From top, Lost and 24.   (Photo: Courtesy of Fox)

As long as shows were reliant on ads for their revenue, the total number of viewers mattered. Now, not so much. In fact, whereas broadly popular shows prospered under the old model, niche shows with hard-core fan bases prosper under the new one. Shows like 24 and Firefly sell a lot of DVDs. Shows like Yes, Dear and Two and Half Men do not. Studios (which make the shows) and networks (which buy and air them) are still fond of traditional, mass-appeal programs such as Two and a Half Men because of their high ad rates and lucrative afterlife in syndication. But both of those markets seem in jeopardy. Once you’ve got an overflow of your favorite shows stored up on your DVR (and your iPod and your DVD shelf), why watch reruns of Home Improvement on TBS?

Okay, so maybe you don’t have to watch a show at a particular time anymore. And maybe a show doesn’t need a huge audience to be financially viable. It’s still TV, right? It’s still half-hour- and hour-long shows that came through a box in your living room? Sure—for now. That’s assuming you don’t download the latest episode through the BitTorrent Website or buy it from iTunes to watch on the subway to work. For years, networks have trembled at the idea of selling individual episodes because it fundamentally undermines the way TV works—or used to work. But after the success of ABC’s bold toe-in-the-pool partnership with iTunes, NBC and CBS last week announced plans to sell their own shows through video-on-demand services for 99 cents an episode. And suddenly it’s not so hard to envision a future (by which I mean two years, not twenty) in which you buy most of your TV shows the way you do, say, magazines—subscribing to some, picking and choosing others. At which point there’s no more need to stick to the half-hour/hour-long model on TV than there is for magazines to publish each issue at precisely 100 or 200 pages.

Before we venture further, this might be a good time to point out that, when it comes to technology, I’m not an early adopter. I fit more comfortably in the category known as “late majority” (iPod, yes; BlackBerry, no). So the fact that I can now DVR my way to my own private TV schedule and download ad-free episodes to my computer (a machine I barely understand) says something about the future of TV. Specifically, that pretty soon I, and he, and she, and you, won’t need one. Sure, there will be a big screen on your wall and sometimes you will watch shows on that. There will be a little screen in your pocket and sometimes you will watch shows on that. And there may be a medium-size screen you carry in a handbag, and sometimes you will watch shows on that. (And maybe, someday, there will be a holo-chip in your head, beaming shows right into your brain.) Connected to them all will be a small box into which you download, and store, the shows you’ve decided to buy.

TV came to us like a kind of visual cookie dough, dull but pleasant. We could take it or leave it, but we’ve had very little control over the recipe.

Of course, tech evangelists love to trumpet brave new futures—Buy all your dog food at pets.com! Purchase clothes worn by your favorite stars while you watch them on TV!—assuming that, just because we’re able to do something, we will. (This argument is proved fallacious by that unused ab exerciser you once bought because “you can use it while watching TV.”) Each new technology takes a while to find its use, as we, the actual users, pick it up, consider it, and figure out what it’s really good for. The Internet has proved great for uniting geographically disparate people with common interests (eBay collectors, MacGyver fanatics, balloon fetishists) and not so good as, say, an Alpo clearinghouse.

We’re living in just such a murky moment—stepping into the future, even as we try to find our footing. And while this has led to all sorts of tedious arguments about how TV producers will make their money—a question of interest primarily to TV producers—the matter of how it affects you and me is one of more pressing relevance. This is especially true given that, in the old model, the viewer was little more than the last stop in an assembly line: the “end user,” in the jargon of the suits. TV came to us like a kind of visual cookie dough, dull but pleasing, and extruded into our living rooms. We could take it or leave it, but we’ve had very little control over the recipe.

In the new model, the audience is right there in the kitchen. The Internet already provides gathering places for fans to praise or rant about their favorite shows—sites far more influential than, say, the letter-writing campaign to save Cagney & Lacey, because they happen in real time, interactively, often with TV producers responding or lurking all the while. (Why not, given that the sites are, in essence, the world’s largest focus groups?)