Recently, I watched ITV’s new adaptation of Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights, and was puzzled to see an opening sequence in which some unseen person or creature thrashes menacingly through the undergrowth.

It was only the next day, when my daughter was watching a DVD of Twilight for the 83rd time, that I made the connection. The title sequences, the directorial style and the look of the male lead (Tom Hardy) were all designed to echo Twilight, to make a connection with a young audience that associates passion with blood-sucking bats.

I don’t have a particular problem with that. I like the fact that Twithering Lights has zoomed up the book sales charts because it is Twilight central character Bella’s favorite book. (Ed: so sad that you know that.) And I like the fact that an ad-funded network such as ITV decided to take a punt on Bronte – a risk which has been rewarded with strong overseas sales.

But the horrification of Bronte’s story does underline the fact that the success or failure of mainstream TV drama is about much more than the strength of its first 10 minutes. While story and character remain critically important in terms of holding an audience, it’s fair to say that brand recognition is now more important than idea originality.

To some extent this has always been true, which is why we now have such a sophisticated star system. But we have reached a stage in media evolution where mainstream audiences seem reluctant to commit themselves to dramas if they don’t have external reference points to relate to.

Thankfully, these reference points are varied. The classic example is dramas that are adapted from best-selling books (anything by Jane Austen or popular detective series, etc.). But just as common are series remakes (Hawaii Five-O, Melrose Place, The Prisoner, Doctor Who…), extensions of franchises (CSI: Kentucky, CSI: Wyoming, etc.) or spin-offs from films/games (Crash, Stargate, et al).

Sometimes, it’s a mix of the above, such as ITV drama Lewis, a character-based spin-off from Inspector Morse, which itself was a book-based property.

But if none of the above apply, then we’re probably into true-life territory (e.g. E1’s recent cop franchise The Bridge, or FremantleMedia Australia’s drama series Killing Time).

You could blame TV networks for the obsolescence of originality. But then you’re bound to meet some college-educated commissioner who’ll point out that Shakespeare and the Greek tragedians were the true pioneers of idea reinvention (or IP piracy as we’d call it these days). The reality is that it is mainstream audiences which crave familiarity. All the networks do is deliver it to them.

There are various reasons why audience aversion to original content is so prevalent these days. Firstly, because time-poor viewers want to know in advance that the time spent watching something will be worthwhile. Secondly, because modern life is about paths of least resistance, making the effort required to decode awkward, original, sometimes uneven stories much harder. And thirdly, because audiences want to enter a world where they feel like they belong. With books and films, we can read endorsements on dust jackets and posters. (And often that’s enough to get us through a dinner party.) But in TV, we rely on the devices above to gain emotional grounding.

The reason we tend to blame broadcasters for the homogenization of TV is that they are happy to endorse this audience distrust of originality. In part, this is because recognizable elements make their marketing spend work harder. But it’s also because developing new ideas from scratch is more expensive than adapting existing ideas, without really guaranteeing any better returns in audience (or safeguarding the job which pays the mortgage). After all, if CBS offers a channel commissioner the chance to remake Dynasty and Happy Days for their territory, are they really going to make original shows (particularly when they can also air the original show and commission a humorous that-was-then-this-is-now documentary)?

That’s why many of the dramas currently being made on both sides of the Atlantic fit the pattern outlined above. And it’s also why broadcasters are now clogging up new media with extensions of established brands. Here in the U.K., for example, we’re set to see online spin-offs from two leading soaps, EastEnders and Hollyoaks. Can’t wait.

So what’s the answer if you want to make a TV drama, but don’t have content in any of the above categories? Well one option is to echo existing trends by featuring wizards (Wizards of Waverly Place) or vampires (Being Human – a U.K. drama which has just been picked up for reversioning by Syfy in the U.S.). Another is to adapt a recognizable story archetype (think House, which follows Sherlock Holmes; or the two billion modern reinterpretations of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice).

This audience need for comfort-zone viewing doesn’t mean shows can’t be creative or entertaining. But the TV industry really needs to be careful about the lack of originality during idea genesis. TV as a packaged product leads to cultural atrophy and a diminution of the medium’s achievement. There has to be more to it all than ratings.

So if you want to be truly original, what do you do? Well it used to be possible to go to public broadcasters, but they are so worried about market share now that they also adapt obsessively (viz the BBC’s latest version of Austen’s Emma) or demand high ratings (hence the unwelcome decision to shut down CBC’s Wild Roses).

Instead, you probably need to think in terms of other media or genre – a kind of Spike Jonze approach to career development. Maybe you could produce a low-budget auteur movie for online distribution or pour your dramatic instinct into documentary; perhaps self-publish a novel or create a controversial art installation. Then if you make a loud enough noise, someone at a TV network will invite you to make a new version of Sense and Sensibility – the definitive, as-Austen-would-have-wanted-it, version.