The Problem With Award Shows Nobody Talks About

There was a time when award shows were magical. Glitzy gowns, heartfelt speeches, standing ovations, and the belief that talent and hard work would always be recognized. But something has shifted. For years now, murmurs of discontent have grown into full-blown criticism, and while the conversations around diversity, snubs, and politics have been heard in mainstream circles, there's a deeper issue that remains largely untouched. The problem with award shows isn't just about who wins or loses—it's about the illusion they’ve carefully built, the emotional manipulation they encourage, and the way they subtly reinforce hierarchy in the creative world.

Let’s begin with the myth of meritocracy. Award shows, whether they’re for movies, music, television, or literature, like to present themselves as the final word on “excellence.” What we forget is that behind every nomination is a marketing campaign. Behind every winner is a team of publicists, strategists, and executives who understand the system. It's not just about the performance or the work—it's about how much money a studio can throw into For Your Consideration ads, how many dinners they can host, and how many Academy members they can charm or influence. This turns the playing field uneven, favoring big-budget productions and established names over quiet brilliance or independent artistry. It sends the message that visibility equals value, when in truth, some of the most powerful work often goes unseen.

Award shows also create a strange emotional dynamic among viewers. On the surface, they're a celebration, but dig deeper, and they resemble a form of collective validation-seeking. Audiences become attached to certain nominees—not just because they admire them, but because they feel seen through them. When those favorites lose, it stings, not just as disappointment, but as personal erasure. The internet then erupts in outrage, memes are born, and the cycle continues. In that way, award shows manipulate our emotions, subtly telling us what art is “worth” celebrating and what isn’t—even though art, by nature, is subjective.

Another unspoken problem is how these shows perpetuate cultural gatekeeping. In a global world, it’s ironic how few international artists are represented. It’s not just about a lack of translation or exposure—it’s about control. English-language media dominates these ceremonies, and while token inclusions are growing, they rarely break the glass ceiling of top categories. This narrows the lens through which we view global excellence. For a medium like film or music that thrives on diversity and borderless creativity, it’s troubling that award shows still operate from such a limited viewpoint.

Even among the celebrated, award shows often reward consistency over risk. Take a closer look and you’ll notice how many nominations go to past winners, safe bets, or those with long-overdue narratives. There’s something comforting about honoring someone who’s “earned” it over time, but that comfort comes at the expense of recognizing fresh, disruptive voices. The desire to correct past snubs also leads to a strange balancing act where winners are chosen not purely on merit, but on politics, timing, or public pressure. In trying to fix their past, award shows sometimes distort the present.

One of the most overlooked aspects, though, is the psychological toll these events take on creators themselves. The people sitting in the audience—the ones we watch crying or clapping on cue—carry a heavy emotional load. The buildup to these shows is intense. There’s pressure to look perfect, say the right thing, and pretend not to care too much. But how can they not care, when their worth is so often tied to a golden trophy? We rarely talk about the quiet heartbreak of those who don't win—those who go home feeling invisible, even after giving everything to their craft. The system is built in a way that glorifies the few while making the rest feel like footnotes.

Then there’s the issue of accessibility. Award shows are exclusive by design. Tickets cost thousands, dress codes are rigid, and the language of the show itself is often catered to insiders. For the everyday fan or young dreamer watching from afar, it’s hard to truly connect. What could be a celebration of collective creativity feels more like a velvet-roped party you’re lucky to witness from the outside. This aura of exclusivity not only distances the public—it reinforces the idea that true success means being allowed into that inner circle.

And let's not forget the performances, the comedy bits, the red-carpet commentary—all curated to perfection, often lacking authenticity. There’s an invisible script everyone seems to follow, where spontaneity is discouraged, and real emotion feels rare. Some moments go viral—like an impassioned speech or an awkward reaction—but even those are often commodified, turned into content within minutes. It begs the question: are we celebrating art, or are we just chasing the spectacle?

In recent years, ratings for major award shows have plummeted. Organizers blame streaming fatigue or political backlash, but maybe audiences are just tired of the pretense. We’re starting to recognize that the systems we once held as sacred may not serve the creative world the way we thought they did. We’re realizing that a trophy isn’t the only measure of value, and that stories that resonate deeply with us may never win any awards—and that’s okay.

This isn’t to say award shows should be abolished. At their best, they can still spotlight important work, inspire dialogue, and offer well-deserved recognition. But for them to stay relevant, they need to evolve—not just in terms of who they nominate or what causes they support, but in how they understand their role in the creative ecosystem. They must become more inclusive, more transparent, and less reliant on outdated power structures. They need to celebrate risk, innovation, and voices from the margins—not just because it’s trendy, but because it reflects the true spirit of art.

Ultimately, the problem with award shows that nobody talks about is how much power we've given them to define what matters. Art doesn’t need a golden statue to be meaningful. Sometimes, the most powerful stories are the ones never honored, never aired, never judged. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time we stop watching for validation—and start trusting our own instincts about what’s worth celebrating.