I sat in a half-empty theater while the trailer finished and felt the applause die before the credits rolled. You glanced down at your phone and scrolled past another hero poster without looking up. In that small silence I realized the script had quietly moved on.
I’ve been watching this shift for a few years, and I want to walk you through what the data actually says, who’s noticing, and why a softer kind of male lead is suddenly headline news. This isn’t nostalgia posing as progress; it’s a measurable preference from the people who will shape the next decade of stories.
The kid in line asked if the hero had a child.
That question—simple, specific—captures the UCLA Center for Scholars & Storytellers Teens & Screens finding that almost 60 percent of Gen Z and Gen Alpha prefer characters who are emotionally present and competent in everyday life. I read the survey and Deadline’s coverage, and the takeaway is blunt: young viewers want men who parent, care for others, and ask for help without collapsing the plot.
The Washington Post‘s phrase “competency porn” is doing the heavy lifting as shorthand: audiences crave portrayals of professionals, parents, and steady adults who do their jobs well and feel, too. That’s not a rejection of spectacle; it’s a request for a different emotional anchor in the story.
Why are teens tired of superheroes?
Because the archetype has been repeated until the emotional beats feel mechanical. The study—1,500 people ages 10–24 surveyed in August 2025—shows teens prefer scenes where men express vulnerability, pursue mental health care, and take pleasure in parenting. Those specific details count more than an explosion or a tortured loner moment.
A TikTok clip of a father fixing dinner got more shares than a CGI fight.
Scroll metrics confirm it: short-form platforms reward domestic competence. You see it in stitches and duets—clips of calm, steady caregiving that rack up millions. The survey lists exactly what you might expect from that engagement: fathers showing love, fathers enjoying parenting, teen boys being expressive, and men seeking help.
The shift reads like this: fans want a man who is a quiet harbor. That change rewrites casting briefs, writers’ rooms, and marketing moments.
At a screening the Russo brothers blamed attention spans.
Joe and Anthony Russo told GamesRadar in 2024 that younger viewers flit between moments—an argument centered on format and pacing. I’ve sat through that argument before: industry figures pointing to platform habits and shorter runtimes as the reason for creative fatigue. There’s truth there. There’s also a quieter truth in the UCLA report: it’s not only speed, it’s desire for different emotional content.
The studio defense reads as convenience, not explanation. If you’re producing billion-dollar tentpoles, blaming the audience’s devices is easier than reimagining your protagonists.
What is “daddy energy” and why does it matter?
“Daddy energy” here means a father figure who is competent, affectionate, and calm under pressure. Think of it as a character who manages crisis and a carpool with equal competence. This matters because representation shapes expectations: when teens repeatedly see men caregiving and asking for help, it shifts what maturity looks like.
At the box office, studios are betting on old instincts.
Studios still schedule blockbuster premieres, and marketing teams test the same adrenaline cues that worked a decade ago. I watched a trailer that read like a pharmaceutical ad and wondered whether that choice was an attempt to soften a franchise’s tone for these new viewers. The question now is tactical: will rewrites, recasting, and ad creatives follow the data?
A worried dad on screen can be a soft landing. If writers commit to that detail, they win emotional loyalty in a way that a shock beat cannot purchase.
The practical playbook for creators is visible in plain sight.
UCLA’s report offers a list that reads like an editorial brief: more fathers showing love, men seeking mental health care, teens being expressive. You can see early versions of this in HBO Max series and character arcs in prestige TV, and you can track engagement spikes on TikTok and Instagram. Platforms reward scenes where someone cares for another person; that’s where the metric and the demand meet.
If you make stories, this is permission to think smaller and truer. If you sell tickets, this is a prompt to try emotional honesty instead of bigger stunts.
I’ll close with a provocation: if the generation that pays attention now prefers care over cryptic brooding, will studios finally write fathers who feel real, or will they keep selling the same lonely capes and wonder why the theater stays half-empty?