Game shows are perhaps the most fascinating programs on television. Though they're designed to feel like inconsequential filler entertainment (an idea reinforced by their relative absence during primetime), they say more about society and indeed about human nature than any other type of show. They reflect the values of the culture around them, they bring in viewers with vicarious thrills and the fantasy of glittering success beyond imagination. Game shows are surreal, grotesque and irresistibly appealing. There's a strand of philosophy underneath their many layers of flash, an unmistakable needle of truth in a haystack of glitz and absurdity. No game show in recent memory has exemplified this more than Deal or No Deal.

Deal or No Deal is the show that inspired this feature. Though there's a glimmer of philosophical intrigue in a lot of game shows, Deal is a particular fascination of mine. Though it isn't originally American (the show was exported from a slightly more complex version in the Netherlands called Miljoenenjacht), no show is more quintessentially Yankee than Deal or No Deal. In a larger sense, it's fundamentally Western, at least in the shape taken by the American version.

Consider this setup: The contestant, a person who almost certainly represents the "average" (re: not photogenic, particularly smart or wealthy) is given the opportunity to stand before the nation and accept a large sum of money granted to him or her by one form of providence or another. The only mitigating factors are his or her courage and greed. There is no pattern of distribution for the famous suitcases of money and professional analysis has shown that the "banker" presents deals that aren't based on natural averages but a fluctuating (and disorienting) conception of the individual player's disposition.

The thrill of Deal or No Deal isn't in the money or even in the potential for money. That's just the concrete goal in what is otherwise an abstract, emotionally-charged game of chance. It's also not in the generically pretty models who hold the briefcases. They're just a fleshy projection of the potential glory of winning, a little bit of sex that is as unattainable as the million-dollar prize. The real thrill of the game is that big, red button. Why is it that we never actually see the "banker"? Why is he, at best, a shadowy figure living high above the player in a booth beyond comprehension? Because it's infinitely more exciting to say "no" to a figure of ultimate power than it is to reject the offer of a flesh-and-blood person. Whether the banker represents God, a personification of society or any other abstract concept of authority, the format is clear. The fantasy Deal or No Deal sells to viewers is the idea of backing a superior power into a corner, to pull one over on the high and mighty. It's simultaneously a populist revolution and a personal struggle against the authority of faith, two common themes in the story of Western civilization.

Deal or No Deal is fairly unique in this premise of making an adversary out of an unseen figure. Other game shows certainly use something beyond the player as a decision-maker, such as the famous "survey" authority of Family Feud, though that entity is usually, at most, indifferent and benign. Deal or No Deal makes an enemy of the superior. Because of this it can be a show of triumph or of existential despair, depending on how much money the contestant wins. Most unsettling about the whole thing is how unlikely it is that the contestant will walk away with the highest possible dollar amount. The lesson therein is clear: You can fight the powers that be and you might even walk away with more than you had going in, but you're almost certain to walk away with less than there was to gain.