You don’t normally get to see the process of something creation.
You hear stories.
But you don’t really see Hemmingway staying up drinking himself stupid.
You don’t see Jackson Pollack spending forever feeling like shit… then drinking himself stupid.
You don’t see Charlie Parker practicing in the van on the way to the gig because he doesn’t have time to practice any other time because he’s too busy drinking himself stupid.
You don’t really get to see creative people being creative.
So to have the opportunity to see absolute experts (to some relative degree on the fucking fly, by the way) do what they do best with some of the best ingredients in the world is really amazing.
The best part is that we then get the instant gratification of watching somebody, a critic, an entertainer, a whoever, look at this creation, something anyone else would give their genitals for, and kind of go “…eh. It’s a bit dry. I’ll give it a 6.” We get to see, in a compressed package, the process of inspiration, creation, and an outside party take a shit on that creation, effectively rendering their efforts meaningless.
The idea that you are an expert in judging whether something is good or bad is like saying you’re an expert in masturbation; so is everyone else, you’ve just given yourself the title.
It’s here that you recognize how awful our idea of what criticism can be and how little respect the creator gets from their audience.
This realization all thanks to yaks and Alton Brown.