As a child, I once cried on Christmas night because I couldn’t bear the thought of a whole year until the next Christmas. Television viewers have long felt a similar pang at the end of an episode. But in the post-broadcast era, freed from the tyranny of being drip-fed single episodes in a set timeslot, we can now watch as many as we like, when we like: on DVD, TiVo or the Internet, engaging in voluptuous television binges, tearing through entire seasons in a weekend.

Accordingly, the experience of viewing becomes more immersive and we find increased satisfaction in more complex and intricate characterisation and plot. We also take self-satisfied pride as early adopters of cult series long before sluggish Australian networks introduce them to the masses.

These behaviours and attitudes, however, are not new – and they are certainly not unique to television. Like post-broadcast television, serial novels can be enjoyed at a time, place and pace determined by the reader. And we devour them with a similar avidity, racing through entire books in a weekend and anxiously anticipating the publication of the next title.