral proceedings, and a dream in which Tony confesses the deed to Dr. Melfi, the episode takes us to Vegas where Tony meets Christopher's sometimes-girlfriend Sonya, a student paying the bills by stripping. One thing leads to another as they get wasted, fuck, and, eventually, do peyote. After rolling around on the casino floor and muttering "he's dead" ad nauseam, Sonya and Tony drive to the middle of the desert to watch the sun rise. Looking out over the beautiful landscape, Tony, arms raised to the sky, sobbing, blubbering, and laughing, screams, "I get it!" If only it was so easy. —Nathan Reese

The one where: Marty and Russ finally catch up with their perps—or so they think.

Eclipsed by: The epic tracking shot that concludes "Who Goes There" (Season 1, Episode 4)

It’s hard to follow up that tracking shot. The one of Rust and Marty robbing the safe house in episode four was truly an amazing feat. The shot was so good it overshadows the next episode, which, in the writing, achieves a feat equally as impressive.

Episode five opens with Rust and Marty killing some bad guys, something that happens pretty infrequently on this show. Rather than save the climactic gunplay for the end of the episode, Nic Pizzolatto gives it to us at the top. He spends the rest of the episode asking us to interrogate what we just saw. How did killing the suspects hurt their case? What has made the case so interesting in 2012? Was this a deliberate move by Rust?

Rather than give us answers, the episode creates more uncertainty with each passing scene. Though we saw the event plain as day after the detectives’ cover-up, the police interest in the present, and the paths Rust and Marty’s lives taken since then, we are left to ask ourselves what exactly we saw in the first place. —Brenden Gallagher

The one where: Coach gets fired.

Eclipsed by: Seasons 1 and 5 finales "State," and "Always"

The seasons of Friday Night Lights that had a chance to end on their own terms (season two was shortened by the writers strike) generally ended on a positive note. Either Coach Taylor walked away with a state championship ring or a moral victory. These triumphant moments, complete with parades set to “Devil Town,” comprise the bulk of the images we first remember when we think of FNL. The shots of Coach, decked out in a windbreaker and croakies, beaming at his Texan warriors remind us of the heartwarming determination to live a decent life embodied in the show’s trademark phrase, “Clear eyes. Full Hearts. Can’t lose.”

Of course, setbacks are an essential part of determination. It is easy to forget just how painful the some plots of Friday Night Lights were. Not every player gets a championship ring. Not everyone gets a happy ending. Not everyone gets out of Dillon. There is an underlying sadness in Friday Night Lights, a recognition that life is as unfair and unrelenting as it is beautiful. The pain beneath the surface of FNL rises to the brilliant season three finale, “Tomorrow Blues.”

“Tomorrow Blues” ends with the Coach Taylor replaced at Dillon coach after a backroom deal. There are no sweaty cheers of victory in the final scenes of season three. Instead we watch Coach and Tami stand on an empty field looking toward their uncertain future, rejected by the town that they gave everything. Tim and Matt, the students we’ve come to care about most over the last three years, are forced into compromises that remind us that there are no easy choices in life. When you leave town, you can’t take home with you. When you stay home, opportunities pass you by.

It’s fine to remember the most triumphant episodes of Friday Night Lights. It’s okay if soaring crescendos courtesy of "Explosions in the Sky" and perfect spirals are the enduring images in our minds. But, it is important to remember that is was the pain of the show that made it immortal. —Brenden Gallagher

The one where: Don keeps and narrates a journal.

Eclipsed by: "The Suitcase" (Season 4, Episode 7)

"The Suitcase" finds Donald Dick Whitman Draper at rock bottom. But it is, almost inarguably, the series at its utmost peak. Which means the episode that has the daunting misfortune of following Don and Peggy's long journey into night has as much work cut out for it as Don does climbing out of his grave of blackout benders and ill-advised secretary hook-ups. This isn't just Don returning to form, this is Don trying to be a better man. That means actual dates instead of sleazy hook-ups. It means being healthy enough to out-lap dudes in the health club pool. It means refraining from sonning Henry Fuccboi Francis.

Which is to say, of course this is the one episode that puts us directly in Don's head. Don going full noir-narrator was polarizing amongst fans, but if there was any time when his thoughts needed to come across crystal clear, this is it. More importantly though, "The Summer Man" is just as amazing as the instant classic that precedes it, which is more confirmation that Mad Men season four is all-time. The narration is, literally and figuratively, sobering. And the post-divorce relationship between Don, Betty, and Henry has never been better (except maybe season six's "The Better Half"). In the previous hour, Don can barely stand. He ends this one holding his infant son, happy to be invited to his birthday party. The Summer Man rises. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: Don, Peggy, Sally, and Dawn have a very long night.

Eclipsed by: Pete Campbell's endless Ls in "Signal 30" (Season 5, Episode 5)

Unless you're terrified that we all might be alone, fundamentally unable to know each other, Matthew Weiner's Mad Men isn't a frightening show, and this is precisely makes "Mystery Date," from the show's fifth and strongest season, such a special experience. The period drama about afflicted ad men and women tapped a new vein with this episode: dread. A grisly real-life event forms the spine of the story; eight nurses have been shockingly, inexplicably murdered by an actual mad man. Scenes like Peggy's late night in the office and Don's fever dreams alone in his apartment are underscored by a suspense that, though it’s foreign to the show, works anyway because of careful writing and direction. (Watch for repeated and rhyming images.)

But instead of celebrating this incredible feat of direction and tone, the episode was overshadowed by “Signal 30” and its deep dive into Pete’s life. That episode is fantastic to be sure; Don emasculating all the male guests at the Campbell dinner party is hilarious; the motif of the dripping faucet is one of the most memorable images in the fifth season, and the more screen time with Ken discussing his literary projects, the better.

Still, the terrible violence that hovers over the whole of season five like a knife, is so well expressed in “Mystery Date,” it feels like a definitive episode for the series. Don’t sleep on it. You know, the whole cousin of death thing—scary. —Ross Scarano

The one where: It tasted like Grandma.

Eclipsed by: The "good" seasons

There's no denying seasons three through seven of The Simpsons are classics—every single episode in that five-year run has at least one quote that made it into our cultural consciousness—but after that things become uneven. By the time we got to season eleven, however, the show had sailed into its latter-day doldrums. But that's not to say there weren't still some gems. 

"E-I-E-I-(Annoyed Grunt)" is one of those. Structured in The Simpsons' classic three-acts, the story begins with Homer (inspired by Zorro) challenging people to a duel by slapping them in the face with a glove. As it turns out, this enables him to get pretty-much whatever he wants (well, beer, anyway), but after a Southern Colonel actually accepts the proposition Homer has to make a run for it. Eventually Homer winds up on Grampa's farm and decides to infuse the crops with nuclear waste. The result is tomacco—a tomato/tobacco hybrid that execs want to market to kids. The episode ends with tobacco-addicted sheep taking revenge on big tobacco. Not only does it work as a cautionary tale about GMO crops and addiction, it's got enough straight up hilarious moments (Ralph: "Tastes like grandma!") that it stands up to some of the show's best. It's enough to make me want to see what the writers were up to from seasons 12 through 26. —Nathan Reese

The One Where: Vic's play for immunity comes down to the eleventh hour.

Eclipsed by: "Family Meeting" series finale

First off, that title. A+ Donkey Kong reference. But it must be said: The Shield season seven is unarguably a master-class final season for all serialized dramas to emulate if they know what's good for them. The back half of season seven is one shoe dropping after another, as dirty cop copportunist Vic Mackey's high wire act finally stops coming up roses. Accurate, then, that this episode comes full circle, when Vic finally articulates the unspeakable act that closed the pilot. He's set up the mother of all immunity deals, even as his former co-workers are gathering evidence to bring the hammer down on him once and for all. But another agency, who has no idea just who they're really dealing with, has promised him freedom. The catch? He has to confess to all of his sins on tape.

When Vic sighs and takes the realest pregnant pause before launching into every bad deed he's done from behind his eponymous shield, it's palpable. The weight of seven seasons worth of increasingly foul shit is literally shedding off of him before our very eyes, so therapeutic that he begins to revel in his own perverse mythology, even as the handler in front of him grows increasingly disgusted at the monster she just let escape. Michael Chiklis took home an Emmy statue when audiences were introduced to his groundbreaking performance in season one. That he wasn't even nominated for his phenomenal work in this season, though, is one of the biggest travesties in the history of Emmy snubs. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: The gang debates whether they should uninvite the titular guest at Barney and Robin's wedding.

Eclipsed by: The polarizing (read: awful) series finale "Last Forever"

Reflection, nostalgia, and laughs—everything the final stretch of a long-in-the-tooth series like HIMYM needs. But on an even simpler level, "Gary Blauman," the third-to-last episode is just a great reminder of why this show was worth falling for to begin with, a crucial return to form in a distressingly uneven final year.

With big events like Robin and Barney's wedding—and Ted finally meeting The Mother at that wedding—looming, "Blauman" takes a welcome pause for an episode that's just plain funny then suddenly, very poignant. The back and forth over whether Gary should be allowed to stay leads to a great encore from all of HIMYM's greatest supporting character hits. It's equal parts trip down memory lane and flash forward by way of Future Ted/Saget narration that ties every loose thread so the series can get to the main event. At the time, it felt like the perfect way to begin closing the curtains on our favorite lovelorn New Yorkers. Retrospectively though, it's the last unequivocally great moment before a massive finale fumble. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: Veronica finally solves her date rape.

Eclipsed by: "Leave it to Beaver" (season 1 finale)

"Who killed Lilly Kane?" is basically the first season's tagline, but the pilot presents another mystery too: Who date raped Veronica? In the first episode, it's presented as more of a character development, one that informs Veronica's social standing and the shitty moral compass of her classmates (and the sheriff), than an actual mystery to be solved, thus explaining why it doesn't come up again until our heroine gets an unexpected lead at the end of the season. It all comes to a head in the penultimate episode, which puts Veronica on the emotional rollercoaster until she gets to the uncomfortable truth.

But what really makes the episode special is the way it trots out every supporting player and case-of-the-week guest star, both for an encore before the season gets back to Lilly Kane business and because Veronica's attack happened at the "biggest party of the year." By including every character of note, Neptune, high school and town, and by extension the Veronica Mars universe on the whole, feels lived-in and real. This is the episode that truly made Neptune High one of the most memorable schools in any teen show, ever. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: Ethan Hawke guest stars as a literal double-agent.

Eclipsed by: The serialized storytelling game-changer "Phase One" (Season 2, Episode 13)

In 2003 when "Double Agent" aired, Ethan Hawke was riding high off the critical acclaim and award nominations courtesy of Training Day. One could argue Alias as a whole is overshadowed, but even talking fan-to-fan you're bound to get a blank stare regarding this hour. How could that be with such a Special Guest Star? Oh that's right, this episode has the misfortune of following "Phase One," the post Super Bowl 2003 ep that may not have garnered this cult series many new fans, but nevertheless shook up serialized storytelling forever. It starts with Jennifer Garner blowing minds, but ends with J.J. Abrams blowing up his show's double-agent premise when Garner's Sydney Bristow finally takes down the evil espionage syndicate she spent the whole series fighting.

Ironic, then, that the next episode focuses on doubles—but instead of the literal kind. Hawke plays an agent whose undercover operation gets flipped on him when his mark copies his DNA and assumes his identity. And that's just the teaser. What follows is a suspenseful hour that ratchets up the tension well beyond a series of Will the Real Ethan Stand Up showdowns. But it'll always be known as the turn-down ep after one hell of a gamechanger. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: Harlan has a very tense town hall meeting.

Eclipsed by: "Bloody Harlan" (Season 2, Episode 13)

Season two of Justified is one of the best seasons of TV in recent memory. The final few episodes of the season provide as fitting an end to the ballad of Mags Bennet as you could possibly want. Her tragic arc ending in poetic downfall is so well structured, and so finely acted, it belongs in a textbook. Though the conflict between the Crowders and Bennets in the last handful of episodes offers much of the action that brings this story to a close, episode nine offers something we hadn’t yet seen in Justified: a glimpse at the lager picture in Harlan.

The centerpiece of “The Spoil” is a town hall meeting in which a representative of the coal company goes head to head with Mags Bennet. On one hand we have the coal company looking to exploit a town desperate for jobs. On the other, we have the woman who has been exploiting her fellow townsfolk for financial gain for years. While much of Justified has been a more intimate exploration of manhood, memory, and violence in the South, this episode takes a look at the larger picture. The people of Harlan have few choices, and there are people from within and without trying to take advantage of that. With this episode, Justified takes a break from the gunplay (for the most part) to examine exactly what choices the unemployed and desperate have when someone arrives offering them opportunity. —Brenden Gallagher

The one where: The Devil puts on an opera.

Eclipsed by: "Time Keeps on Slippin," "Jurassic Bark"

The emotionally resonant moments from Futurama often get listicled. The two most common entrants onto lists with titles like, “X Moments When Your Favorite Comedy Show Gave You the Feels” are the canine death at the end of “Jurassic Bark” and Fry’s unappreciated cosmic gift to Leela in “Time Keeps on Slipping.” These are great moments, but they lack something fundamental to the identity of Futurama: the madcap absurdity around the emotional gut punch.

This combination of emotional power and absolute ridiculousness is what makes “The Devil’s Hands Are Idle Play Things” the best Futurama episode. However, the odd emotional tone makes it a bit of an acquired taste. It’s easy to see why, as the episode is the highest of high concept. Fry exchanges his hands for the chance to play an opera for Leela on the holophoner (a very fantastical musical instrument). Leela, made deaf by the Robot Devil’s machinations, sadly can’t hear a word. So basically, you’ve got Gift of the Magi meets Faust as an opera in a sitcom. As if that weren’t a high enough bar to clear the episode manages to sneak in musings about love and art that are salient, hilarious, and heartbreaking all at once. Even simple lines like Zoidberg’s remark to Fry, “Your music is bad, and you should feel bad” or the Robot Devil’s line, “Your lyrics lack subtlety! You can’t just have your characters announce how they feel. That makes me feel angry!” speak to how art and emotion intertwine in best and worst of ways.

No—spoiler alert—Leela never hears the opera as it was intended. Thankfully, we do. —Brenden Gallagher

The one where: Gillian finally gets what's coming.

Eclipsed by: The season finale, "Farewell Daddy Blues"

Like all TV shows with traditionally high body-counts, Boardwalk Empire is most celebrated whenever major characters catch bullet showers, or major characters administer bullet shadows on large groups of people. It’s an audience dilemma showrunner Terence Winter knows all too well, dating back to his days working on The Sopranos, the ultimate viewers-with-an-unfair-bloodlust cable drama. Naturally, Boardwalk Empire’s fourth season finale earned heavy talk-back last year, thanks to how it eliminated one-eyed fan favorite Richard Harrow and saw Eli beat Federal Agent Knox to a lifeless pulp.

But the episode that preceded “Farewell Daddy Blues" is one of Boardwalk Empire’s all-time benchmarks, even if nobody all that important actually dies. Though, to be fair, someone does essentially lose their life. In “Havre de Grace,” it’s the long-beleaguered and all-around fucked-up Gillian Darmody’s (Gretchen Mol) hour of reckoning. Bullshit should be called on anyone who says they saw the episode’s big twist coming—Gillian’s new boyfriend, Piggly Wiggly marketer Roy Phillips (Ron Livingston), has been a detective all along, and by softening Gillian up enough to get her to admit to killing Jimmy’s bizarro clone, he’s able to finally arrest her. 

It’s a late-game reveal that’s indicative of what makes Boardwalk Empire so great, and why it’ll be missed now that it's over. Winter’s perennially underrated HBO drama has always been about rewarding loyal viewers’ collective patience. Watching Gillian and Roy hit it off throughout season four, you would’ve been justified in growing anxious and disinterested. But then, bam, Roy’s true identity comes to light. And in that, Winter kills the game—figuratively, not literally. —Matt Barone

The one where: Sam's brother comes to town.

Eclipsed by: Higher profile finales "I'll Be Seeing You" (Season 2) and "One for the Road" series finale 

Long-running sitcoms often resolve will-they-won’t-they tensions numerous times throughout the series. The leading lovers get together, break up, make up, and get back together again as many times as the network feels like opting for a renewal. In this endless cycle of romantic tension, the first time is usually the most satisfying. Though Cheers lasted for a decade, and saw many Sam and Diane exchanges along the way, there was something special about the reluctant lovebirds flirting, fighting, and finally falling into each others’ arms in this season finale.

Though later season finales, particularly the beloved series finale, packed more emotional heft, “Showdown pt. 2” is a nearly perfect episode of Cheers. This is partially thanks to "Part 1," an uneven episode that was set up to force a showdown between Sam and Diane where they would have to express their feelings for each other or go their separate ways, after Sam’s brother makes a move on her.

The set-up pays off in "Part 2." Diane is about to run away with Sam’s brother but comes back to see Sam one last time. The result is a nine-minute scene (in today’s sitcoms, scenes rarely last longer than 90 seconds) in which Sam and Diane air all of their feelings for each other: grievances, insecurities, fantasies, and everything in between. The kiss that punctuates the argument following their sexiest lines —“Are you as turned on as I am?” “More.”— is about as cathartic as comedy can get. Though Cheers went on to have many great episodes, that nine-minute scene is among the best the show, or any show for that matter, has ever achieved. —Brenden Gallagher

The one where: The Ireland arc finally comes to a conclusion.

Eclipsed by: The mediocrity of season three

Now that more TV series are employing short-order seasons popularized by cable, writing off a good show's bad arc has taken on a whole new form. If the season is only 13 episodes then, well, that basically is an arc. If you're not feeling it by a certain point, waiting for it to be over is akin to waiting for the next season.  That's the approach most took towards Sons of Anarchy season three's sounded-cool-in-theory excursion to Ireland. To be fair, the season does return to Charming for two excellent final episodes, but the journey to Belfast in search of Jax's abducted son Abel, and incidentally, answers to club's mythology, is the season's core. Unfortunately, it wasn't very engaging. Too many new characters and new conflicts that we ultimately weren't inspired to give two shit's about.

But that all changed in the arc's thrilling conclusion, which may be the great Charlie Hunnam's best moment on the series to date. The self-deceiving Jax has never been realer than when he seriously considers leaving Abel with the nice, Normcore, non-gun-running-bikers who adopted him. After a whole season spent waiting for Jax to get his son back, the fact that both he and the viewer seriously stopped to consider if bringing Abel back to Charming was actually the right thing to do retroactively made SAMCRO's trip abroad worthwhile. —Frazier Tharpe

The one where: The series was ridiculous in a good, fun way.

Eclipsed by: The rest of this batshit series

Because honestly, does anyone remember that True Blood started out as a small-town murder mystery? Since the series would go on to give us outlandish things like Sarah Newlin, love rhombuses, and head-twisting sex, it wouldn't be a shock if people blocked out quaint arcs like Rene the serial killer and anointed Maryann and her crazy orgies as the de facto beginning of the show.

The debut season however, was ridiculous, fun, and macabre in the best way: Sookie coming home to find her grandmother brutally slain, the Sam red herring(s), Sookie crying over an allegedly dead Bill's grave only for him to rise up and consummate their flirtation right there in the disturbed earth (wild unsanitary!). 

In the end, even True Blood's most ardent fans were forced to admit it had gone off the deep end and was unsalvageable. But in its first season? It was undeniable. —Frazier Tharpe