A few years ago, an acquaintance reached out wanting to discuss The Good Doctor. Knowing I was an autistic culture writer, he was eager for my take on ABC’s popular medical drama and its depiction of a young surgeon who is on the spectrum.
By that point, I had a well-rehearsed response to questions about the show. I found The Good Doctor to be a watchable primetime drama, but ultimately disappointing as a portrayal of an autistic person. Lacking openly autistic writers or cast members, the show, and particularly Dr. Shaun Murphy (Freddie Highmore), felt like a collection of non-autistic viewpoints—misconceptions, anxieties, and idealized notions about autism—rather than a genuine exploration of autistic life. It was disheartening to see widespread admiration for characters like Dr. Murphy or the autistic-coded Sheldon Cooper from The Big Bang Theory, while real autistic individuals and our stories often receive significantly less attention or enthusiasm.
He countered that it was “a good show” because it had educated him about autism and fostered his empathy for autistic people and their struggles.
As The Good Doctor, once the highest-rated new show of the 2017-2018 season and a consistent top performer for most of its seven-season run, concluded this week, his comment perfectly encapsulates the core issue. A show that claimed to delve into the complex humanity of its central character frequently reduced actual autistic people to mere props at every stage of production. The writers, showrunners David Shore and Liz Friedman, and actor Freddie Highmore, were given free rein to create and embody a character profoundly different from themselves, without confronting the realities of autistic existence—or showing much concern for how autistic viewers might perceive their work. Even their autism consultant lacked lived experience of autism. Non-autistic audiences watched these stereotypical portrayals for entertainment and supposed enlightenment, congratulating themselves on their supposed open-mindedness, and sometimes even lecturing autistic individuals about their newfound “autism awareness.”
KAYLA CROMER, CHUKU MODU, FREDDIE HIGHMORE, CHRISTINA CHANG
Even the brief outcry that arose last year when a particularly problematic scene of Shaun experiencing an autistic meltdown went viral was predominantly driven by and for non-autistic individuals. A notable exception was a thoughtful article in the Washington Post that included insights from several autistic experts in medicine, advocacy, and culture. I found it difficult to distinguish between those supposedly mocking The Good Doctor’s depiction of autistic traits and those simply ridiculing the traits themselves. Yet, non-autistic people were quick to assure me they were “laughing with me,” not “at me.”
Throughout its first six seasons, The Good Doctor failed autistic viewers by presenting Shaun as a collection of autistic clichés—a “cardboard cutout of what people believe an autistic person should be like,” as activist Lydia Brown described it in the Washington Post article—rather than a fully developed character. Dr. Murphy’s actions often misrepresented autistic experiences and interactions with the world. For example, Shaun displayed a level of ignorance and transphobia towards a patient that the show seemed to attribute to his autism. This was particularly nonsensical given that trans and nonbinary individuals are up to six times more likely to be autistic. An autistic person in his position would likely have some understanding of trans issues.
However, the final season offered a glimmer of potential when autistic actor Kayla Cromer joined the cast as Charlie Lukaitis, an autistic medical student inspired by Shaun. This was a positive step towards genuine inclusion of autistic voices in the show’s creative process, and a chance to broaden its portrayal of autism. Introducing another regular autistic character could have allowed for a deeper exploration of the diversity within the autistic community. Sadly, this potential largely went untapped.
While Shaun and Charlie often clashed in early episodes, there were moments where Charlie’s autistic perspective allowed her to connect with and support Shaun. This mix of conflict and understanding hinted at the reality that autistic people are individuals who can both disagree and connect deeply with each other in ways that others might not grasp. Yet, for every scene that offered a glimpse into the complex humanity of autistic people, another would reinforce non-autistic misconceptions and biases.
For instance, the purpose of a scene where Charlie favorably compared support for autistic children in schools to gastric sleeve surgery for teenagers remains utterly unclear. Similarly, a subplot concerning Shaun’s desire to have his infant son tested for autism in an episode titled “The Overview Effect” seemed to echo the anxieties of non-autistic parents more than the nuanced and often conflicting emotions of autistic parents. Autistic parents often have complicated histories with evaluations and interventions and are uncertain about which ones genuinely benefit their children. Given the rarity of autistic parents on screen, the superficiality of these scenes was deeply disappointing. Shaun’s reaction to his mentor and father figure’s terminal cancer diagnosis in the finale was similarly underwhelming. While his attempt to cope through work was plausible, the show missed an opportunity to depict the complex emotions of autistic grief in a relatable way. Autistic grief is often misunderstood, and this could have been a powerful moment for both education and drama.
By the time the finale, “Goodbye,” concluded with a TED Talk in which Shaun discussed living and working as a doctor with autism while the audience beamed at him with expressions usually reserved for a dog performing a trick, the most positive thing I could say about The Good Doctor was that it was finally over. Its conclusion—along with The Big Bang Theory’s spinoff Young Sheldon, which attracted almost 9 million viewers for its finale—signals the end of an era where popular TV shows treated autistic or autistic-coded characters as objects for non-autistic consumption.
WILL YUN LEE, WAVYY JONEZ, FIONA GUBELMANN, CHRISTINA CHANG, ELFINA LUK, CHUKU MODU, BRIA SAMONÉ HENDERSON, ANTONIA THOMAS, PAIGE SPARA
I am cautiously optimistic about the future. While there aren’t any major autistic-centric network shows premiering in the U.S. right now, several streaming options offer hope. Autistic actor Chloé Hayden’s portrayal of a queer autistic student in the Australian series Heartbreak High, available on Netflix, is considered by many autistic writers to be one of the best autistic characters yet. A Kind of Spark, a family drama based on Elle McNicoll’s book, provides insights into autistic lives and the imagination of its autistic creator. Dinosaur, a Scottish dramedy starring autistic co-creator Ashley Storrie, streaming on Hulu, is both heartwarming and humorous, proving autistic people can laugh at themselves. While these shows are promising, they are just the beginning of the autistic stories that deserve to be told on screen.
With autism prevalence currently at 1 in 36, autistic people represent a large and largely untapped audience—and a significant talent pool, given the right opportunities. We are also far more diverse than mainstream media has shown. Autistic people exist across all races, genders, sexualities, and socioeconomic backgrounds, with varied interests and creative expressions. This diversity offers a wealth of perspectives and ideas that could enrich future television.
For seven seasons, millions of viewers were willing to believe that an autistic man could be a good doctor. Perhaps they can now open their minds to the idea that we can also be the writers, actors, consultants, and engaged viewers who want to see authentic reflections of ourselves in shows about autistic doctors and beyond.
