Reality Dating TV–The Modern Sports Franchises

Trend Spotting

As the season shifts to fall, many folks anxiously await the return of football, whether professional or collegiate (or European). The expanded schedules for these leagues mean nearly every night of the week has at least one game. But recently, it struck me that an alternative form of live sports entertainment has emerged, particularly with a demographic not very saturated by American football—Reality TV Dating Shows.

This realization hit me when my wife explained that the spin-off of Love Island, Love Island Games was scheduled to run new episodes, only on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays. 🫨 The almost-daily airing schedule was a lightbulb moment: this is media scheduling designed for maximum consumption—just like a major sports league.

After reluctantly watching a few episodes (and, admittedly, enjoying some accents), I have come to respect the force that is modern reality TV and enjoyed breaking down their operational model through the prism of major sports franchises which are the gold standard for media monetization. But unlike a long sports season, where fans can take a break or peep the scoreboard while on the go, many reality shows require 100% unrelenting viewer commitment. Let’s break down how the landscape has evolved to this point and try to make sense of what might come next.

A Chronology

By no means have I ever considered myself a Reality TV superfan, or even casual fan for that matter. I was loosely aware of female friends going over to watch new episodes of The Bachelor air live, which understandably initialized this genre as a valid spectator sport. With nearly 30 seasons, and running steady since 2002, The Bachelor is a clear hallmark of the first mover that still maintains relevance today.

This is a summary view of the scope of this franchise. The Bachelor has also aired international versions in over 3 dozen countries. This growth to become a global franchise began long before the modern internet when streaming giants like Netflix were still mailing DVDs.

If we fast-forward just a few years, enter the modern streaming reality franchises: with global reach and scalability of the cloud infrastructure, plus the immediate feedback loop (esp. as it relates to subscriber retention), Love Island and Love Is Blind have amassed an uncanny amount of global viewership:

For Love Island to reach (and even surpass) The Bachelor’s scale in only 10 years is pretty nuts. The key difference is not just the volume of seasons, but the format itself: a season of The Bachelor produces around a dozen episodes, whereas a single international edition of Love Island can generate 30 to over 50 episodes in one run, often airing six days a week. This difference in volume is the core of their optimization model. But I think there’s a few key features of these franchises and their models and format that are not merely accidental.

Unraveling the Franchise Model Optimization 🧶

Once you step back to appreciate the size (in sheer number of seasons & episodes) and scope (global footprint) one can easily see how this is a cash cow for Netflix and Peacock, not unlike the professional live sports media markets that remain the darlings of traditional television advertising.¹

Once a show reaches viral status in a single market, the format can be quickly spun up and repeated into dozens of other markets. A single show quickly morphs into a television franchise, with each spin off or international version on par with a team. And of course, the roster of players on each of these teams is made up of contestants.

And the competition itself is not where the frenzy ends. Many of these shows have adopted the sports talk show model, with reunion episodes (or entire seasons!) to further break down the live action (and why not stir the pot while we’re all here?). Podcasts, sub Reddit threads and more let every viewer in on the action.

The hosts act as the face of the franchise, i.e. its commissioner, while the players and their status or trade-value aren’t necessarily as clear-cut as PPG or OPS+. Instead, their value is more deeply woven into the formula for the show as a way to reach viewers in indirect ways, like influencer reach via contestants’ social media following. But if the primary goal is no longer finding “true love,” but rather achieving personal brand velocity, how does this affect the competition itself? This brings us to a key shift in the reality TV game—the changing incentives for the contestants.

Shifting Incentives: Is This Pro Wrestling?

For years this genre of reality TV featured a straightforward singular or perhaps dual-purpose: find true love and/or win prize money. Nowadays, the opportunity to compete (winning is merely a bonus) comes as a clear launchpad to a career as an influencer. 🚀

Let’s set aside the lack of prize money growth to keep up with inflation (and the fact that any award is pre-tax), consider the chance to take home 100 thousand dollars is grossly outweighed by the chance to rake in thousands of dollars per sponsored post. As a result, many of the incentives to be on these shows (and sign contract extensions, or be re-cast) has shifted to where the real money can be made for the contestants.

By now all considerations for casting contestants is clouded in ulterior motives of show producers. In order to maximize reachability outside a shows broadcast, producers may seek the most compelling characters for meme-ability, the highest follower count or other new measures of marketability.

Quick aside. Warning, contains data 📊 (click to expand)

Since quitting Instagram and most other social media platforms, I hadn’t been privy to an account @bachelordata that covers lots of these same topics with a heavy dose of data visualization. See one example below:

This parallel isn’t lost on contestants either, though—just as in professional sports, player endorsement and brand deals can eclipse their salaries. The show is merely the stage and the contestants are operating perfectly rationally by seeking to maximize their own value as a temporary media asset.

Separation Anxiety

We’ve identified the analogous components: contestants are akin to players, hosts to league commissioners, but the content release schedule itself is weaponized for viewer retention.

Traditional network shows only air once a week for ~10 weeks, which makes for a manageable time commitment, while streaming franchises can turn it up to eleven and adopt a nearly daily broadcast model.

This can trigger FOMO (fear of missing out) in viewers, due to the narrative plot requiring unrelenting commitment, more similar to a playoff run than a regular season. If you miss one episode, you miss key drama (new coupling, a major fight, back-stabbing) and ability to participate in all the surrounding discussion.

This is where the streaming franchises extend beyond professional sports. If your team has a bad week or two, you can take a short break and merely keep an eye on the box score to stay loosely connected. But with reality TV, viewer addiction is stronger—streaming platforms have binge-proofed their content by releasing episodes almost daily. Fans’ routine of watching content regularly AND as soon as it drops is the pinnacle of subscriber engagement and retention.

Conclusion: The Content Dynasty 🏆

The franchise model’s mastery of media optimization is undeniable: it converts low-cost production into a high-volume, near-daily content stream that reliably captures and retains audience attention. This acceleration—from a modest network show to a global, multi-market streaming dynasty in a single decade—is a phenomenal business success.

But I must ask: Is this actually good for the consumer?

In traditional professional sports, the appeal lies in a foundational meritocracy. We accept the drama, the trades, and the politics because the core competition is governed by fixed rules and real athletic performance. The producer (the league) is distinct from the player (the athlete). The moment that line is blurred—such as with the recent scandals involving sports betting and the fixing of games in professional leagues like the NBA—the entire value proposition collapses, and the audience feels exploited.

The reality dating franchise, however, has always operated on blurred lines. Producers constantly change or invent rules to maximize drama, control cast dynamics for retention, and select what version of “reality” the audience sees.² The contestants, in turn, are primarily incentivized to build a brand, not a lasting relationship. The show is not a true meritocracy; it is a manufactured narrative optimized for engagement.

This optimization is not new, nor is it harmless. This content dynasty’s massive growth follows a familiar playbook of other industries where the initial great consumer value was later uncovered to contain significant ethical problems: Fast Fashion’s environmental costs or Social Media’s effect on youth mental health.

However, the reality is that the critique of a few over-the-shoulder viewers is unlikely to draw attention or validation from the millions of dedicated fans who genuinely enjoy the genre. The reality TV dating franchise is too successful, too integrated into the streaming ecosystem, and too entertaining to simply revolt against. The goal, then, cannot be to eliminate the genre, but to encourage a new form of consumer awareness.

Instead of demanding a full on revolt, perhaps we should simply demand a new level of transparency. In the same way that nutrition labels offer caloric information and ingredients to help consumers interpret the differences—even if subtle—between two comparable products, the audience deserves a similar form of disclosure for the media they consume. We accept the drama, the brand deals, and the manufactured storylines as part of the entertainment contract, but we should be able to look behind the curtain.

If every franchise was forced to publish its “ingredients,” perhaps viewers could consume it with a more critical, informed eye. It might look something like this: