The Great Illusion
Broadcasters aren’t broke. They’re just very good at looking broke.
Every year, producers are told the same story. Budgets are down. Advertising’s soft. Times are tough. Yet somehow, the same networks launch new digital channels, build podcast studios, hire expensive office space, and send executives to Cannes to celebrate “a challenging but successful year.” The maths never seems to add up.
Meanwhile, those actually making the shows are asked to do more for less. “Could you find a bit more finance?” “Maybe we co-produce?” “We just can’t afford more, the numbers are down.”
But are they really? Yes, on legacy linear platforms they might be. Yet when you account for all outlets, things aren’t nearly so bleak. Despite this, producers are being asked to take on more risk than ever, finding private investment, shouldering upfront costs, and hoping that somehow, on the back end, it will all come good.
But that back end is invisible. No one outside a broadcaster really knows how much a single programme earns once it’s transmitted across all platforms, yet distributors can account for every pence, dime and euro from global sales and we have to share that data back to channels.
And despite what you hear, it’s not as if the money has disappeared. Ofcom’s Media Nations report shows total UK commercial TV and online video revenues rising slightly in 2024 to £17.1 billion. ITV’s revenues dipped just 3 percent to £4.1 billion, Channel 4’s fell around 10 percent to just over £1 billion, while both grew digital income by double digits. This isn’t collapse. It’s reorientation.
Yet in the same period, UK production income fell by about £400 million, down 8 percent year on year, as commissioning spend dropped more than 10 percent. The production sector’s pain far outweighs the broadcaster’s.
In a world where everything can be tracked and accounted for, I believe that broadcasters’ opacity is quietly undermining the entire system.
Inside the Black Box
When I was a commissioner, I was struck by how much time went into defending “not spending money.” We would debate how to save a few thousand pounds by shaving archive rights or reducing production fees because channels wanted a higher margin.
Even inside broadcasters, discussing ad rates and profit margins is a closely guarded secret. Channels know exactly what a programme is likely to earn. They know which faces open up sponsorships and how ad revenue differs by genre. Every commission sits inside a spreadsheet that models its financial potential before a single frame is shot.
I understand the logic. Channels don’t want competitors knowing their rates or margins. And if producers discovered how much profit they actually made, negotiating fees would become awkward.
But now they’re asking producers to do the heavy lifting and should be obliged to show them the details.
It’s a strange contradiction. The very people carrying the financial risk are the only ones not allowed to see the financial return. This lack of transparency isn’t just frustrating; it’s structurally dangerous. It encourages short-termism and erodes trust. If broadcasters want real partnerships with indies, they need to share what success looks like in monetary terms for both parties.
Television isn’t as poor as it pretends to be. The advertising model may have plummeted on single platforms, but monetisation has multiplied. A single show can now earn from ad sales, sponsorship, VOD, FAST, YouTube, podcasts, international sales and, in some cases, merchandise. Each layer adds value, yet almost none of it is visible to those who created the content.
It’s like being asked to build a car for Ford while shouldering the financial risk but never knowing how much they’ll sell it for in the showroom.
The Invisible Halo
The financial value of a programme isn’t limited to its direct ad slots. Publicity has a currency of its own. When a show lands well, when it trends, pulls headlines or sparks a cultural moment, the channel cashes in twice. Strong ratings and brand buzz allow ad-sales teams to lift rates across the schedule. One hit can raise the tide for everything around it.
That halo effect is gold for a broadcaster, yet invisible to the indie. Producers rarely see a penny of the value they’ve created, even when their programme becomes the face of a season’s campaign.
For international networks like Discovery, this multiplies again. Each territory brings new income through local ad sales, carriage fees or affiliate deals. A show that performs in ten markets can make serious global money but for the producer, it’s meaningless. You might be praised in a press release for “global success,” but it doesn’t pay the overdraft you took out to make the series.
Until broadcasters share what a programme truly earns the partnership will remain one-sided. That was fine in the days of high production margins and decent budgets, but that model no longer works when producers are effectively making programmes for cost.
What YouTube Gets Right
Broadcasters talk a good game. I’ve heard many say they’re looking for “partnerships” with producers and want to explore new ways of working. The “Acquimission” is now a thing; they commission at levels they’d normally acquire programming at, and you get to keep the rights. Fair enough. But if you want us to invest in your future as well as ours, you have to show us the numbers.
YouTube, for all its flaws, of which I’ve written many times, is financially honest. We may not like its model, and it may have upended the whole industry, but at least creators know they keep 55 percent of ad revenue while YouTube takes 45. They can see exactly how much each video earns, broken down by region and ad type. They may not know Google’s costs, but they can see the pot.
Television, by contrast, operates in a financial fog. Once a show is delivered, it can be reused, repackaged and re-monetised across countless platforms without the indie ever knowing. The supposed Wild West of YouTube is more transparent than the industry that claims to have invented professionalism.
The Cost of Secrecy
This secrecy has warped the production landscape and hollowed out the business beneath it. Indies are told to be “entrepreneurial,” which really means shouldering debt and gambling on back-end revenues. Without visibility of the broadcaster’s returns, that risk becomes blind speculation. You might be financing a show already guaranteed to make the network a healthy margin.
When broadcasters pay less, they aren’t just tightening budgets, they’re dismantling the ecosystem that keeps television alive.
The imbalance trickles down. Fewer shooting days. Thinner crews. Freelancers waiting longer for pay. Quality drops, morale dips, and the industry’s middle tier slowly disappears. All because one side holds the data and the other doesn’t.
Production companies once had staff producers, runners and editors who could count on steady work across longer runs. That model spread experience, built loyalty and kept talent in the business. Today, shorter runs and smaller commissions mean everything revolves around freelancers. Crews move from project to project with no stability, while companies carry the overheads between jobs without income to cover them.
The standard production fee has stayed at 10 percent for decades. It used to represent a real margin on a properly budgeted show. Now, when producers are expected to deliver at cost, that 10 percent barely covers the accountants, insurance and compliance paperwork, let alone any profit.
Instead of investing in development or training, companies chase volume and cut corners. It’s a survival economy built on creative exhaustion.
Transparency isn’t about envy; it’s about equilibrium. Imagine if, six months after transmission, broadcasters shared a simple revenue summary: ad sales, sponsorship, digital performance. It wouldn’t need to be public, just shared with those who made the show. Deals would become smarter. Trust would grow.
If broadcasters can show they’re not broke, or indeed demonstrate that they are, then producers should be able to charge accordingly. Transparency isn’t just about fairness; it’s about rebalancing a business relationship that has become one-sided. High margins and profits shouldn’t belong to only one half of the partnership.
The Reckoning Ahead
The old “trust us” model belongs to another era. Audiences now expect transparency from Spotify, Substack and every creator platform. In TV, the people making the content aren’t shown the same courtesy.
Many broadcasters benefit from public charters, spectrum access or tax incentives. That should carry a higher duty of openness. The public has a right to know how airwaves are monetised, and the production community has a right to know how its work is valued.
Commercial secrecy might have worked when the market was buoyant. Now it breeds resentment. Producers talk. Commissioners leave. Trust erodes. Transparency isn’t a threat; it’s a pressure valve.
If broadcasters want producers to take more risk, they must let them see the reward. The next time you hear a commissioner sigh and say, “We just don’t have the budget,” ask the follow-up: “Fine, but how much will you make?”
Television’s future depends on rebuilding trust between those who make the shows and those who broadcast them. That won’t happen through another working group. It will happen when money stops being a secret.
Because if YouTube can show its creators what they earn, so can television.
And maybe then we’ll finally stop pretending that TV is broke and start rebuilding an industry that values honesty as much as creativity.
Nice piece. The creative industries are plagued by Information asymmetries that depress creative business margins (or worse) whilst acting as a significant friction to financing creative businesses.