This year marks the 10th anniversary of Fargo and True Detective making their debuts at the Emmys, a watershed moment in the evolution of the prestige limited series. These two pricey, star-driven, anthology-structured shows won over both critics and viewers before going their own ways when it came to vying for awards recognition: Fargo did well in what was then known as the “miniseries” categories (the name changed to “limited series” in 2015), while True Detective competed as a drama, only to be squashed nearly across the board by the final season of Breaking Bad. It’d submit, less successfully, as a limited series from then on.

A guide to Hollywood’s biggest races

How fitting that both have come back around this cycle, improbably revitalized amid a completely transformed television landscape. These two juggernauts anchored a decade of limited-series phenomena, from The People v. O.J. Simpson to Big Little Lies to The White Lotus, which saw networks matching A-list talent with rich material and reaping gold rewards. But following a tumultuous year of industry strikes and cutbacks, and as Hollywood continues to navigate the great streaming correction, this era appears to be winding down. As my colleague Joy Press puts it on this week’s Little Gold Men (listen below), this season’s race for the top award—which, yes, again includes Fargo and True Detective—feels like a “last gasp” for the form at its most creatively inspired.

Take Shōgun, whose development dates back to before COVID and marks one of the biggest investments in the history of FX (the network behind both Fargo and O.J.). The invigorating adaptation of James Clavell’s 1975 novel, which completed its run on Tuesday, is a tougher sell on paper, from its largely Japanese dialogue to its mostly unknown (to Western viewers, anyway) cast, but the Hulu-streaming series has emerged as a significant hit thanks entirely to its careful execution. This goes for the tightly structured scripts, overseen by creators Justin Marks and Rachel Kondo; the tremendous performers, ranging from relatively familiar faces like Hiroyuki Sanada and Cosmo Jarvis to major discoveries such as Anna Sawai and Tadanobu Asano; and the astounding production value, granting the necessary scale to this Game of Thrones–esque saga about an epic power struggle in 17th-century Japan.

Accordingly, Shōgun is the front-runner, consistently charting on Nielsen streaming rankings and generating massive interest everywhere from TikTok to Reddit. Nice timing, seeing as it’s the kind of no-second-screen, pay-attention TV that streamers seem keen to inch away from. The example of Shōgun, though, proves that true creative investment can pay dividends.

Its primary competitors offer more examples of just that, at least on the side of making worthy art. HBO’s The Sympathizer, which similarly introduces a cast mostly new to Hollywood and features dialogue largely not in English (this show heavily uses Vietnamese), is meeting critical love for its ambitious take on a highly regarded novel. Another fresh adaptation of a well-known book, Netflix’s Ripley, is helmed entirely by Oscar winner Steven Zaillian, boasting immaculate black-and-white visuals and deliberate pacing that seem amazingly out of place for a Netflix binge—which is no accident: The show was developed for Showtime before getting dumped by the premium cabler, which was folded into the comparatively middlebrow Paramount+. Neither The Sympathizer nor Ripley appears to be bound for the ratings success Shōgun achieved, but they’re among the best-reviewed and most formally exciting shows of the year. That ought to count for something.

And while other limited-series contenders, like Sofia Vergara’s Griselda or Brie Larson’s Lessons in Chemistry, perhaps better signal the current period of broadly accessible, widely appealing television, Shōgun isn’t alone in showcasing the commercial potential in artistic risk-taking. Merely a few weeks ago, a title called Baby Reindeer, then unknown and upcoming, wasn’t in the orbit of Netflix’s expansive Emmy plans for the spring. Word of mouth among journalists who’d caught screeners might have been building, but the project remained a disturbing, memoiristic exploration of mental illness and sexual abuse from a creator whom the vast majority of the streamer’s audience hadn’t heard of. Not exactly a slam dunk.

Then, two weeks ago, the Richard Gadd vehicle quietly premiered. It slowly started inching up on Netflix’s daily top 10, and then it boomed on TikTok. Rave reviews from major outlets, publishing far later than they usually would, soon started trickling in. Then it hit number one—a position it’s stayed at for more than a week. Finally, on Monday, Netflix announced the show would be submitted as a limited series and given a full campaign, matching the breathless, organic enthusiasm that continues to swirl around the project. Having a small-scale, heavily personal, and powerfully complex piece from a UK comedian suddenly emerge as an Emmy juggernaut—and perhaps Shōgun’s chief competition—defies conventional wisdom. But as Fargo and True Detective proved a decade ago, it still pays to innovate—and think outside the box.