For years, I ignored Industry out of nothing but sheer spite. Despite garnering comparisons to Succession (my all-time favourite show), I didn’t see how it could possibly compare. Word of mouth was frustratingly inconsistent, and it amassed a mere 7.5/10 on IMDb.

Some praised its sharp ambition; others dismissed it as shallow, exploitative, and desperate to shock. Clips, gifs, and other memes circulated online, featuring what looked to me like juvenilely conceived scenarios with an aggressively self-conscious Gen-Z patois. Worse still were the comparisons to Euphoria and Elite, which have conflated excess with insight, using sex, drugs, and party culture for sheer excitement rather than thematic depth. I have personally found that particular brand of television exhausting.

And yet, as the fourth season began rolling out, something shifted. Critics whose taste I trust—those who are skeptical of prestige television hype—were suddenly effusive. “Industry season 4… pure cinema.” IndieWire’s chief film critic David Ehrlich declared, a sentence so bold it bordered on antagonistic. At that point, my morbid curiosity overtook my initial reluctance.

Season one

Industry’s first season is, above all else, a show still in search of itself. The raw ingredients are there—an alluring setting, a diverse ensemble of talented young actors, and an institutional framework that naturally generates conflict—but the series doesn’t yet understand which element to prioritize.

From the outset, the show is most compelling when it leans into the mechanics of finance: high-stakes deals, coded language, and the brutal hierarchies of Pierpoint & Co. These moments crackle with tension.

Unfortunately, they’re often undercut by excessive detours into sex, drugs and partying that feel less like character studies than they do contractual obligations. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no prude, but these indulgences often read as tacked-on, occasionally even exploitative, as though the show doesn’t fully trust its own intelligence.

That uncertainty bleeds into the season’s structure. Even the brief eight episodes feel like a stretch, lacking enough emotional momentum to justify them. Some pieces are undeniably intriguing; The Nicole Craig arc introduces power dynamics that go beyond simple ambition, Eric Tao’s fraught relationships with Harper and Daria expose the volatilities baked into corporate mentorship. The season gestures toward something deeper, even if it doesn’t always follow through.

One of the season’s most effective motifs is the idea of self-modification. Every character alters something about themselves—whether literally, like a nose ring removed or glasses donned, or psychologically, through posture, tone, and moral compromise. To fit Pierpoint’s expectations, assimilation is survival.

Yasmin Kara-Hanani emerges as the season’s quiet MVP. Her relationships—with Robert, Harper, Kenny, and Maxim—are all interesting, textured, and revealing. Marisa Abela and Myha’la establish a tense, compelling chemistry early on. Robert, meanwhile, begins with promise but gradually collapses into a one-dimensional archetype of the charming but dim party boy.

However, the real casualty of the season is Gus Sackey. David Jonsson is a magnetic force, yet Gus seems almost intentionally sidelined, written as morally aloof and narratively peripheral. Like the rest of the season, it’s conceptually interesting but dramatically frustrating. It’s not bad television, just exceedingly uneven. Although I must admit, by this point, I was already hooked, even as I found myself hoping it would get better.

Season two

Marks the beginning of a slow, corrective process. The show doesn’t fully reinvent itself; instead, it tightens its focus, clarifies its priorities, and begins to understand which dynamics truly work. Gus, sadly, remains sidelined. But the series compensates by centering more on the increasingly electric Eric–Harper relationship. This pairing becomes the show’s emotional and ideological engine, encapsulating the blurred boundaries between loyalty, exploitation, and ambition.

The “big three”—Harper, Yasmin, and Robert—are more clearly defined now, and although Gus still feels superfluous, he’s at least given a more coherent arc, functioning as a foil to Pierpoint’s corporate predators. His repeated professional downfall is darkly funny and thematically pointed.

This season also sharpens its depiction of staff-client relationships, showcasing the blurred lines between servicing a client and keeping it professional. How far you’re willing to go for their demands when your livelihood depends on it. There is still gratuitous sex and drugs, but it’s deployed more deliberately, tied to character psychology rather than sheer provocation.

What Industry does exceptionally well is plant seemingly inconsequential moments that later explode with consequence. A lingering touch, an offhand remark, a passing betrayal; scenes that feel cheap or indulgent in the moment acquire devastating weight by the end of the season.

The Robert–Nicole storyline exemplifies this delayed payoff. While initially sleazy, bordering on Cinemax-Esque sensationalism, it is later reframed as something genuinely sinister. Their arc forces the audience to confront how easily exploitation can masquerade as opportunity.

The final two episodes are where the season truly sings. The pacing accelerates, the dialogue sharpens, and the stakes finally feel commensurate with the show’s ambitions. When Industry is operating at full capacity—rapid-fire jargon, ethical brinkmanship, million-dollar consequences—it’s exhilarating. Season two is still imperfect, but crucial. It narrows the aperture, develops its strongest characters, and leaves you with the sense that the show has finally identified its own strengths.

Season three

Whether it’s an increase in confidence or simply my familiarity with the characters, this season hits the ground running. The focus is fully narrowed to Pierpoint’s offices, and Gus—unfortunately but necessarily—is written out. David Jonsson deserves better, and his excision streamlines the narrative considerably. On an episode-to-episode basis, season three captures the fleeting highs of season one at its best.

Eric now presides over a tight inner circle: Yasmin, Robert, and Rishi, with Harper positioned just outside the perimeter as an increasingly antagonistic force. This configuration works beautifully, creating shifting alliances and ideological clashes that feel organic rather than imposed.

The addition of T.V. veterans like Kit Harington and Sarah Goldberg injects immediate credibility. The show suddenly feels older, sharper, and more self-assured. This is Industry becoming what it has always wanted to be, a cousin to Succession. Not its equal (few shows are), but close enough that the comparison no longer feels embarrassing. Lavish locations, elite social rituals, ruthless power plays, and the intoxicating thrill of proximity to wealth. The feature-length finale, Infinite Largesse, simultaneously acts as a big, dramatic conclusion for the entire series, as well as the finite conclusion of the first act in a much larger story.

Season four

There is before Infinite Largesse, and there is after. From here on out, every episode has a benchmark to clear and does so remarkably. The show fully commits to its ensemble approach, trimming excess and focusing its energy on where it matters most. With Robert’s arc concluded, the narrative spotlight narrows fully onto its two ascendant stars: Harper and Yasmin.

Harper is finally paired with Eric Tao—my personal favourite character—and their chemistry continues to be nothing short of combustible. Yasmin, meanwhile, finds herself trapped in a grotesquely toxic marriage to Henry Muck, the disgraced and unhinged aristocrat introduced last season. He’s one of the show’s most inspired additions, a living embodiment of inherited rot.

New characters orbit this core: Kiernan Shipka as an ambitious assistant at the rising tech firm Tender; Max Minghella as its unnervingly opaque chairman; Charlie Heaton as an anxious, morally conflicted journalist sniffing around the edges. Familiar faces—Rishi, Sweetpea, and Kenny—drift in and out, used precisely and without indulgence.

The storytelling is freewheeling and fast-paced, confident enough to trust its writing, actors, and audience. Easily the best season: propulsive, sharp, and exhilarating. For the first time, I don’t just accept the idea of Industry continuing—I actively expect another two seasons.