The Ethics of True Crime: Where Do We Draw the Line?

True crime is one of the most-watched and most listened-to genres globally. Shows like Dahmer have drawn hundreds of millions of viewing hours on platforms like Netflix, while in the podcast space, true crime ranked in 2024 as the third most listened-to genre in the U.S. alone, rising from 6.7 million weekly listeners in 2019 to over 19.1 million just five years later. Countries like Spain, Germany, and Finland have seen similar spikes, making true crime rank among the top podcast genres across continents.

But as the genre grows, so does the tension between awareness and exploitation. Victims’ stories are retold without consent, details get twisted for dramatic effect, and killers are elevated into cultural figures—-all ethically problematic. If you’ve ever binged a true crime show—hooked, but uneasy—it’s worth asking what that discomfort is really about. Are we learning something useful, or just consuming someone else’s trauma for entertainment?

This article explores the ethical questions behind true crime’s popularity, including:

How true crime affects the families of victims
The line between fact and dramatization
Why society is fascinated with killers
The risks of glorifying criminals
What responsible storytelling looks like in this space

At the end of this article, you’ll understand how to consume true crime responsibly, without ignoring its real-world consequences.

The victims and their families: exploited or honored?

Why does true crime exist as a genre? At its best, it claims to inform, raise awareness, and sometimes even help solve cases. It draws viewers in with real events, unanswered questions, and a sense of urgency. But that promise comes with a cost—these aren’t just narratives; they’re the worst moments of real people’s lives.

Too often, those stories are told without input from the people most affected. The aforementioned Monster: The Jeffrey Dahmer Story is one example. The show went viral, but multiple families of Dahmer’s victims said they were never contacted. Errol Lindsey’s sister called it “retraumatizing,” saying her family had to watch their grief repackaged for entertainment without warning, context, or permission. And this isn’t rare; families frequently find out about these shows through trailers or headlines, with no say in how their loved one’s story is told.

The issue isn’t whether these stories should be told; it’s how. Do they center the victim or reduce them to the background? Are families heard, or erased entirely? That’s what separates responsible storytelling from exploitation.

Creative license vs factual accuracy

Aside from leaving victims’ families out of the process, many true crime projects also take creative liberties that reshape what really happened. Real events get restructured. Characters are merged, timelines shift, and fictionalized scenes fill in the blanks.

In The Act, which tells the story of Gypsy Rose Blanchard and the murder of her mother, Dee Dee, names were changed and private conversations were imagined to heighten the drama. While the series was praised for its emotional depth, it also drew criticism for sensationalizing trauma and blurring the line between fact and fiction.

These creative changes aren’t just storytelling choices—they shape how people understand real events. When fiction is taken as fact, it can lead to serious consequences: public confusion, misplaced blame, or harassment of those involved.

In some cases, it can even affect ongoing investigations or legal outcomes. A clear example is The Indrani Mukerjea Story: Buried Truth, a Netflix documentary released while the Sheena Bora murder case was still ongoing in India. The documentary’s focus on the accused, while sidelining the victim, raised serious concerns about how it could influence public opinion and compromise fairness, especially in a legal system without juries.

That’s why the line between narrative and truth matters. When dramatization overshadows accuracy, the result isn’t just a compelling show; it’s a distorted version of reality that carries real-world risks.

Glorifying killers–the morbid obsession

When true crime prioritizes narrative over accuracy, the focus often goes to the perpetrator. Stories zoom in on how the killer thought, acted, and manipulated those around them—casting them as intriguing, even charismatic figures. Over time, this framing blurs the line between analysis and admiration, turning the criminal into the centerpiece while reducing the victim to a footnote.

Ted Bundy is one of the clearest examples. In Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile (2019), Zac Efron’s performance sparked backlash for portraying Bundy with too much charm and too little brutality. Critics pointed out that the film focused more on his appeal than his crimes, feeding public fascination and diluting the true horror of what he did.

Consent, privacy, and legal grey areas

One of the most uncomfortable truths about true crime is that most stories can be told without the subject’s consent. In many countries, including the U.S. and India, court documents, arrest records, and trial proceedings are considered public record. That means filmmakers, podcasters, and producers can legally build entire narratives using real names and details, all without ever contacting the people involved.

But legal doesn’t always mean ethical. Victims and their families may not want to relive traumatic events, especially when those events are reshaped for drama or suspense. As mentioned above, some may not even know their story is being adapted until it appears on screen, raising serious concerns about consent, retraumatization, and control over personal narratives.

This tension has already sparked backlash and legal action. From families threatening defamation suits to accusations of misrepresentation and emotional harm, more creators are being challenged not just on what they say, but how they say it. And as the genre grows, so does the pressure to balance legal access with basic human decency.

Toward ethical true crime

Despite the genre’s issues, a growing number of creators are rethinking how true crime stories are told. The best among them go beyond headlines—they fact-check thoroughly, consult families when possible, and shift the focus from sensationalism to impact. The goal isn’t just to recount a crime, but to handle it with care.

One strong example is the Crime Junkie podcast by audiochuck. In recent years, hosts Ashley Flowers and Brit Prawat have adopted a more victim-first approach partnering with families, funding cold case work, and linking to fundraisers in their show notes. They’ve also removed episodes at the request of victims’ families and now explicitly state when family members decline to participate.

Connie Walker’s Missing & Murdered podcast is another standout. Focused on Indigenous women and girls in Canada, it centers on survivors and relatives, avoids graphic details, and uses trauma-informed reporting to guide its storytelling. Walker’s work has been widely praised for giving power back to the communities most impacted by violence.

These kinds of approaches often rely on clearer ethical frameworks: “do no harm,” “victim-first,” and “nothing about us without us.” When creators follow these principles, true crime becomes more than a genre—it becomes a tool for accountability, advocacy, and justice.

Conclusion

True crime doesn’t exist in a vacuum. The choices we make as viewers—what we click, binge, or recommend—shape the kind of content that gets produced. That doesn’t mean we have to stop watching, but it does mean we should pay closer attention to how these stories are told.

Was the victim treated with care? Did the creators fact-check or consult the people involved? Was the goal to inform—or just to entertain? These are small questions that add up to a more responsible way of engaging with the genre.

To wrap things up, true crime has the potential to educate, reveal gaps in the justice system, and even help solve cases. But that only happens when the storytelling respects the people behind the case—not just the audience watching it.