True crime, a nonfiction genre that explores real-life criminal cases through a narrative-focused lens, has become one of the most popular forms of media. Whether through podcasts, documentaries, or written works, there is no denying its prominence. True crime has gained astonishing traction in recent years, with a 2024 study finding that 84% of the U.S. population aged 13 and older watches or listens to it.
Despite being an avid fan of the genre—or perhaps because of my own fascination—I found myself questioning the morality of it. The more I watched, the more guilt I felt. Even when I tried brushing away my fears, a horrifying thought persisted: am I a bad person for consuming true crime?
As I fell deeper into the rabbit hole of this genre, listening to hours upon hours of true crime podcasts every day, I came to a clear conclusion: The consumption and creation of true crime is undoubtedly unethical. It reduces real-life tragedy to entertainment, monetizes others’ pain, and causes unnecessary distress for victims and families.
One of the most glaring ethical issues is the monetization of tragedy. From independent podcast hosts to streaming giants like Netflix, creators often turn real suffering into profitable content.
Netflix released the first season of the American biographical crime drama anthology television series Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story on Sept. 21, 2022. The plot centers around the life of notorious serial killer and sex offender Jeffrey Dahmer, responsible for the killing and dismembering of 17 men and boys between 1978 and 1991.
The show was an immediate success. It reached the number one spot on Netflix in the first week of release, became the second most-watched English-language series of all time within 28 days, became the third Netflix series to pass 1 billion hours viewed in 60 days, and received countless nominations and awards.
By making Dahmer’s life into a show, Netflix dramatized a real-life case with actual victims. Not only is the streaming service using the crime case as a means for attention, but also a way to earn profit. This is alarming because they’re creating dramatizations despite the anguish caused in families and using said dramatizations for their own gain. In doing so, the show risks normalizing Dahmer’s behavior by sensationalizing his crimes and turning brutality into entertainment.
This is not just true for Netflix’s Monster.
Streaming platforms such as Amazon Prime Video, Hulu, HBO, and Peacock all have their share of true crime—whether it be documentaries, dramatized shows, or movies. People v. O.J. Simpson: American Crime Story, a series detailing the murder trial of O.J. Simpson, and The Girl from Plainville, a Hulu miniseries that dramatizes the death of Conrad Roy and the conviction of his girlfriend, Michelle Carter, who was charged with involuntary manslaughter for encouraging his suicide, are just a few examples.
In fact, true crime as a category has become so prominent in Netflix films that the streaming service has made true crime into its own genre on their platform.
Despite being awfully common in the film industry, dramatizations of crime reduce victims’ lives and tragedies into marketable content. This commercialization dehumanizes them into entertainment. “It’s sad that they’re just making money off of this tragedy,” Rita Isbell, the sister of Dahmer victim Errol Lindsey, said in an interview. “That’s just greed.”
To make matters worse, victims’ families are often disregarded. For example, when it comes to Netflix’s Monster, there are allegations that Netflix never notified the victims’ families about the making of the show.
“I was never contacted about the show,” Isbell wrote in an essay for Business Insider. “I feel like Netflix should’ve asked if we mind or how we felt about making it. They didn’t ask me anything. They just did it.”
Beyond commercializing tragedies, dramatizations can retraumatize victims and their families. Many families reported that the show Monster made them feel as if they were reliving their trauma.
Isbell expressed her own distress from watching Monster—or, specifically, the depiction of her own court statement. “If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought it was me. Her hair was like mine, she had on the same clothes. That’s why it felt like reliving it all over again. It brought back all the emotions I was feeling back then,” Isbell wrote.
“It’s retraumatizing over and over again, and for what? How many movies/shows/documentaries do we need?” Eric Perry, cousin of Dahmer victim Errol Lindsey, asked on Twitter.
The Netflix controversy with Monster isn’t an isolated incident. There are many other cases in which victims have said that dramatizations, documentaries, or other true-crime media caused distress or retraumatized them.
The crime drama miniseries The Staircase and podcast Serial are just a few examples.
The Staircase, an American biographical crime drama miniseries centered around the death of Kathleen Peterson, stirred similar ethical concerns as those encountered with Monster.
“This notion of documentary truth is a false one. It never really made sense, because you always manipulate the material. Always. The question is how far do you go?” American film director Sam Pollard said after watching the miniseries.
Moreover, the attention Serial—an investigative journalism podcast hosted by Sarah Koenig—brought to the murder of Hae Min Lee and the conviction of her ex-boyfriend, Adnan Syed, sparked distress in the victim’s family. Serial’s coverage of the case drew an overwhelming and unwanted wave of public fascination. The podcast also suggested that Syed was not the perpetrator. Support for Syed’s spread like wildfire among the podcast’s viewers, igniting anguish in Lee’s family. The renewed obsession with the case triggered intrusive media attention and relentless public scrutiny, pulling the family back into an unwanted spotlight and stripping them of the space to grieve in peace.
A Reddit user claiming to be Lee’s brother wrote to Serial fans addressing this concern. “You don’t know what we went through,” he wrote. “You guys are disgusting. Shame on you. I pray that you don’t have to go through what we went through and have your story blasted to 5 [million] listeners.”
In 2016, the family issued a statement that read, “Unlike those who learn about this case on the internet, we sat and watched every day of both trials—so many witnesses, so much evidence.”
These examples all reveal an uncomfortable truth: in our own fascination with true crime, we often forget that behind every dramatization, podcast, and film are real people whose pain is being exploited for public entertainment.
That being said, while the consumption of true crime is largely unethical, some benefits do exist. True crime can spread awareness about cases, often invoking empathy and justice. In many instances, sharing these stories helps victims and their families gain support. Additionally, true crime can alert audiences to common warning signs of potential danger, offering lessons that may help people stay safe.
“They’re raising awareness for bad things that have happened, and they’re also creating remembrance for the people who it happened to,” freshman Chloe Cresson, a true crime fan, said.
For example, the case of Gabby Petito spread awareness regarding domestic violence. Petito was a 22-year-old American woman who was murdered by her fiance, Brian Laundrie, on a cross-country trip. The case garnered significant attention from millions via TikTok, Twitter, and other social media platforms, with the case itself serving as a warning to others about the danger of domestic violence.
Following her death, Petito’s family created the Gabby Petito Foundation—an organization that works to prevent domestic violence and help locate missing people.
Amateur sleuths, also known as armchair detectives, are individuals who investigate crimes out of personal interest rather than a professional obligation. In situations such as Petito’s, amateur sleuths have been crucial to solving cases.
The mass media coverage and public interest of the case contributed significantly to the investigation. The case garnered heavy attention in true crime communities since Petito was reported missing. People in these communities pieced together a timeline using her and Laundrie’s social media posts, van-life videos, dashcam footage, and more.
In fact, a youtuber named Jenn Bethune reviewed her own travel footage and found Petito’s van parked in the Spread Creek Dispersed Camping Area in Wyoming. This information led investigators to the exact site where her remains were found days later.
“Social media has been amazing. I’d like to thank everyone for that, it was very helpful in bringing our daughter home. This awareness should continue for everyone,” Joseph Petito, G. Petito’s father, said in a press conference.
Amateur sleuths also played an essential role in the Olivia Lone Bear case.
The Olivia Lone Bear case involved a missing person investigation of a 32-year-old Native American woman named Olivia Lone Bear. Volunteers, led by amateur sleuth Lissa Yellowbird-Chase, found her body submerged in a truck after law enforcement was unable to.
Though amateur sleuths are occasionally helpful, they have proved to be more harmful than beneficial because they often hinder police investigations, and spread misinformation.
For example, in the Idaho College Murders case, four University of Idaho students were murdered in their off-campus house on Nov. 13, 2022. The case drew heavy attention online. On TikTok, “#idahomurders”—and its many iterations—collected more than one billion views.
Though this attention led to a number of anonymous tips being submitted, the local police department and FBI received thousands of tips. Many were based on baseless speculation, so investigating all of the false leads drained valuable resources and time.
On top of that, many sleuths took it upon themselves to harass those who they believed to be the perpetrators. Most of the people they harassed were revealed to be innocent people.
The harassment got so intense that Rebecca Scofield, a professor at the university, filed a defamation lawsuit against TikTok creator and self-proclaimed “internet sleuth” Ashley Gillard. Gillard had posted multiple TikTok videos involving fake claims linking Scofield to the murders, which led to threats that caused fear for Scofield and her family.
Of course, the case was turned into entertainment. One Night in Idaho: The College Murders is an American documentary series directed and produced by Liz Garbus and Matthew Galkin released in 2025.
There is also the matter of the “missing white woman syndrome.” This syndrome refers to the disproportionate media and news coverage given to the disappearances of young, white, and conventionally attractive women.
This phenomenon itself tells us all we need to know about the nature of the true crime media—it’s heartless. Media outlets seek cases that draw the attention of the public, demonstrating that what they seek is not justice, but profit.
While this could be said for all media, it’s extra disturbing when it comes to true crime. Not only does it commodify certain victims, the syndrome creates a hierarchy of whose lives are worth attention. It spreads the idea that some victims matter more than others, devaluing victims based on race, class, and gender.
True crime also desensitizes us to violence. The more violence we are exposed to, the less it affects us.
Cresson listens to true crime in the evenings, usually before bed. She was asked if it ever affects her sleep. “No, not really, because I realized nothing that I watch is gonna actually happen to me,” Cresson said.
“I guess it’s similar to a horror movie,” sophomore Sophia Nguyen said.
But horror movies and true crime are fundamentally different for one significant reason: horror movies are clearly fiction and true crime is not, as the name suggests. It’s about real lives, real cases, and real pain.
True crime creators put victims and their families through unnecessary anguish, dehumanize them, and twist tragedy as their pockets stack with coins. All the while, they justify their actions, calling it awareness, even though said “awareness” is frequently more negative than positive.
There are certain instances where true crime can be a force for good, though.
“It seems to come down to proving intent. If the intention of the person telling the story is to earn a quick buck and they care little about the impact of what happened, then that’s pretty despicable,” Photography and Yearbook teacher Livija Kelly said. “However, if their intention is to help the past and future victims by telling an engaging story that reaches a wider audience then that seems pretty noble.”
Even so, the latter, “noble” intention appears to be quite rare. In most instances, the intent behind the consumption and production of true crime alike is unethical—whether the people recognize it or not.
True crime claims to spotlight the dark corners of society. Perhaps it does. However, all that it spotlights in those dark corners is neither the crime nor the perpetrators, but instead, how easily us consumers find comfort in tragedies distorted into entertainment.
