Actually, let me extend the analogy a little.
We’re like an indie film studio that’s set up shop in a city.
At first, we made our own movies. And we distributed those movies to streaming services like Netflix, and we built up a reputation for a certain type of movie. Thankfully, there were movie-watchers all over the world who liked what we did, and they streamed our movies over and over again.
Since then, we’ve discovered that our cameras are free to multiply. Seriously, we have as many cameras as anyone could ever need; and if we ever run out, poof, there are more! So we said, hey, let’s give these cameras out to anyone who wants them. We even have instruction manuals on how to use them, and some advice about what we think makes a good movie. And since it’s free make more cameras, there’s no reason to charge you for it. In exchange, when (if) you finish, we get the right to distribute your movie. See, that was the trick. The camera makes the movie in a special file format, and we’re the only ones that can convert that file format to something that Netflix can stream.
But that’s ok, because making a movie with our free cameras is a surer bet than renting/buying your own camera, making a movie, and then trying to get Netflix to give you some money for it…but which you’d probably just end up putting on YouTube and praying that it went viral. After all, a lot of people will give your movie a shot just because we’ve distributed you, and we made those cool movies ourselves back when.
Then people started making movies with our cameras, and when they finished, we distributed them to Netflix. Like us, those early movies were made by auteurs–writer/directors–who had never made a movie before. And some of their films weren’t very good, and some of them were. Most importantly, though, the new people didn’t understand the aesthetic that had defined our first few movies. They were making their own idiosyncratic movies. Part of that was our fault: we didn’t talk with them about their idea for a movie before they started filming. Moreover, not everyone agreed that our aesthetic was the right one. So, really, maybe they were good movies? Who were we to judge? All we could say was that it wasn’t the same type of movie that we were making.
So we decided to divide our distribution channels. We decided that any auteur–even those with absolutely no prior filmmaking experience–could try their hand at making a movie. And if they did, we’d get their movie streaming on Netflix.
But those auteurs with prior filmmaking experience, well, we’d provide them with editing services (both pre- and post-), a production schedule, and we’d finance their work, to reflect their prior experience and the fact that they had to bend their auteur-ial vision to fit within our production studio’s aesthetic vision–and that we expected that aesthetic to produce commercial success. And though we’ve made some mistakes, we’ve gotten enough things right that we’re actually making enough from Netflix that we can keep doing this, and there’s some reasonable hope that we will be around for a while yet.
Meanwhile, we still loan out cameras for free. In that case, the auteurs edit their own movies and produce it themselves. Absent guidance from us, they can do whatever they want. They can film a blank wall for three days, and call that a movie; and however much it makes, they get a percentage.
And it’s important that that freedom continue. It needs to continue because the “aesthetic” that we’ve identified may be flawed or not scale-able or have any number of other weaknesses. But we’re using it because our monthly streaming-numbers continue to increase, so we figure we’re doing something right. But what if we’re wrong? Or what if we could do better? All our community auteurs are using our cameras to innovate. And that’s great. Someday, they just might produce something that really catapults us to a new level (in fact, there’s a case to be made about Paradox Factor here).
Further, next door to our production studio, there’s a coffeeshop. And several of the community auteurs (and even a few of the professional ones recruited by the studio) hang out and talk about all the great movies the studio is producing. And this coffeeshop has developed its own culture: its own set of rules, likes, and dislikes. Often, when a movie is almost done, we go over to the coffeeshop and invite whoever’s around to swing by for a preview, and to give their input afterwards. Sometimes we agree with those opinions, and sometimes we don’t. As I said before, the coffeeshop has its own culture, and that culture doesn’t entirely line up with the hard data provided by Netflix about what’s sold and what doesn’t. So we have to make judgment calls: we have to look at the sales data, the auteur’s vision, our own aesthetic judgment, and try to listen to the opinions of whatever cranks from the coffeeshop happened to be there when we announced the screening. 
However, we’re still a very small studio, competing against a host of other AAA studios and indie studios and independent auteurs (that aren’t using our cameras). And Netflix could get pissy at any time and stop streaming our whole library. It’s a delicate situation, and we do a lot of reading of tea-leaves. And that’s why we’re so wedded to our aesthetic: it’s worked for us so far. But that’s why we also want to keep loaning out cameras: because maybe, just maybe, a film about a wall will turn out to be a heart-wrenching statement about time and loss.
So I wouldn’t compare COG and HG to Studio vs Indie. Rather, it’s an Indie studio that also distributes the movies made using the equipment that it loans out to individuals in the community.