Last spring, Netflix released a reality show called Unlocked: A Jail Experiment. It follows a group of incarcerated men in Arkansas whose unit is briefly subjected to fewer security restrictions—a “radical social experiment” that hypothesized better behavior as a result of increased agency. Pulaski County sheriff Eric Higgins designed the experiment. Then he let the cameras in.
The series debuted with 3.9 million views: the second-highest English program on Netflix that week.
A quick Google search for the show will bring up a number of results in which the show is described as “controversial,” owing to a dubious permissions structure (or lack thereof) and questions about the legality of inviting a TV crew into a detention facility. Not mentioned—and not even considered controversial in popular discourse—is how the Netflix hit is part of a troubling trend in reality television. Under the guise of exposing the “realities” of prison life, programs such as Unlocked are making the U.S. prison–industrial complex a profitable form of entertainment, blurring the lines between punishment, exploitation, and spectacle.
Unlocked is not unique in its popularity—just look at the ongoing success of A&E’s 60 Days In and Inmate to Roommate, not to mention the more than twenty other reality shows centered around incarceration from platforms such as Court TV, TLC, ID, National Geographic, and MSNBC. This phenomenon, described by some scholars as part of a distinct “prison–televisual complex,” dates back to the 1980s but found firm footing in U.S. pop culture by the early 2000s. Since then, its profitability has only grown.
Carceral reality television fuels harmful stereotypes about incarcerated individuals, especially people of color, while contributing to mass incarceration. These shows exploit participants as “unpaid actors,” with no compensation or labor protections, and give them little or control over how their stories are told. These sensationalized portrayals prioritize entertainment over humanity, reflecting the broader issues of manipulation and exploitation in reality TV. As the genre’s audience grows, so does its power to shape societal views on crime, punishment, and rehabilitation, entrenching harmful stereotypes and diminishing empathy for those impacted by incarceration.
As someone who has been incarcerated, I’ve seen firsthand the harm that reality TV shows like 60 Days In perpetuate. Incarceration is traumatic, and turning it into entertainment only intensifies that trauma. I’ve spent time in Rikers Island and other New York State prisons, where I was forced to labor for 34–40 hours a week, often against my will, earning only 16 cents an hour. There were no worker safety protections, no sick days, and no rights to unionize. We could be forced into overtime without consent, and even the most basic aspects of daily life—like when and how you eat, sleep, or shower—were beyond my control. Navigating the complexities of life behind bars is far more nuanced than what reality TV can capture, with social and political dynamics that outsiders don’t see. It’s a simplified, almost trivialized version of something much deeper.
My own time behind bars led me to actively work against mass incarceration and found America on Trial (AOT), a grassroots organization that fights to end incarceration and police brutality. But no one should need to experience the injustices of prison firsthand to understand that the system is broken. These so-called prison “reality” TV programs create a distorted narrative that diverts the public’s attention from the real issues. They take the very real, very human experience of incarceration and present it as spectacle, reinforcing harmful stereotypes and obscuring the systemic issues driving mass incarceration.
At the heart of this exploitation is the Thirteenth Amendment, which abolished slavery and involuntary servitude—except as punishment for a criminal conviction. This exception allows for forced labor within the prison system, effectively turning incarcerated individuals into commodities for profit. Instead of providing a path to rehabilitation, the system functions as a tool for economic exploitation. Reality TV only magnifies this injustice, reducing real suffering to something to be consumed for entertainment.
The issue isn’t depictions of incarceration in media full stop. Scripted series such as Orange Is the New Black, for example, have offered nuanced discussions about mass incarceration. But reality shows like 60 Days In deepen the entanglement between incarceration and mainstream culture, focusing less on reform and more on shock value. These shows often lead to what has been termed “micro-celebrity culture,” where incarcerated individuals, as well as prison officials, become “characters” in a profitable narrative. This entanglement of punishment and spectacle obscures the systemic power imbalances that make mass incarceration so abhorrent. Instead of advocating for prison abolition or meaningful reform, reality TV promotes a distorted view of prison systems as effective, necessary, and even fair. The shows cultivate acceptance of incarceration or, at minimum, indifference toward the individuals who experience it.
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Viewership demographics for 60 Days In reveal the disturbing reach of these programs and how deeply embedded they are in public consciousness. Our report, “The Exploitation of Incarcerated Populations in 60 Days In and A&E Network,” provides insights into the show’s audience makeup. The viewership of 60 Days In highlights the show’s far-reaching influence and its significant role in shaping public perceptions of incarceration. With an audience spanning ages eighteen to fifty and extending to over a hundred countries, the show’s global reach amplifies the impact of its harmful portrayals.
60 Days In doesn’t offer a nuanced understanding of incarcerated individuals’ lives; instead, it reduces their experiences to mere spectacle, reinforcing harmful stereotypes that depict prison as a necessary part of society. The show often presents incarcerated people as one-dimensional, focusing on violence, manipulation, and conflict, while ignoring the complex social and systemic factors that drive mass incarceration. This skewed portrayal strengthens the false narrative that prisons are effective and just institutions, further entrenching public support for punitive measures over rehabilitation.
In recent years, reality TV programs writ large have come under increased scrutiny. Many have noted the racism in casting and editing on dating competitions like Love Island that particularly harm Black women contestants. Real Housewives of New York cast member Leah McSweeney filed a lawsuit against Bravo after relapsing while on the show, alleging that producers pressured her to use substances despite knowing she suffers from alcohol use disorder. Mental health professionals have been vocal about the psychological impacts on reality show cast members that can last long after the cameras stop rolling. Former Love Is Blind contestants have even filed complaints of unfair labor practices against the show’s producers, potentially paving the way for a reality TV union.
The fact that critique of—and material action against—reality television networks has grown in popular discourse is undoubtedly a positive development; it should be unacceptable for any TV show to exploit human suffering for entertainment. But keep in mind that cast members of the aforementioned shows typically apply or sign up to appear on the programs. I say this not to imply that the abuse they endure is acceptable in any way, but to raise an important question: If we know that reality shows in general are rife with mistreatment, even among cast members who possess robust legal agency, wouldn’t carceral reality shows be even worse?
Both dating and prison reality television profit from the real-life trauma of vulnerable individuals, offering distorted, edited versions of their lives with little regard for their well-being. However, incarceration-themed reality shows go beyond misrepresentation: they perpetuate deeply harmful stereotypes and uphold a punitive system that avoids addressing the root causes of mass incarceration. Rather than encouraging viewers to question the prison system, these shows legitimize and normalize it, portraying prisons as effective and necessary. By reducing complex issues of justice to digestible soundbites, they discourage meaningful dialogue on the harms of prison, presenting incarceration as an inevitability and minimizing the urgency for change.
What makes these shows even more dangerous is how they contribute to the broader cultural normalization of state-sanctioned violence. Like reality dating shows, incarceration-based programs capitalize on human suffering—but with much higher stakes. The portrayal of prison life as just another form of entertainment cheapens the trauma experienced by those within the system and deepens public misconceptions about the realities of mass incarceration. This spectacle of punishment distorts the way society views not just prisons, but the entire criminal legal system.
If we acknowledge the manipulation and harm faced by those on dating shows, we must also critically examine how incarcerated individuals are treated in these exploitative programs. These shows should not just be seen as poor entertainment. They are a symptom of a broader societal desensitization to the suffering of marginalized groups. The ongoing mistreatment of incarcerated individuals and the exploitation of their trauma for profit is a profound injustice that fuels harmful stereotypes, supports the prison–industrial complex, and diminishes our collective empathy. This exploitation must be called out for what it is: unethical, inhumane, and fundamentally wrong.
Each week, millions tune in to watch shows like 60 Days In and Unlocked: A Jail Experience, unaware of the behind-the-scenes exploitation. Each weekly episode of these shows entices audiences with sensationalized narratives of conflict, rehabilitation, and survival among detainees and undercover agents. These elements fuel a lucrative social media presence that amplifies the reach and influence of each program, increasing ratings and creating a demand for new seasons and spin-offs.
By continually expanding, the prison–televisual complex reinforces the idea that prison is a spectacle rather than a site of injustice. That is what led the AOT team and me to launch the Abolish Incarcerated Reality Shows (#AIRS) campaign. The goal of #AIRS is to dismantle prison and jail reality TV that uses the suffering of incarcerated people for entertainment and profit. This step is critical to upholding human dignity—and to moving us toward the long-term vision of major reform and abolition.
The #AIRS campaign operates as a coalition of impacted individuals and organizations across twenty-nine states, united in demanding an end to the exploitation of incarcerated individuals in reality TV. We call for accountability from networks like A&E, Court TV, and Netflix through a wide range of actions, including rallies, community outreach, and speaking events. Among our projects, our just-launched #AIRS Campaign Toolkit is a resource for teachers, organizations, and media professionals committed to ethical storytelling and justice.
As part of our organizing efforts, the #AIRS Campaign has launched two petitions—one calling on A&E to remove the exploitative show 60 Days In and another urging AMC to end Love After Lock-up. These petitions demand that networks reconsider their harmful programming choices that sensationalize incarceration and exploit the lives of incarcerated individuals. In addition to these petitions, the #AIRS Campaign has produced a documentary that examines how reality TV fuels the prison–industrial complex.
In May 2024 we hosted an impactful screening of the documentary at the Brooklyn Library, shedding light on the harmful effects of reality TV shows that exploit the incarcerated. This event served as a catalyst for deeper conversations within the community about the urgent need to address this exploitation. In October 2024 we held a powerful panel discussion at the Maysles Documentary Center in Harlem, where we explored the intersections of media, incarceration, and social justice. Additionally, our work was showcased at the InThrive Film Festival in Richmond, Virginia, where we presented a platform for voices rarely heard in mainstream media.
As part of our commitment to youth advocacy, we collaborated with YouthBridge-NY for a youth-focused screening and discussion in November 2024, providing young people with the tools to critically engage with media portrayals of incarceration. That same month, we presented at the New York Immigration Coalition to expand awareness and engagement around the issue of media exploitation, emphasizing how it intersects with immigration and justice reform. And tomorrow, Wednesday, February 26, 2025, we’ll be conducting an important rally in New York City, where we’ll mobilize our communities to demand an end to the exploitation of incarcerated individuals in the media.
All of us involved in the #AIRS campaign believes it is time for networks to promote media that respects the dignity and humanity of incarcerated individuals rather than exploiting their suffering for ratings. No one should profit from punishment. We are fighting to end the exploitation of incarcerated people and advocate for justice, dignity, and human rights in the media.
Unlocked: A Jail Experiment was praised by fans as a “moving” and “eye-opening” show. Some credited it with helping them see the incarcerated men as actual people. Pop culture media writers seemed particularly interested in whether the experiment “worked,” with some suggesting that similar experiments should be replicated to improve the current “ineffective” U.S. prison system.
But even when they show poignant moments, shows like Unlocked do not reflect the complexity and humanity of incarcerated individuals. However much these programs might “raise awareness” of prison conditions, they do so in a way that reinforces the need for prisons rather than advocating for solutions to address the root causes of incarceration, such as poverty, systemic racism, and lack of access to mental health services. With their producers’ profits riding on the very existence of the carceral system, how could they?
My vision for the #AIRS campaign is not just about holding networks accountable: it is about challenging a system that profits from suffering and perpetuates harmful narratives about people who are underrepresented. As I see it, the fight to end the exploitation of incarcerated individuals on reality TV is a fight for justice, dignity, and the right of all people to be seen and respected as human beings. The time to act is now.
Image: P Anosh/Unsplash
