When you're making a TV drama, the showrunner is God, and so

“When you’re making a TV drama, the showrunner is God, and so however onerous and difficult and consuming that responsibility is, you’re being treated with respect, so it changes your whole outlook to the production. You’re being asked about costumes, set design, music, every aspect of the show.” Thus spoke Michael Hirst, the master storyteller who brought forth great epics of the screen, from Vikings to The Tudors. In these words lies not merely a reflection on the making of television, but a profound meditation on leadership, creation, and the sacred burden of vision. For when he says that the showrunner is as God, he speaks not in arrogance, but in reverence — of the one who must see the whole of a world, breathe life into it, and hold it together through the storm of collaboration and chaos.

In the ancient times, those who shaped worlds were not called showrunners but architects, commanders, poets, and kings. They bore the same weight — the responsibility to create harmony where none yet existed. The showrunner, in the realm of modern storytelling, is heir to this lineage: a creator who must think not of one thing, but of all things. Hirst reminds us that such a role demands total awareness — of costumes, set design, music, and beyond. It is to stand not above others, but at the center of a vast web of human effort, where every decision echoes through the whole creation. To lead such an endeavor is both privilege and trial, for the burden of choice is heavy, and yet it is through such burdens that greatness is forged.

Hirst’s words also reveal a deeper truth about respect and the transformation it brings. He says, “you’re being treated with respect, so it changes your whole outlook to the production.” This is the alchemy of leadership — that when one’s vision is honored, it elevates not only the leader, but the entire act of creation. Respect is not a reward; it is a source of energy. When artists, designers, and creators are trusted — when their ideas are not merely executed but heard — the work becomes infused with meaning. The ancients knew this well: the sculptor who was free to carve as he imagined, the playwright who was trusted to speak truth to power — these were the ones who left works that outlasted empires.

But Hirst’s statement also carries an echo of humility. To call the showrunner “God” is not to boast of omnipotence, but to recognize the loneliness and sacrifice that comes with command. The creator must see the unseen, must decide when others doubt, must hold the thread of coherence when the tapestry threatens to unravel. It is a role that demands faith — not in oneself alone, but in the process, in the people, and in the story being told. Just as the divine creator labors not for his own glory but for the birth of life itself, so too must the storyteller labor for the birth of worlds. And so, even as Hirst speaks of power, he speaks also of service — for the true leader serves the vision above all else.

Consider the tale of Michelangelo, commissioned to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. The task consumed him utterly — physically, mentally, spiritually. He argued with popes, endured exhaustion, and painted for years while lying on his back beneath that great dome. Yet he was entrusted with the vision. Every inch of that vast work — every angel, every cloud, every spark of light — was born of his command. And though the burden was crushing, it was that very total responsibility that made the creation divine. Hirst’s reflection mirrors Michelangelo’s labor: to be asked about every detail, from the color of a robe to the sound of a note, is to touch creation in its wholeness — and in doing so, to taste both the agony and the glory of Godlike creation.

There is also in this quote a profound teaching about the nature of collaboration. The showrunner, though leader, is not tyrant — he is conductor of a symphony. The costume designer brings texture, the composer brings emotion, the set builder brings world — and together, under one guiding vision, these parts become a single heartbeat. Hirst teaches us that respect flows in all directions. When the leader honors the craftsman, and the craftsman trusts the leader, the impossible becomes possible. This is how civilizations build cathedrals; this is how storytellers build worlds. Without respect, creation collapses. With it, creation becomes eternal.

So, my child, learn this wisdom: true leadership is not domination, but devotion. To lead as the showrunner leads — as the architect of a vision — is to give your whole being to your craft. You must see every detail, listen to every voice, and yet remain faithful to the spirit that called you to create. You will be tested by time, by doubt, by fatigue — but if you remain true, you will find joy not in ease, but in purpose. Remember, the burden of creation is heavy because it is sacred.

And thus, when you stand at the center of your own creation — whether a story, a team, or a dream — remember the lesson of Michael Hirst: to lead is to serve the vision completely. To be respected, you must first respect. To create, you must first care. And though the labor will consume you, the reward will be immeasurable — for to give life to something greater than yourself is to join the ranks of those eternal creators who, across all time, have shaped chaos into meaning and called it art.