I liked Survivor more when the cast didn’t cry in every episode.

I remember the first season like it was yesterday. It was the first time my entire family focused on the weekly ritual of watching a completely fabricated reality program. This was back when a million dollars was still a king’s ransom. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire was the zeitgeist, and the idea of winning a fortune simply for not dying on an island was a tagline that actually meant something.

“I could do that,” people said from their couches, blissfully unaware of the contractually mandated torture happening off-camera.

Season one was defined by Richard Hatch. He was openly gay, strangely confident, and possessed the kind of brash, old-school toughness that suggested he’d seen things that would make a normal man quit. You didn’t fuck with Richard Hatch. Whether you loved him or hated him, you respected the game because back then there was no playbook.

I fell off after the second season. The novelty wore thin and the Wednesday night ritual didn’t feel worth the squeeze. I spent years mocking the people who kept up with it, acting like I was too sophisticated for a show that was arguably no better than The Amazing Race or Big Brother.

But Survivor didn’t die. It evolved and expanded into a massive enterprise where hidden immunity idols became the new currency. That was already reshaping the game, for the better at first. But then COVID hit and the framework shattered under new world parameters.

The game shrank to 26 days instead of 39. The pace was greatly accelerated and the storylines became increasingly manufactured. The original premise of finding food and building shelters while attempting to play out zero-sum challenges was tossed into the bin.

The producers realized that watching people starve isn’t always captivating television. Strategy is what sells. The blindsides and the big-brain outplays became the draw.

But when the game was longer and the threat of starvation was real, the tears felt earned. Tears were the result of a human being pushed to the breaking point. Now the show revolves more around emotional manipulation and fighting for airtime.

This isn’t an entirely new tactic. Jonny Fairplay proved its effectiveness in 2003 when he faked his grandmother’s death for sympathy. The cast bought it, and it gave him a distinct advantage. It was renowned as one of the most ballsy plays in Survivor history.

Because Survivor is a winner-take-all game, being a good strategic player isn’t enough anymore. You need a heartbreaking story, a sick family member, or a massive personal hurdle to sell the jury on why you deserve the money. Simply stating you want to retire with a bag of cash doesn’t cut it anymore.

That fundamental shift is what poisoned the well.

Now, crying is just a layup for lazy editors. The tough-guy persona of the early 2000s is a relic. The modern cast is a collection of “strategists” and “social experts” who treat the island like a massive group therapy session.

The meta-game now actively penalizes physical strength, viewing big muscles as an intimidating threat or a tool that is too useful to keep around.

Instead, the casting crew at CBS goes out of their way to target lifelong superfans who would rather unpack their emotional baggage for the cameras. The ideal modern contestant is highly confident, generally incompetent at survival, and ready to turn on the waterworks for guaranteed screen time.

We are four episodes into the highly anticipated Season 50 and someone has bawled their eyes out in every single one. In the latest episode, half the cast won a private Zac Brown concert on the island through a reward challenge. The winners cried over the experience being “so powerful” while the losers cried because they missed out on a “life-changing experience” with a celebrity.

“There are just so many phases in my life where his songs have played,” Dee yapped through forced tears back at camp as ultimate meta-player Rizo validated her meltdown as if missing a free concert on a game show is a rational reason to fall apart.

Not even ten minutes later, Christian broke down after Mike White warned him about repeating a past mistake. “I’ve never cried about this before,” Christian choked out to the camera alone, forcing a high-pitched voice and big sniffles. Strangely, no actual tears were visible yet his sniffles were loud enough for the back row.

“What the fuck are we watching?” I yelled at my fiance, who had already retreated into her phone.

The Survivor we knew is dead. It has been replaced by bad acting, celebrity interjection, and a total lack of the grit that made it feel real.

Who watches TV to hear people cry about being on TV?

Take a moment and rewatch this clip from season 8, the first all-star mashup, where Richard Hatch gets into a fight with a shark, bites it back, carries it ashore, and cooks it:

If you can honestly tell me that watching “RizGod” cry into his papaya about how much Survivor means to him is better television than that, then I have no greater evidence that the simulation has officially failed.