Game of Thrones is like Marmite. Or, to be more specific, like an old jar of Marmite: a sticky, cloying, unmanageable mess that half the population can only be fond of because it reminds them of when they were spotty teenagers obsessed with fantasy roleplay, naked women in Viking hats and toast. Halfway through the first episode of season four, an episode so hotly anticipated it crashed the HBO server, I did not understand anything that was going on.
This was my fault, because I have a life and I hadn't watched the previous three seasons.