Reflecting on the end of “The Sopranos,” critics have spent a great deal of time over the past few weeks reminding us of all the show’s “firsts,” all the ways it broke new ground in television — and in storytelling, in general.

What I haven’t heard anyone mention, though — and what David Chase’s brilliantly provocative finis interruptus emphasized once again — is how “The Sopranos” is one of the first narratives to be embraced by the digital age.

And I use the passive voice in that last sentence consciously. Much of what made the show so compatible with new technologies could not have been anticipated or planned — even though, as the series grew older, David Chase and others behind the creation and marketing of the show became expert manipulators of its digital relationships.

And, when I say “digital,” I’m not simply talking about the fact that the Sopranos was one of the first television series to present itself unabashedly in widescreen format or that, from the beginning, it had a killer website that welcomed both casual visitors and simultaneously gave a forum for the avid fans.

On a more profound level, “The Sopranos” needed the digital world.

The uncompromising nature of the show’s deliberate pace, which emphasized precise character development and extended however-long-it-takes story arcs, made standard “Previously on …” recaps ridiculous over-simplifications and it brought the very concept of an “episode” into question.

The show required both a detailed “episode guide” — which only a website could provide — and the popularization of DVDs — specifically, in recent years, the popularization of Netflix and other online video rental services that enabled viewers to request an endless supply of rentals for a set fee.

In the end, the best way to appreciate the show was to see many episodes at once. By happenstance, many of us found ourselves stuck in front of the TV for an entire Saturday — either by sickness, malaise or just a pressing need to “catch up.” As we began to watch without pausing a minute (let alone a week) between each episode — and as our “let’s watch a couple of episodes” turned into an inevitable marathon — we began to realize that “The Sopranos” had invented a new literary form, something beyond even an epic novel in the seemingly endless layers of complexity and allegory.

At the same time, “The Sopranos” began to take on a life of its own online as boards and blogs would dissect the minutiae of the show’s every moment.

Now, “The Sopranos” wasn’t the only show that became a pawn for web prognosticators, conspiracy theorists and armchair analysts. But, in his final gesture, David Chase once again set the show apart by finding a way simultaneously to take back control of show’s life — to show who’s really in charge — and to “let go” of the show, letting it become whatever the audience wants it to be.

Whatever you think of the ending — and plenty of people have their (probably flawed) theories and differing levels of frustration (see the show’s “bulletin board” noted above) — it sent the biggest ripple through the online world of cultural criticism and fandom that I have ever seen.

As everyone struggles to figure out the significance of every angle, every movement and every sound in the final restaurant scene — and what they might portend — Chase is making Tony’s story what it always has been: our story.

This is true on a narrative level, by having Tony sit down for dinner one final time as the anxious head of a fairly familiar dysfunctional American nuclear family — all of whose members haven’t really progressed that much over years. The driving force behind the story had always been more suburban ennui than gangster violence and revenge.

It is also true on the interpretative and technological level, though, by allowing the audience to make their own story out of the show’s ruins. The final words of the series being “Don’t Stop,” in this sense, becomes almost a plea for some type of critical continuity.

In his only interview since the final episode, Chase appears to be happy to leave it all open-ended — within reason.

All I know is that he didn’t leave us empty-handed.