The National Labor Relations Board’s (NLRB) recent complaint against “Love is Blind” is a groundbreaking moment for the reality television industry.   In essence, by classifying contestants as employees and accusing the show of labor violations, including unlawful contractual terms, the NLRB aims to offer federal protections to participants.   This ruling, while a well-intentioned attempt to address alleged exploitation, overlooks the transformative financial and social opportunities these contestants gain after their time on the show. It also raises critical questions about the nature of reality television and whether these contestants truly fit the definition of “employees.” Here’s where I admit that I watch no television of any sort, aside from sports and, yes, this self-same “Love is Blind.” Season 1 of Sweden’s franchise (which I have the good fortune to be able to follow in the native language) might be the greatest reality show in history, and I highly recommend it.   But back to the legal side of things. While there’s no denying that appearing on a reality show like “Love is Blind” can be an intense and challenging experience, characterizing contestants as employees is a step too far. Reality television is not traditional employment. Its participants are not traditional workers. Contestants voluntarily sign contracts to join these shows, knowing full well they will be subject to scrutiny, long hours and, in some cases, emotionally taxing situations. These challenges, however, are part of what makes the genre compelling for audiences — and lucrative for contestants once the show airs. The heart of the NLRB’s argument seems to rest on the idea that these contestants are being “taken advantage of” due to restrictive contractual clauses like non-competes and confidentiality agreements. These provisions, however, are standard in the entertainment industry, particularly for high-profile productions. They serve a purpose: protecting the creative integrity of the show and ensuring that participants don’t divulge plot points or disrupt the narrative arc. Non-competes, while potentially problematic in some industries, are arguably less burdensome in reality television, where the contracts typically only apply for a limited time.  Moreover, even if we accept the argument that reality shows can be tough on contestants, it’s important to consider what happens after the cameras stop rolling. Being cast on a hit show like “Love is Blind” is a life-changing opportunity. Contestants gain instant visibility and access to a platform that can launch careers in ways unimaginable before the advent of reality television. Consider the case of Lauren Speed-Hamilton and Cameron Hamilton, two contestants who married during the first season of “Love is Blind.” The couple parlayed their fame into lucrative brand partnerships, a book deal and a thriving social media presence. Lauren now boasts over 2 million Instagram followers, allowing her to command substantial fees for sponsored posts and collaborations. This is a trajectory that many reality television contestants aspire to, and for good reason — the monetization opportunities available after the show far outweigh any perceived disadvantages during filming.  Even contestants who don’t find love or make it to the finale can reap enormous benefits. Bartise Bowden, for example, didn’t marry on the show but used his time in the spotlight to build a career as a fitness influencer. These post-show opportunities would not exist without the visibility provided by the series. For most contestants, the tradeoff is clear: temporary discomfort in exchange for long-term gains.  The NLRB’s complaint also risks misunderstanding the nature of reality television itself. These shows are not workplaces in the traditional sense. Contestants are not hired to perform tasks or produce goods; they are chosen for their personalities, stories and potential to create compelling television. They are participants in a narrative experiment, not employees in a corporate hierarchy.  Labeling them as employees sets a dangerous precedent that could stifle the creativity and spontaneity that make reality shows so popular. If producers are forced to treat contestants as employees, complete with union protections and workplace standards, the genre will inevitably change. Will audiences still tune in if every moment is carefully controlled to avoid potential labor violations? It’s unlikely.  Higher courts, if this case progresses, should weigh these considerations carefully. The ruling also raises concerns about whether participants will now need to negotiate collective bargaining agreements before filming begins — an outcome that could grind production to a halt and ultimately hurt the contestants themselves.  Furthermore, unionization is a complex and often contentious process. For every advantage it might bring, it also introduces bureaucracy and costs that could make smaller or niche reality shows financially unfeasible. This is particularly problematic for the genre’s diversity, as it risks sidelining productions that can’t afford the overhead associated with unionized cast members.  Critics of reality television often paint its participants as victims of a ruthless entertainment machine. This perspective overlooks the agency and ambition that many contestants bring to their roles. But the reality is often the exact opposite. They are not passive actors being manipulated by producers; they are savvy individuals who understand that reality television is a springboard for greater opportunities.  That’s not to say that reality television contracts couldn’t benefit from some reform. Transparency about the terms and conditions, as well as access to mental health resources, could go a long way in addressing concerns about contestant welfare. However, these measures can be implemented without fundamentally altering the nature of the genre or misclassifying contestants as employees.  In the end, reality television is about creating stories that resonate with audiences while offering contestants a chance to change their lives. The NLRB’s complaint risks undermining that balance by imposing a framework that doesn’t fit the industry’s unique dynamics. Instead of focusing on misclassification, let’s celebrate the opportunities that reality television provides and work to ensure that those opportunities remain accessible for years to come.  Aron Solomon is the chief strategy officer for Amplify. He has taught entrepreneurship at McGill University and the University of Pennsylvania.