15 TV Shows Where Inclusion Was Done Right

Pluribus Carols wife cropped processed by imagy

Pluribus (2025)

The show doesn’t treat queerness like a “special episode” ribbon you tie on for publicity; it folds it into the stakes and then refuses to make a big show of it. Carol isn’t framed as a symbol, she’s a messy, prickly romance author trying to survive a world that’s been chemically nudged into bliss, and her relationship with Helen sits there as part of her life intimate, ordinary, and genuinely affecting when the story turns cruel. That’s what makes the inclusion feel right: it’s character texture, not a spotlight cue. Even in a high-concept premise about hive minds and “happiness,” the show keeps dragging you back to very human loss and attachment without announcing what you’re supposed to applaud. | © Sony Pictures Television

The Chair Company (2025)

The easiest way to make inclusion feel fake is to stop the joke and point at it, and this series never does that. Natalie being engaged to another woman is treated like the most normal thing in the world because in a family comedy-thriller, it should be so the show doesn’t waste time on speeches or self-congratulation. It’s just a fact of the household, woven into scenes the same way anxiety, embarrassment, and bad decisions are, which is why it reads as organic instead of “written to be noticed.” The broader mix of people around Ron’s unraveling also feels like an actual workplace ecosystem rather than a casting brochure: oddballs, strivers, enablers, skeptics, all bouncing off the same absurd conspiracy. Inclusion works best when it’s part of the room’s natural mess, and this show gets that instinctively. | © HBO Entertainment

The Bear (2022)

A lot of shows say they have a diverse ensemble; this one just looks like Chicago and moves on. Sydney being a young Black woman in a high-pressure kitchen isn’t framed like a milestone, it’s treated as normal and the story lets her be brilliant, stubborn, insecure, ambitious, and occasionally wrong without ever turning her into a symbol. Marcus gets the same respect: a Black character whose arc is about craft, obsession, and self-worth, not a tidy “inspiration” package. Even the supporting crew feels lived-in Latina line cooks, immigrant back-of-house energy, different ages and class backgrounds because the show’s priority is work, trauma, and chemistry, not applause. Inclusion lands here because it’s inseparable from character and environment, not a highlighted “moment.” | © FX Productions

Severance (2022)

The show slips a tender gay romance into the creepiest office on television and treats it like a human fact, not a headline. Irving and Burt’s relationship is allowed to be awkward, sweet, and quietly devastating, with the tension coming from the severed-life premise not from the series stopping to explain why their love “matters.” At the same time, the cast’s diversity is just baked into Lumon’s sterile nightmare: Milchick’s authority, the office mix, the different faces in power and under it, all presented without a spotlight or a lesson. That’s why it works identity is present and visible, but the writing never uses it as a shortcut for depth. The show is too busy being unsettling and character-driven to beg for credit. | © Red Hour Productions

Station Eleven (2021)

It’s hard to fake authenticity in a story about survival, and this series doesn’t even try it just lets people be specific. Jeevan and Frank sit at the center as South Asian brothers, and the show doesn’t “translate” them for the audience with awkward exposition; their family dynamics, humor, and tension simply exist as part of the world. Frank’s disability is handled the same way: it shapes choices and vulnerability without turning him into a saintly lesson or a pity device, and the story treats his limits as real rather than inspirational. Around them, the ensemble feels like an honest cross-section of a broken society stitched into a traveling community, where identity shows up as texture, not a sermon. It’s inclusive because it’s observant, not because it’s trying to be praised for being inclusive. | © Paramount Television Studio

Arcane (2021)

Nothing about this series feels like it’s trying to earn points; it just builds a world where people collide, love, betray, and spiral, and the identities are part of that texture. Vi and Caitlyn’s bond is a slow-burn thread that’s allowed to be flirtation, trust, grief, and awkward intimacy without the show turning it into a “moment” designed for applause. Mel’s presence as a Black woman in power isn’t treated like a statement either she’s written as sharp, political, morally complex, and sometimes frighteningly pragmatic. Even the class divide between Zaun and Piltover does more representation work than a thousand speeches, because it’s baked into how characters move through space and treat each other. It’s inclusive because it’s specific, not because it’s performative. | © Riot Games

Reservation Dogs (2021)

The show doesn’t “introduce” its Indigenous characters like a lesson plan; it drops you into their humor, their grief, their petty fights, and their weird little rituals like you’ve always been there. Representation lands because every character gets to be selfish sometimes, hilarious sometimes, painfully vulnerable sometimes full people, not role models designed to be approved of. It also makes room for different generations and gender expressions without throwing a spotlight on them, especially in the way Two-Spirit and queer identities are treated as part of community life rather than a special episode topic. The series is so rooted in place and voice that inclusivity becomes invisible: it’s just the world, seen clearly. That’s what “done right” looks like. | © FX Productions

Stranger Things (Season 3) (2019)

Robin’s coming-out lands with that rare blend of timing and restraint that big shows usually mess up. The bathroom scene with Steve isn’t staged like a victory lap; it’s intimate, funny, nervous, and character-specific—Robin blurting out the truth in a way that feels like a real teenager finally letting her guard down. The series doesn’t freeze-frame to congratulate itself, and it doesn’t turn her into a token either; she stays the same sarcastic, brilliant, slightly panicky person, just more honest. Which is why it’s absurd that the same franchise later handled Will so clumsily in Season 5, turning years of subtext into a late-game, self-aware “big moment” that felt staged for reaction more than written for character. Season 3 proved they knew how to do it; Season 5 proved they forgot. | © 21 Laps Entertainment

The Good Place (2016)

This is the kind of ensemble where inclusion works because everyone is written as a chaotic human first. Chidi isn’t defined by being “the Black guy,” he’s defined by indecision, anxiety, and moral overthinking so intense it becomes its own punchline. Tahani gets to be glamorous and insecure, Jason gets to be sweet and dumb, and Eleanor gets to be selfish and redeemable, all without the show turning identity into a spotlight feature. Even the queer elements like characters’ fluidity and who ends up with whom are treated with a casual normality that feels oddly radical: nobody has to “come out” to the universe, because the universe is already weird and accepting. The series stays obsessed with ethics and comedy, so representation just sits there, natural and unforced. | © NBCUniversal Television

Atlanta (2016)

The show’s inclusivity comes from how sharply it observes Black life without trying to package it into something “relatable” for approval. It refuses to translate itself, refuses to explain its jokes, and refuses to flatten its characters into inspirational archetypes Earn can be selfish, Van can be exhausted, Paper Boi can be paranoid and tender, Darius can be mystical and ridiculous. When it touches race, class, or identity, it does it through situations and tone, not through speeches, which makes the commentary land harder. Even the surreal episodes work because they’re still rooted in a specific cultural logic, not in generic “important TV” messaging. Representation feels right here because it’s authored with confidence, not performed for applause. | © FX Productions

The Magicians (2015)

Fantasy ensembles often treat diversity like set dressing; this one treats it like oxygen present, normal, and rarely announced. Eliot’s queerness isn’t a token trait or a sanitized “good example,” it’s part of his appetite for life, his messiness, his tenderness, and his worst impulses, and the series lets him be complicated without apologizing. The show also refuses the tidy “representation must be wholesome” rule, which is why it feels real: characters make selfish choices, hurt each other, and still get to be loved. Even when storylines get melodramatic, inclusion doesn’t feel pasted on for praise; it’s embedded in who these people are and how they collide. | © Universal Television

The Expanse (2015)

Space operas usually default to one accent, one culture, one idea of “future,” and this series does the opposite without making a performance out of it. The casting and worldbuilding feel genuinely global Belter creole, Martian discipline, Earther bureaucracy so diversity isn’t a side note, it’s the political map. Characters aren’t defined by what box they tick; they’re defined by allegiance, trauma, ambition, and the way power reshapes them. Even when the show gets dense with lore, it never pauses to announce inclusion, because the premise itself demands a mixed humanity. It feels natural because it feels designed, not marketed. | © Alcon Entertainment

Better Call Saul (2015)

Nobody here exists to deliver a lesson, which is why the representation blends so cleanly into the world. The Albuquerque setting isn’t treated like a “diversity backdrop”; it’s treated like a real place with Spanish spoken casually, families that feel lived-in, and characters who aren’t reduced to stereotypes or moral props. Kim, Nacho, and the Salamanca orbit are written with such specificity desire, fear, pride, desperation that identity becomes part of character rather than a spotlight beat. The show’s discipline helps: it’s obsessed with consequence and psychology, so it never needs to announce what it’s doing. Inclusion lands because the writing respects people enough to make them complicated. | © Sony Pictures Television

Parks and Recreation (2009)

Comedy is the quickest way to expose performative inclusion, and this series avoids that trap by never treating its ensemble like a brochure. Donna isn’t “the Black friend,” she’s stylish, confident, and hilariously self-possessed; Tom isn’t a token, he’s a walking bundle of ambition and insecurity who gets to be ridiculous and human. The show also normalizes difference by making everyone equally weird Leslie’s intensity, Ron’s stubbornness, April’s deadpan chaos so no one identity gets framed as the “special” one. When representation is this casual, it stops being a point and starts being a place: Pawnee feels like a town full of actual people, not a casting announcement. | © NBCUniversal Television

The Wire (2002)

Baltimore in this series doesn’t look “inclusive”; it looks honest, and that’s why it still stands out. The ensemble spans Black, white, and immigrant communities, but nobody is positioned as a symbol you meet people through their jobs, their neighborhoods, their hustles, and the institutions grinding them down. The show gives complex interiority to characters across race and class without flattening anyone into a morality lesson, and it’s fearless about letting systems be the villain instead of turning individuals into convenient avatars. Even the best characters do ugly things, even the worst characters get human moments, and that depth is exactly what makes representation feel organic. | © HBO Entertainment