Star Wars is not great because of the Force. It is great because of the ones who fight when no one believes they can win.
There was a time when getting a Star Wars show on TV felt like a miracle. One show. One small corner of the galaxy. Something that did not need a Jedi or a Skywalker to be meaningful.
Then came The Mandalorian.
Season One gave us something simple and powerful: a bounty hunter, a child, and the slow unlearning of a lifetime spent surviving instead of living. It felt fresh without feeling forced. Season two built on that beautifully, blending new ground with just enough callbacks to the old galaxy we grew up with. Characters mattered. Choices mattered. It did what the best Star Wars stories do: it made a massive galaxy feel small and intimate.
But by season three, something shifted. The heart of the story got lost in detours and distractions. The emotional core that made Din Djarin and Grogu’s bond feel real got buried under fan service and side quests. Instead of telling a story about belonging, survival, and identity, the show started chasing bigger battles and broader lore without always earning it. The Mandalorian became more about the idea of Star Wars than the story that had made it special.
When Ahsoka was announced, it sounded like everything fans had been waiting for. It promised to bridge the gap between Rebels, The Mandalorian, and the wider galaxy. It had legacy characters we loved. It teased Thrawn’s return. It promised stakes that stretched across multiple shows. And on the surface, it delivered. There were jaw-dropping lightsaber battles. Rosario Dawson fully embodied the world-weariness of Ahsoka Tano. Visually, the show was stunning. But storytelling is not just about hitting nostalgia beats. Ahsoka’s emotional journey felt muted. Characters often moved not because it made sense for them, but because the plot demanded it. The connective tissue was missing.
It felt less like a story and more like a collection of “moments” meant to remind us why we loved the animated series, without giving those moments a new life of their own.
Meanwhile, The Bad Batch has been consistently crafting some of the best emotional arcs in recent Star Wars storytelling: watching Omega grow up in a world built to crush hope has been a slow-burn heartbreak. The writing has been smart, the character development has been rich. But because it is animated, it often gets pushed to the sidelines.
It deserves better. And frankly, so do the fans who show up for every story, not just the ones with lightsabers.
Then there was The Acolyte, a show that had the potential to open a completely new chapter of the galaxy. The High Republic era. Different politics. Different dangers. Different moral questions. For once, we were promised a world not built around the familiar timelines and bloodlines.
But instead of getting a full exploration, the story was cut short. Whether by internal politics, shifting creative decisions, or Disney/Lucasfilms not defending the content they created from the toxic fanboys and racist trolls, The Acolyte was not allowed to breathe the way it needed to. What could have been a bold new chapter became an unfinished sentence.
And yet, somehow, in the middle of all of this, Skeleton Crew and Andor stand tall. Two shows that could not be more different in tone but are united by one critical truth: They remember that Star Wars is at its best when it is about ordinary people facing impossible odds.
Skeleton Crew strips the galaxy down to a single terrifying idea: what happens when you are young, alone, and lost far from anything familiar? It is a coming-of-age story that does not need Jedi or Sith to create tension. It does not ask the audience to believe in destiny. It asks them to believe in fear, in hope, and in the stubborn refusal to give up when the universe is bigger and colder than you ever imagined.
Andor does something even rarer. It peels back the mythos of the rebellion until all that remains is human cost. There are no chosen ones here. No prophecies. No grand battles between good and evil written in the stars. There are only frightened, desperate people willing to risk everything because they cannot survive another day under the Empire’s boot. Andor shows that rebellion is not built on heroism. It is built on grief. On rage. On choice after impossible choice made in the dark.
Both shows remind us that Star Wars is not just about the Force or ancient wars between empires.
It is about survival.
It is about fighting for a future you may never get to see.
It is about ordinary people becoming extraordinary, not because they are destined to, but because they refuse to do anything else.
The future of Star Wars does not need to be bigger; it just needs to be more honest and organic. And maybe, just maybe, the real path forward is not up among the stars — but down in the dirt, where real rebellions are born.
Cover image via Starwars.com
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