08-07-2025
'Friends' Vs. 'Adults': What These Shows Can Teach Us About Marketing To Gen Z
Stephen Rosa is the CEO/chief creative officer of (add)ventures and an Emmy-winning writer/producer.
In the early '90s, I found myself staring down a very messy fork in the road. I was in my 20s, torn between chasing a comedy career in Los Angeles, diving into New York's creative scene with nothing but a notepad and a dream, or sticking closer to home with a marketing job in Massachusetts. I knew I had talent—I could write, I could perform and I could pitch—but I also knew talent wasn't a strategy. And back then, I needed a plan more than a punch line.
At night, I'd watch Friends—or shows like it—and see a version of adulthood that looked, if not attainable, at least aspirational. Six people were living in apartments too big for their paychecks, drinking lots of coffee and cracking inside jokes. Pivoting was a punch line, not a survival strategy. Life looked chaotic, but charmed.
And we bought that version of adulthood. Brands sold it right back to us, wrapped in denim jackets and grande lattes. The Gap, Starbucks, Pottery Barn and even the iPod—they weren't just brands and products; they were identity markers. Ross's coffee table (yes, the one Phoebe hated) wasn't just decor. It symbolized a craving for belonging and order in the chaos. Marketers thrived on aspiration. If you wore the right jacket, drank the right coffee or picked the right CD, you'd find your place.
Pivot.
Flash forward 30 years to FX's new series Adults, and the tone has changed dramatically. Set in Queens, it follows five 20-somethings who are less bonded by coffee and more by therapy, ghosted texts and existential dread. It's not a reboot. It's a reckoning.
Where Friends offered a fantasy of adulthood, Adults offers the reality. Relationships are frayed. Jobs are joyless. The group chat goes unanswered. It's a world where people aren't becoming adults—they're already there, and they're barely holding it together.
As someone who came of age during the Friends era—and now leads a creative agency full of Gen Z talent—I can say this shift isn't just about TV tropes. It's about a broader cultural and marketing pivot. We're still selling adulthood, but the terms have changed—massively.
Then: Selling Aspiration
In the '90s, marketing followed a formula: Introduce a dream, insert a product and show the transformation. Want to belong? Buy this soda. Want to look successful? Wear this suit. There was a problem and a product that served as the solution. It was from A to B. It was straightforward and predictable.
The tone matched the times. There was optimism in the air. Adulthood was portrayed as linear: Get the job, meet the person, find the apartment and furnish it with friends. The journey was messy, sure, but it was always pointing toward something better.
Now: Selling Process
Adults reminds us that life today isn't linear. It's circular. It loops. It spirals. The characters aren't climbing—they're clinging. There's no triumphant soundtrack—just ambient unease.
For Gen Z, adulthood isn't about arriving. It's about enduring. It's not about having it all—it's about managing the weight of it all. And in this world, transformation feels disingenuous. What resonates now is recognition.
This is why brands like Glossier thrive by enhancing natural features instead of covering them up, and why mental health apps like Calm and Headspace feel like necessities, not luxuries.
The winning brands today aren't guides to a better life. They're companions for the one you're already living. They don't promise escape. They offer empathy.
From Shared Spaces To Solitary Screens
Friends had Monica and Rachel's apartment and Central Perk—spaces where connection happened spontaneously. Adults has subway rides, brunches that end awkwardly and a lot of lonely scrolling. Physical proximity has been replaced by emotional distance.
This matters for marketers. Because the myth of a shared, universal experience no longer holds. Many of today's consumers don't congregate—they fragment. They live in algorithmic silos and identity niches. As a result, campaigns must function more like conversations than broadcasts.
Visibility isn't enough. Brands must be emotionally available. That means less polish and more presence.
Authenticity Is The New Currency
What makes Adults work isn't plot—it's honesty. Characters flail. Conversations trail off. Scenes linger in discomfort. And audiences see themselves in that messiness.
We're in the era of radical relatability. Gen Z doesn't reward perfection—they reward participation. Brands win not by being slick, but by being sincere. Consider how Oatly embraces its awkwardness, or how jewelry brand Mejuri frames luxury as self-worth, not status.
These brands aren't shouting slogans. They're sharing humanity. And in a fractured world, that connection is priceless.
The Friends Generation Is Running The Show
Let's face it—most of us in the C-suite grew up on Friends. We remember the rhythm of the laugh track and the ease of the resolution. And often, we default to storytelling that reflects that worldview: setup, struggle and triumph.
But Gen Z usually doesn't see life that way. They don't expect clarity. They expect complexity. And if we want to reach them, we have to be willing to get a little uncomfortable.
When I first watched Adults, I felt like the emotional rug had been pulled out from under me. Where was the payoff? The cozy couch? The group hug?
But discomfort is often the first sign that we're learning. And marketers—especially those of us raised on the comfort of sitcoms—need to learn fast.
So here's the pivot: Let's stop marketing the dream and start marketing the dialogue. Let's ask more than we assume. Let's reflect rather than direct. Because today, the brands that thrive won't be the ones that shout the loudest. They'll be the ones that gently break the awkward silence.
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