Minor spoiler alert warning!
When asked to write about my “favourite” Black Mirror episode, my first task was to choose which one to focus on … and which to forgo.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t nod towards Nosedive or The National Anthem — both key moments in the collective consciousness of Black Mirror fans. Each explores twisted yet eerily familiar futures, filtered through satire and dread. But those episodes, as sharp as they are, didn’t follow me back into the real world. Common People did.
The opener for Series 7 is by no means my favourite, but it is the one I keep coming back to. It didn’t entertain me. It unsettled me. It held a mirror to the systems we say yes to every day, and it asked me if I even knew where those choices were leading.
It’s not the most famous episode. It doesn’t feature killer drones or mind-uploading billionaires. There’s no digital afterlife or terrifying twist. It’s quieter than that. It’s about a husband trying to keep his wife alive — and slowly realizing that staying connected to the person he loves has become a monthly subscription.
Sound far-fetched?
That’s what makes it brilliant. Because it’s not a leap into the future. Like most of Black Mirror’s best episodes, it’s a subtle step sideways into a slightly exaggerated version of our present. In Common People, Amanda survives a catastrophic brain injury thanks to a startup called Rivermind. Their revolutionary service restores her consciousness via neural syncing and cloud streaming.
Amanda is awake. She smiles. She can talk. But she only works if her subscription is active.
Over time, the couple learns that keeping Amanda “present” requires more and more money. The lowest tier causes glitches. Mid-tier comes with sleep disruptions and the occasional product recommendation Amanda doesn’t remember giving. Top-tier lets her feel fully alive—for a price.
There are no explosions. No evil villain monologues. Just a slow erosion of dignity, autonomy, and love. By the end, the couple isn’t fighting against the system. They’re trying to survive within it.
And the reason it hit me like a sledgehammer? We’re already living in the prototype version. Look around. Your car has heated seats you can only access with a paid upgrade.
Your smartwatch tracks your vitals and shares your health insights — with you and advertisers. AI relationship apps like Replika or EVA offer emotional connection but charge extra for intimacy.
Fitness and meditation apps lock the most basic human experiences — rest, calm, focus — behind recurring fees. Smart devices sell convenience in exchange for persistent surveillance.
Even joy, even sleep, even peace has a monthly cost now.
Want calm? That’s part of the premium meditation package.
Want sleep? You’ll need the advanced tracking and bedtime stories tier.
Want presence? There’s an app for that, too — just be sure to link your credit card.
Our lives are increasingly packaged like software: basic features free, real connection paywalled, and upgrades always one step out of reach. Common People isn’t about some rogue AI enslaving humanity. It’s a cautionary tale whispered through terms and conditions, upgrade buttons, and endless free trials that aren’t really free.
At what point did we stop owning our lives… and start leasing them back to ourselves, one subscription at a time? Here’s the truth most of us would rather not look at: No one forced Amanda into that system. No one forced Mike to keep paying. They opted in. Just like we do.
We click “agree.”
We tap “start trial.”
We rationalize, “It’s only a tenner.”
We tell ourselves, “It’s just convenience.”
And before we know it, we’ve traded our freedom for features.
That’s the real horror of Common People — not what the system does to us, but what we willingly say yes to as long as the dopamine hits feel good, and the pain stays low enough to ignore.
This isn’t an anti-tech rant. I use AI every day. I believe in what it can do. I’m not logging off anytime soon. But Common People reminded me of something vital: ease is expensive.
And the cost isn’t just money. It’s presence. It’s clarity. It’s the slow erosion of knowing what’s yours, versus what’s being rented back to you by a company with prettier fonts than ethics.
The trap isn’t just in what we buy. It’s in what we’re slowly taught to believe we can’t live without. So, here’s the uncomfortable, unavoidable question:
Are we upgrading our lives? Or just upgrading our cages?
Because if we don’t start noticing the difference, we’re going to wake up one day and realize we’re paying to exist in a world that used to be free.
