For many sports-agnostic viewers like myself, Super Bowl ads are equally as entertaining as (if not more enjoyable than) the Big Game itself. They’re cultural moments; miniature films with multi-million-dollar budgets that capture the past year’s zeitgeist (and, hopefully, sell something).
And though the days of viral Game-Day ads appear to be behind us (looking at you, E*Trade babies), this year’s lineup saw a few standout spots. From medieval feasts and nostalgic sing-alongs to Oedipal horrors, here are the five that stuck with us—and what made them work.
A primary blue screen counts backward from 5. After 1, the lyrics to “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” start to appear, highlighted in yellow with the song’s progression. With the immediately recognizable karaoke imagery, viewers instinctively sing along.
The final build approaches—”Backstreet’s back, alright!”—and instead of the expected lyric, the screen reads one word:
coinbase.
Everyone’s heard that when it comes to real estate, it’s all about “location, location, location.” A similar principle is at play here: this commercial’s all about placement.
The Super Bowl presents one of the few remaining truly communal viewing moments in American media. People are in living rooms together, half-watching, half-talking. A karaoke screen turns that passive attention into participation.
Everyone at my watch party was (enthusiastically) singing along until the last frame when the lyrics swerved, and the room collectively went, “Wait… what?”
Somewhat confoundingly, the ad doesn’t explain anything. It doesn’t introduce a new feature, explain Coinbase’s value proposition, or even attempt a rational argument for investing in crypto. Instead, it creates a shared moment of recognition and surprise. Perhaps that’s a goal enough in a postmodern media landscape.
The Y2K karaoke aesthetic felt retro in a way that reads playful rather than dated or try-hard (though, admittedly, this may be meaningless coming from a Zillennial). By borrowing the visual language of early-2000s media, the ad positions Coinbase as culturally aware and self-aware. It’s giving… less institutional finance and more internet-native.
So, did it persuade me to open an account? …Nope.
Did it earn recall? Yes. …And that’s about it.
Calling the commercial a “masterclass in using the right media for the job” would be an overstatement. But it fully capitalized on its captive audience and had everyone singing along (something that can’t necessarily be said for T-Mobile’s Backstreet Boys spot).
The setting is lavish: a medieval-style banquet. Celebrities dressed to the nines in ornate finery sit around a long, candelit table set with elegantly plated takeout dishes. A server presents the final course under a silver cloche: “the fees.”
Cue collective horror.
“Oh, no.”
“I couldn’t possibly stomach the fees.”
The refrain builds until a diner pounds a fist on the table: “Who will eat the fees?”
Grubhub will. No delivery or service fees on restaurant orders over $50.
There’s something unifying about a good play on words, and this one delivers. The reveal of the silver platter is the punchline: Grubhub will “eat” the fees no one else can stomach.
Treating “fees” as a literal dish carries the concept. The escalating excuses (“I have a terrible fee allergy”), outrage, and fist-pounding add mock gravitas, as if the kingdom is bracing for war or famine rather than confronting a checkout-screen surcharge.
The medieval staging also does significant work to sell the premise. The castle backdrop, costumes, and pageantry create contrast. It’s high drama for a lowly modern frustration.
The offer itself (no delivery fees, no service fees on restaurant orders over $50) is concrete and easy to remember. But it’s the right metaphor that makes it stick.
It’s proof that sometimes, all it takes is finding the right words for your message—then building an entire world around it.
Two families arrive in the same neighborhood carrying very different emotional baggage.
The first, a Latino family moving for a job opportunity, is shown driving away from their teenage daughter’s group of friends. The second teenager, a white girl in her bedroom, splits her belongings into boxes labeled for shipment to Mom’s and Dad’s.
In the new neighborhood, small moments of tension emerge. The white girl’s dog barks at the girl of color while she skateboards past. Edgar, the latter’s father, attempts small talk with an older white neighbor, an American flag fixed prominently behind him: “Big storm coming in,” he attempts, met only with a silent, dismissive glance.
Then the storm hits.
The dog goes missing, only to be found and returned by the very girl it barked at. Tearful gratitude replaces the owner’s initial distance. Later, Edgar clears a fallen tree limb from his older neighbor’s driveway, now met with an appreciative smile.
The final montage widens the lens: strangers help gather spilled groceries, push a car uphill in the rain, and lift a stroller up a set of stairs. The on-screen text: America could use a neighbor like you.
Though it debuted at a time of unprecedented interpersonal and cultural division (that very day, an alternative Half Time Show offered reprieve to football fans offended by… an American performer?), this commercial doesn’t pretend to solve our nation’s issues.
It’s not a grand call to unity; an ad urging Americans to “come together.” It never implores viewers to reconcile ideology or resolve differences. Instead, it zooms in on important everyday moments.
The barking dog, snubbed greeting, and flag in frame all create tension without being overt or overstated. The script trusts the audience to feel the friction. And the solution to this tension is found in the same way it began: in small moments and kind gestures.
Rather than positioning neighborliness as agreement or concession, the spot reframes it as action. You don’t have to share beliefs; you just have to show up when it matters.
It also treats homeownership honestly. Moving is emotional and destabilizing, whether it results from divorce or a new, better opportunity. The dream isn’t presented as effortless, but as human (and worth it).
The trust that builds is paramount. In a transactional industry, Redfin and Rocket Mortgage are positioning themselves as facilitators of belonging in an admittedly imperfect world. More than square footage, they’re selling entry into a community. It’s an example of advertising that goes beyond the product to tell the story of the kind of world the brand makes possible.
It’s a sea of backsides; a series of pockets with the curved “V” stitching and red label. Different bodies, different fits and washes, different eras and contexts. The camera lingers just long enough to make the point: everyone(’s butt) looks good in Levi’s.
It’s eye-catching and playful. Simple and accessible, like jeans themselves. There’s no complex setup; just jeans.
But as the montage expands, the meaning deepens. The viewer moves through cultural touchpoints: a lone cowboy entering a saloon, followed by Woody from Toy Story; a shoot capturing Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. cover; dancers and athletes and construction workers. The throughline pivots from the body to history, and Levi’s is the common thread woven throughout.
On-screen: Originals have one thing in common: a story worth telling. And they’re written in denim.
The ad starts cheekily. The viewer is hypnotized with gyrating bottoms, their attention held with an ever-changing collage of flashy frames. The ad earns that attention, however, with the richness of its references.
From dancefloors and studios to rock faces, poolsides, and city streets, denim becomes a shorthand for identity: rebellion, labor, artistry, youth, reinvention. In 30 seconds, Levi’s positions itself as intergenerational, cross-cultural, and distinctly American. All it takes is a series of images, and the viewer has a moment of recognition: “It’s all Levi’s, isn’t it?” (The answer? “Always has been.”)
The line “Originals have one thing in common” serves dual functions, both flattering the wearer (“you, too, are an original,” contradictory as that might be) and elevating the brand. When you wear Levi’s, you’re not just wearing jeans—you’re participating in a lineage.
Levi’s trusts its icon status, and they leaned into it. When a brand is truly iconic, sometimes the smartest move is simply to remind people why.
Text flashes on screen in large, bold letters: BETRAYAL.
A twentysomething-year-old sits on the couch in his apartment. Gazing downward, he asks aloud, “How do I communicate better with my mom?”
His focus shifts upward, and we cut to a woman sitting across from him: a radiant blonde in her fifties or sixties.
“Great question,” she replies. “Improved communication with your mom can bring you closer.”
She offers several techniques: active listening. Finding common ground. Connecting over activities—“Perhaps a nature walk.”
Suddenly, she leans in. Her gaze intensifies, and a coy smile emerges.
“Or,” she proposes, “if the relationship can’t be fixed, find emotional connection with older women on Golden Encounters: the mature dating site that connects sensitive cubs with roaring cougars.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence; a pause, followed by the son’s disbelief: “What?”
“Would you like me to create your profile?”
On-screen text: Ads are coming to AI. But not to Claude.
This commercial subverts expectations on multiple levels.
At first, we assume it’s an ad for an AI agent. The motherly figure, the AI model personified, responds in a cadence familiar to those aware of generative AI’s language patterns: affirmative, structured, rhythmically repetitive.
We’re led to believe that the brand behind the spot has created this humanized model in earnest; that the advice being relayed represents the model’s typical responses. Though the delivery is slightly robotic, the relationship-building tips are passable as well-meaning, actionable advice. You may not pay to use this model, but you might ask it for the title of a forgotten novel or the different uses for grenadine syrup.
Then, suddenly, we’re shocked with the reveal: it’s an ad for a cougar dating app. Wow.
Finally, just as we’ve started to accept this Ashley-Madison-esque betrayal, we’re proven wrong yet again. It is an ad for AI, just not the one suggesting nature walks with Mom.
Through sheer Oedipal horror, this commercial makes us uncomfortable with AI-integrated advertising, whether we cared before or not. The subversion—as whiplash-inducing as it may be—works because it’s believable: the transition from advice to advert is seamless. And that believability is what makes it feel so intrusive, manipulative, and unsettling.
The ad doesn’t lecture us about ethics or privacy. It just shows us the future we’re sleepwalking into, then lets disgust do the rest. But it also isn’t making us squirm just for shock value; Anthropic shows us a reality we’d very much like to avoid, then positions itself as the alternative.
It’s competitive advertising at its best: never name the competition, just make us feel why we should care about the difference. And this spot certainly elicited emotions that I, for one, cannot unfeel.