There was a bit of a spectacle going on in the house that Stan built—of course, it was an internet spectacle, which meant it wasn't as important as the Return of Stephanie Brown, but it was a "Spectacle!" nonetheless. With the most broad strokes possible, here's some background: Some person (probably a dude) who works in some capacity at Marvel Comics, was anonymously blogging his (or her, but seriously, probably a dude) discontent with all things Marvel. Going by the name "Marvelboy," the discontent includes writers Marvelboy doesn't like—which isn't anything new, you can find plenty of people with nasty complaints against anybody who takes the thankless job of coming up with adventures for the Blue "Are You Being Serious?" Beetle—but occasionally, Marvelboy was dropping some plot spoilers. Spoilers that weren't much beyond "this character is going to die" and "this comic will be shocking and may feature this," but the spoilers were apparently enough to tick off Marvel's legal department, who recently may have sent out a Cease & Desist order. (Apologies all around for all the equivocations—anonymously posting could also mean that this Marvelboy wasn't really an employee.)

None of that, regardless of what you might hear, was fascinating stuff. People snarking at their employer on company time has been around a lot longer than Krypto the Super-Dog, and excepting when it involves some Erin Brockovich "we had this water brought in special" moments, it's always going to appeal mostly to the select few immersed in the field that's getting kicked in the hoo-haa. What is interesting, and what is worth looking at after this whole thing dies down (which it will, rest assured) is what other internet commentators have pointed out: that, somehow, plot spoilers are becoming so much the main commodity of the super-hero comic that protecting them has become just as important as making sure that no one can buy watercolor paintings of Batman making out with Robin.

Spoiling, like snarking at the boss, isn't a new phenomenon—but in the age of camera phones and cable modems, it's become a serious problem for the creative industry. Movie and TV producers regularly limit the copies of scripts for high-value work like 24 or a Batman film, American Idol rehearsal audiences are studiously purged of those who might point out the probable lousiest singer during the "live" taping, and any review of a film in the last ten years is likely to be rife with emboldened "Spoiler Warnings!" Every fan has had their moments where something has gotten spoiled—whether you read a review of the Sopranos season finale before you watched it, or tried to find out when the next season of Spooks started and accidentally discovered Danny's execution—even fans of that hideous Arli$$ show probably experienced that feeling of "I didn't want to know that!" What's sort of amazing is the rage that seems to come next—the anger that only seems to strike the fans, as people who just watch 24 for enjoyment are unlikely to stay up late reading blogs about it anyway. But fans—it's a big deal to them. They wanted to go to the comic store on Wednesday last year and find out about Captain America getting shot when it happened, but it was in the New York Post that morning before the doors opened. It didn't affect sales then, but if Marvel's getting the legal department involved now? That means Marvel is worried it is going to strike the bottom line. Make no mistake—you don't bring the lawyers in because you're worried about the purity of art, or creative freedom, or any of those aesthetic explanations. You bring in the lawyers because you think somebody is going after your money.

Is it true? Is Marvel in a place where spoiling a plot twist, where the hijack of a Secret Invasion cliffhanger on the internet is going to keep that many readers out the door? There's little argument for thinking the answer is no—just as we're rapidly running out of explanations for why comics should pursue a single-issue market when the trade collections and bookstore sales continue the trend towards beating them in for fiscal returns, we've run out of reasons to make the Wednesday trip that aren't wrapped up in an addiction to nostalgia. Very few super-hero comics are telling their best stories in the single-issue format anyway—Detective Comics still experiments with it, Wolverine has had a few of them, but across the board, the best work in this field has been those that span six issues. And six issues makes for a trade—which is what Barnes & Noble and Amazon like to sell. The only draw of the single issue, the Wednesday trip, is the hope of the surprise. Finding out that Xorn is Magneto, seeing Fraction's Punisher forced to kill a journalist—and if it's been spoiled for you, then maybe you'll just wait and buy it discounted online when it's collected into something that you'll probably enjoy reading more, something that doesn't come laced with advertisements for acne medication, histrionic video games and terrible movies. Something that is, in some cases, cheaper than paying for the regular issues, and looks better on your shelf.

Or maybe you'll just give up entirely. The internet can't spoil a Fun Home, or a Persepolis, or a 1-800-Mice. Nobody ever avoided Jeffrey Brown's Clumsy because they heard it was about a break-up. But if you already know who the Skrulls are, why not bide your time and wait for a Secret Invasion trade? That's a problem that isn't going to go away when Marvel finishes their detective work. It's a problem that's going to keep on happening, for as long as super-hero comics remain dependent on the shock instead of craft.

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