When The 100 premiered on The CW in 2014, it arrived at a time when post-apocalyptic television was already saturated with zombies, dystopian governments, and adult-led survival stories. But this adaptation of Kass Morgan’s young adult novel stood out immediately—not just for its premise of 100 delinquent teens being sent from a dying space station to test Earth’s habitability, but for its unflinching look at what it means to be human when the world as you know it is gone. Over seven seasons, The 100 evolved from a teen drama with sci-fi flair to a nuanced exploration of morality, identity, and legacy—earning a dedicated fanbase and cementing its place as one of the most influential sci-fi series of the 2010s.
Origins and Core Premise: Why The 100 Stood Out from Other Post-Apocalyptic Shows
The 100’s core idea was simple but revolutionary: after a nuclear war rendered Earth uninhabitable, the remaining humans took refuge in the Ark—a cluster of space stations orbiting the planet. A century later, the Ark’s life support systems are failing, and its leaders make a desperate choice: send 100 juvenile prisoners (including thieves, rebels, and even accidental lawbreakers) to the surface to see if it’s safe to return. What they don’t tell the teens? The Ark is dying, and their mission is a suicide test.
This premise flipped the post-apocalyptic script. Where most shows focused on adults navigating collapse (think The Walking Dead or Falling Skies), The 100 centered on teenagers—characters who were still figuring out who they were, let alone how to lead a civilization. The teens weren’t heroes; they were messy, scared, and prone to mistakes. When they land in what was once Washington, D.C., they’re confronted with more than radiation: they find a world already inhabited by the Grounders, a group of survivors who’ve adapted to Earth’s harsh conditions and view the "Sky People" as invaders. This clash of cultures—coupled with the ticking clock of the Ark’s demise—gave The 100 a tension that felt both fresh and urgent.
Character Depth: How The 100 Turned Teens into Complex Heroes (and Villains)
What made The 100 truly unforgettable, though, was its characters. Unlike the one-dimensional protagonists of many teen shows, the leads of The 100 were full of contradictions—heroes who made unforgivable choices, villains who had sympathetic motives, and everyone in between.
Take Clarke Griffin (Eliza Taylor), the daughter of the Ark’s chief medical officer. Initially introduced as a brilliant but idealistic teen, Clarke is forced into leadership when the group’s adult chaperone is killed. Over time, she becomes known for her "hard choices"—like sacrificing a group of Grounders to save her friends, or executing a fellow Ark resident to prevent a mutiny. These decisions weigh on her; in Season 3, she tells Bellamy Blake (Bob Morley), "I bear it so they don’t have to." Clarke isn’t a perfect leader—she’s a human one, and her flaws make her relatable.
Bellamy, meanwhile, starts the series as a rebel who sneaks onto the dropship to protect his younger sister, Octavia (Marie Avgeropoulos). His arc is one of redemption: from a guy who’d lie, steal, and fight to keep Octavia safe, he grows into a leader who understands that strength means protecting everyone, not just the people you love. His lowest moment comes in Season 2, when he helps Clarke massacre the inhabitants of Mount Weather (a bunker full of humans who’ve been harvesting Grounder and Ark survivor blood to survive). The guilt of that choice haunts him for seasons—but it also makes his eventual growth into a more compassionate leader all the more powerful.
Octavia’s journey is even darker. Born illegally (the Ark enforces a one-child policy), she spends her first 17 years hidden in a floor vent. When she lands on Earth, she embraces her freedom—becoming a warrior, a leader, and eventually "Blodreina" (Blood Queen), a tyrant who rules the bunker where survivors take refuge during a second nuclear apocalypse. Octavia’s descent into darkness isn’t just drama; it’s a study of trauma: the pain of being hidden, the pressure of leading, and the fear of losing the people she loves. Her line, "I am the monster you made me," isn’t just a threat—it’s a confession.
And then there’s Lexa (Alycia Debnam-Carey), the young commander of the Grounder coalition. Lexa is wise beyond her years, a leader who prioritizes her people’s survival over personal attachment—until she falls for Clarke. Her death in Season 3 (a controversial "bury your gays" moment) shocked fans, but her legacy endured: she taught Clarke that "love is a weakness" isn’t a rule—it’s a choice. Lexa’s complexity—her strength, her vulnerability, her love—made her one of the most memorable characters in sci-fi television.
Themes That Resonated: Survival, Morality, and What It Means to Be Human in The 100
The 100 wasn’t just about survival—it was about what you keep when survival is on the line. Over seven seasons, the show tackled some of the biggest questions humanity faces: What does it mean to be "civilized"? Is it better to save the many or the few? Can you retain your humanity when the world is falling apart?
One of the show’s most recurring themes is the cycle of violence. The Grounders live by the code "blood must have blood"—a belief that every wrong must be avenged. The Ark’s leaders, meanwhile, believe in "zero tolerance" for crime (even minor offenses like stealing food result in execution). The 100’s characters spend years trying to break this cycle: Clarke rejects the Grounder code, Bellamy fights to end the Ark’s tyranny, and Lexa tries to unite the Grounder clans in peace. But breaking the cycle isn’t easy—every time they think they’ve succeeded, another crisis forces them to choose between mercy and vengeance.
Another key theme is identity. The teens from the Ark call themselves "Sky People"; the Grounders call them "Skaikru." The Mountain Men (the survivors in Mount Weather) see both groups as "externals"—resources to be exploited. Over time, these labels blur: Clarke becomes a Grounder warrior, Bellamy marries a Grounder leader, and the Sky People and Grounders form a coalition. The show asks: Are you defined by where you come from, or by the choices you make? For the characters of The 100, the answer is always the latter.
And then there’s the theme of humanity itself. In Season 4, when a second nuclear apocalypse threatens to wipe out all life on Earth, the survivors are forced to choose who gets to stay in the bunker (and who gets left outside). Clarke’s mother, Abby (Paige Turco), argues that they should save the "best" of humanity—doctors, engineers, leaders. Clarke disagrees: "The best of us isn’t the ones with the skills. It’s the ones with the heart." That line sums up The 100’s philosophy: Humanity isn’t about being perfect. It’s about caring for each other, even when it’s hard.
World-Building: Exploring the Ruins of Earth and Beyond in The 100
The 100’s world-building was as immersive as its characters and themes. From the overgrown ruins of Washington, D.C., to the icy tundra of the Grounder clan Azgeda, every setting felt lived-in—like a place that had a history before the teens arrived.
The Grounders were a particular highlight. Created by the show’s writers (and linguist David J. Peterson, who also created Dothraki for Game of Thrones), the Grounders have their own language (Trigedasleng), their own religion (they worship "the Commander," a leader chosen by the "Flame," a neural implant that holds the memories of past commanders), and their own social structure (clans ruled by warriors, with a council of elders). The show didn’t just tell viewers about the Grounders—it showed them: through their rituals (like the "Conclave," a fight to the death for the commander’s title), their clothing (made from animal hides and scrap metal), and their relationships (Lexa’s loyalty to her clan, even when it meant hurting Clarke).
Mount Weather, the underground bunker where the Mountain Men live, was another masterstroke. The Mountain Men are descendants of humans who took refuge underground during the nuclear war—but their isolation has made them desperate. They need the blood of Surface dwellers (Grounders and Sky People) to survive, as their bodies can’t handle Earth’s radiation. The show used Mount Weather to explore exploitation: the Mountain Men see the Surface dwellers as "donors," not people, and their leader, President Dante Wallace (Raymond J. Barry), justifies their actions by saying, "We’re saving humanity." The contrast between the Mountain Men’s pristine, technology-filled bunker and the Surface’s wild, dangerous beauty made their conflict with the teens even more intense.
As the show progressed, the world expanded beyond Earth. In Season 5, survivors take refuge on the Eligius IV, a prison ship that left Earth before the nuclear war. The ship’s inmates—criminals, mercenaries, and scientists—bring a new layer of complexity: they’re not just survivors, they’re people with their own agendas (like Diyoza, a former soldier who wants to build a new society free of the old world’s mistakes). In Season 6, the survivors travel to Sanctum, a planet in the Alpha Centauri system that’s home to a cult-like group called the Primes. Sanctum’s lush forests and golden beaches are a stark contrast to Earth—but its residents have their own secrets (like the Primes’ habit of transferring their consciousness into younger bodies). The show’s ability to expand its world while keeping it grounded (no pun intended) is one of its greatest strengths.
The Legacy of The 100: How It Influenced Modern Sci-Fi and Fandom
The 100’s legacy extends far beyond its seven seasons. For fans, it’s a show that didn’t just entertain—it mattered.
The fanbase, known as "The 100 Fam," is one of the most passionate in television. They’ve written millions of words of fanfiction, created thousands of pieces of fan art, and even raised money for charity (in honor of Lexa, fans donated over $100,000 to The Trevor Project, a suicide prevention organization for LGBTQ+ youth). The show’s cast and crew have embraced this fandom: they attend conventions, interact with fans on social media, and even incorporate fan ideas into the show (like the "Spacekru" nickname for the survivors who spent six years in space).
The 100 also broke ground with its LGBTQ+ representation. Lexa and Clarke’s relationship (dubbed "Clexa" by fans) was one of the first mainstream same-sex relationships in sci-fi television—and it was handled with care. Lexa wasn’t just a love interest; she was a leader, a warrior, and a complex character in her own right. Her death (which came just after she and Clarke professed their love) sparked outrage—but it also sparked change: fans launched the #LGBTFansDeserveBetter campaign, which pushed networks to treat queer characters with more respect. Today, shows like Euphoria and Heartstopper owe a debt to The 100’s willingness to tell queer stories.
And then there’s the show’s influence on sci-fi itself. The 100 proved that teen dramas could be smart—that they could tackle big ideas without sacrificing character or emotion. It showed that moral gray areas aren’t just for adult shows—that teens can handle stories about war, trauma, and redemption. And it proved that a diverse cast (the show featured actors of color, queer actors, and actors with disabilities) could carry a mainstream sci-fi series.
Why The 100 Still Matters Today: Relevance in a Changing World
The 100 ended in 2020, but its themes are more relevant than ever. In a world grappling with climate change, political division, and a global pandemic, the show’s questions about survival, morality, and identity feel almost prophetic.
Take climate change: The 100’s first nuclear war was caused by human greed (the show hints that it was a war over resources). The second nuclear war, in Season 4, is caused by a "nuclear winter" triggered by the melting of polar ice caps (a direct reference to real-world climate change). The show’s message is clear: if we don’t take care of our planet, we’ll lose it. And when we lose it, the choices we make will define us.
Or political division: The 100’s conflict between the Sky People and Grounders is a metaphor for real-world issues like immigration and racism. The Sky People are "outsiders" coming to a land that isn’t theirs, and the Grounders are scared—scared of losing their home, scared of being replaced. The show doesn’t take sides; it shows both perspectives. The Sky People are scared too—scared of dying in space, scared of the Grounders’ violence. The solution, the show suggests, isn’t to fight—it’s to listen. To understand. To find common ground.
And then there’s the pandemic: The 100’s Mount Weather arc is a perfect parallel to COVID-19. The Mountain Men need the blood of Surface dwellers to survive—just like some people need vaccines or medical care to survive a pandemic. The show asks: Is it ethical to take something from someone else to save yourself? Is it right to prioritize your own group over others? These are questions we’ve all asked in the past few years—and The 100 doesn’t give easy answers. It just gives us characters who are trying their best.
The 100 wasn’t perfect. It had missteps (like Lexa’s death, or the rushed ending of Season 7). But its imperfections are part of what makes it so beloved. It was a show that took risks—that wasn’t afraid to make viewers angry, or sad, or think. It was a show about teens who became leaders, about enemies who became family, about monsters who became humans.
And in the end, that’s what The 100 was really about: hope. Hope that even when the world is falling apart, you can still be good. Hope that even when you make mistakes, you can still find redemption. Hope that even when you’re lost, you can still find your way home.
For fans old and new, The 100 isn’t just a show—it’s a reminder. A reminder that we’re all just trying to survive. A reminder that love is stronger than hate. A reminder that, even in the darkest times, we are the 100.