You’re Not Serious People: The Tragedy of Succession and The Poetry of Power

By Trinity Barnette

I thought Succession was going to be about rich people being assholes. And sure, it is. But what I didn’t expect was a full-blown Shakespearean tragedy in business casual, wrapped in poetic dialogue, emotional warfare, and the kind of generational trauma that sits in your chest like a brick.

This isn’t just a show about billionaires. It’s a show about kids who were never loved properly, trying to inherit power that was never meant to heal them. They don’t want the company—they want their father. They want to win his affection. They want to be told they matter. And when they don’t get it, they implode. Together. Repeatedly.

The Shakespearean Soul of Succession

Succession is the best tragedy of our generation. I said what I said.

This show is modern King Lear with smartphones and stock options. The tyrannical patriarch. The three children vying for love and power. The fragile egos, buried trauma, and emotional repression dressed up as confidence.

The brilliance of the show lies in how inevitable it all feels. From the pilot, we know this ends in destruction. Not because of business. But because none of them are emotionally equipped to survive their inheritance.

Like Shakespeare, Succession doesn’t ask, “Will they win?”

It asks, “How far will they fall before they realize they never stood a chance?”

The Children Who Can’t Escape the Cage

Let’s be real—the Roy kids are not victims. But they are products of a man who used love as a weapon and affection as a tool of control.

They were never raised—they were shaped, like assets in a portfolio.

Every hug was conditional. Every compliment a manipulation.

So now they’re grown, and none of them know how to be real people.

They don’t know how to love, trust, or exist without performing.

And that’s the tragedy.

They aren’t evil. They’re lost.

And every time they try to take the throne, they lose more of their soul.

“You’re not serious people.”

The line is brutal because it’s true. They’re playing at power, but they were never taught how to hold it.

Character Deep Dive: The Tragedians of Succession

Kendall Roy — The Hamlet of Wall Street

Wound: Daddy’s disappointment

Flaw: Self-sabotage disguised as moral clarity

Kendall is a prince without a crown, stuck between craving power and craving peace. He’s Hamlet—paralyzed by guilt, grief, and the desire to be good in a world where good doesn’t win.

He performs rebellion but craves validation.

He tries to escape the machine but can’t stop climbing inside it.

And when it all falls apart, he doesn’t explode. He sinks. Again.

Shiv Roy — Lady Macbeth in Ferragamo

Wound: Being underestimated

Flaw: Emotional dishonesty

Shiv is brilliant, polished, and emotionally evasive. She plays the game like she’s above it, but the truth is—she wants the throne just as badly.

Like Lady Macbeth, she thinks strategy can replace vulnerability.

She thinks proximity to power means she has it.

But she underestimates the game—and the cost of pretending she’s invincible.

Roman Roy — The Jester Who Knows Too Much

Wound: Neglect and humiliation

Flaw: Deflection as identity

Roman is the trauma clown. The fool who sees everything but can’t process any of it.

He jokes to survive. He mocks to protect. But under all that is a broken little boy begging to be seen.

Like Shakespeare’s fools, he speaks the truth—but no one really listens.

And when he’s finally forced to feel, he shatters.

Tom Wambsgans — The Outsider Turned King

Wound: Inferiority

Flaw: Passive aggression masked as loyalty

Tom understood the game better than anyone. While the Roys obsessed over legacy, Tom studied power. He aligned. He adapted. He waited.

Like Macbeth, he ascended through ambition.

Unlike the Roy kids, he didn’t want love—he wanted leverage.

And in the end? He got it. Because he was the only one actually working.

Logan Roy — King Lear in a Cashmere Coat

Wound: Deep childhood trauma

Flaw: Control masked as love

Logan built an empire and destroyed everyone inside it.

Like Lear, he demanded loyalty while mocking weakness.

He raised children not to succeed—but to stay small.

He didn’t need heirs. He needed worship.

And when he died, the family didn’t mourn. They fractured.

Because that was his legacy: power with no soul behind it.

Lessons I Learned From Each Character

Kendall — You Can’t Heal Where You Were Hurt

You can’t earn love from someone who only sees you as a liability.

You can’t fix your trauma in the same room that caused it.

Kendall reminded me that chasing approval from the person who broke you will only break you more.

Shiv — Don’t Mistake Power for Intimacy

You can win every argument and still lose yourself.

Shiv taught me that intelligence without vulnerability is just armor.

And armor makes it impossible to truly connect.

Roman — Jokes Won’t Save You

Roman made me confront the ways I use humor to deflect.

Laughing through pain doesn’t make it hurt less.

It just makes you harder to reach.

Tom — Be Careful Who You Pretend to Be

Tom became the monster because he wanted to survive.

But in doing so, he lost the parts of himself that mattered.

He’s a lesson in how chasing power without purpose leaves you empty, even if you win.

Logan — If You Rule Through Fear, You Die Alone

Logan taught me that control isn’t love, and power without empathy is just violence in a suit.

He didn’t raise children—he raised casualties.

And in the end, no one loved him. They just feared the space he used to fill.

Final Thoughts: Eat the Tragedy, Not the Rich

Succession isn’t meant to be satisfying.

It’s meant to haunt you.

The ending is perfect—not because it ties things up, but because it doesn’t.

Power wins. Emotion loses. Love is never unconditional.

And if you’re not careful, your legacy becomes the thing that breaks the people you were supposed to protect.

These aren’t serious people.

But the pain? The trauma? The way it sits in your throat like glass?

That part’s real. That’s the part that stays.