On a warm, late-spring night in 1977, I made a spur-of-the moment decision to go see a new movie called “Star Wars.” I wasn’t a huge fan of science-fiction movies, but I’d heard vague rumors that this one was good. I walked into the theater having no idea what I was about to see.

Going to the movies was no big deal; I’d been doing it all my life. The first film my parents ever took me to was a Disney-produced family comedy called “Bon Voyage.” Being six years old and unfamiliar with the French language, I misheard the title as “Googly Eyes.” I remember nothing about the movie other than getting bored halfway through, and being disappointed that no one on the screen had googly eyes.

As I got older, I gradually learned what I liked and what I didn’t. I didn’t like Westerns, or war movies, or action films, or anything where people did bad things to other people. I didn’t like mysteries or other movies that depended heavily on plotting — I could never follow complicated plots (and still can’t). What I loved were films that took me to a place or time that I could never have imagined on my own: foreign films that immersed me in unfamiliar cultures, historical films that made the distant past feel present, animated films where animals talked and people effortlessly did impossible things. I also loved films that allowed me to spend time with strong, compelling, charismatic characters (or, as in classic films from the 1930s and 40s, actors such as Humphrey Bogart or Katharine Hepburn who were pretty much indistinguishable from their characters). I didn’t care what the characters in the movie did; I just wanted the experience of being with those people in that time and place.

“Star Wars” — which, at the time I saw it, had not yet received the subtitle “Episode IV: A New Hope” — had all of those elements. Its long-ago, far-away galaxy felt real and tangible, not least because of its brilliant use of sound (the industrial hum of the light sabers, the adorable bleep-bloop language of R2D2, the labored sucking sounds of Darth Vader’s breathing). The view from the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon as it goes into hyperdrive literally took my breath away. The character of Han Solo was as good as any special effect, and I would have enjoyed the movie if it had just been Han making wisecracks. I left the movie feeling dazzled and lightheaded. I got into my little Volkswagen Beetle and tore down New Jersey’s Route 1 as if I were piloting a TIE fighter.

So, naturally, when “The Empire Strikes Back” came out three years later, I rushed out to see it. Many critics considered it superior to the original “Star Wars,” since it was scripted by a better screenwriter than George Lucas, and directed by (some would argue) a better director. But I found it surprisingly disappointing. Revisiting the Star Wars universe didn’t provide the same visceral thrill that the first film had, and being dipped in a carbonite fondue put Han Solo out of commission for too long a stretch. Instead, the film’s emphasis was on expanding the mythology that had first been laid out in “Star Wars,” which I had barely paid attention to. Suddenly I was supposed to care about imperial machinations and rebel alliances and who was whose father. I simply wasn’t interested.

Alfred Hitchcock is credited with popularizing the concept of the MacGuffin — the thing that the characters in a film care about but that the audience doesn’t. The MacGuffin is just there to set the plot in motion and to give the characters a reason to interact. An obvious example (from a non-Hitchcock film) is the Maltese Falcon in “The Maltese Falcon.” We in the audience have no emotional investment in the bird; we just want to see Humphrey Bogart match wits with Sydney Greenstreet, and eventually tell Mary Astor that she’ll be taking the fall.

My problem with the Star Wars saga is that I’m supposed to care about the MacGuffin, and I don’t. I’m obviously in the minority, though — people can spend hours debating the finer points of Star Wars canon with real passion. The popularity of franchises such as Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter shows that vast audiences have become engaged in those worlds’ mythology.

I don’t get it. When I had to learn about real mythology in school — the Greek tales of vengeful gods and flawed humans — I felt a similar lack of interest. Why spend time studying stories? I was willing to acknowledge that because these particular stories had come down to us from thousands of years ago, some familiarity with them was necessary to an understanding of Western culture. The same could be said of the stories in the Bible. But studying those things is demanding work, whereas Star Wars is supposed to be entertainment.

Given my aversion to mythology, you might be surprised to learn that I’m a long-time fan of “Doctor Who,” which has accrued a TARDIS-load of mythological baggage in the more than fifty years that it’s been on the air. But I have to confess that I can rarely follow the plots. I have no interest in the Time War or the Key of Rassilon; I just enjoy traveling through time and space in the splendid company of the Doctor. Wouldn’t you?