Welcome to the 21st century, the age of "reality" television. Incredibly, this precise moment in TV history was predicted nearly 20 years ago by a pulp-fiction prophet of doom.

In 1982, an unknown author named Richard Bachman published a straight-to-paperback novel titled The Running Man, a futuristic action story with a grim vision of 21st-century society, a rugged hero, and lots of fiery explosions. When it was revealed that Richard Bachman was actually popular horror writer Stephen King, Republic Studios produced a film version, starring Arnold Schwarzeneggar. Within a few years, however, sales of the book flagged, the movie tanked (despite the fiery explosions), and The Running Man was all but forgotten.

And it appears to be forgotten still, though its forecasts now sound eerily prophetic. A second read of the novel in today’s reality-frenzied entertainment world is astonishing, in just how many of its predictions for the 21st century have come true.

The Running Man is the story of a reality-based TV show which airs in the year 2025. The show’s premise is simple: the Network gives a fugitive a twelve-hour head start before releasing an elite squad of Hunters to find and kill him. The contestant earns $100 for every hour he stays alive, and $500 for each Hunter he kills — and if he manages to survive for 30 days, he wins one billion dollars. But the game is not limited only to these players — the Network pays civilians for confirmed sightings of the fugitive, and it ups the ante for sightings that lead directly to a kill.

Strangely, today’s popular press has been silent about the chilling similarities between Stephen King’s creation and the upcoming ABC program "The Runner," conceived and produced by Hollywood stars Matt Damon and Ben Affleck.

In this newest reality-based show, set to air in the fall, a fugitive contestant will attempt to avoid detection while he crosses America and performs various assigned tasks. Each day the fugitive avoids capture, he wins a cash prize, and if he remains at large for 28 days, he wins one million dollars. As in The Running Man, the audience has the opportunity to participate. For confirmed sightings of the fugitive, viewers can claim part of the money the contestant has accrued. No elite squad of Hunters in this show, but ABC plans to hire a police detective to coach viewers in their search. The only substantial difference between King’s show and ABC’s is that the contestant will not be killed. Yet.

In King’s nightmare world, murder as entertainment is not a concept that drops from the sky. The Network warms Americans to the idea by producing game shows that continually escalate the level of pain contestants must endure to win. One game pits chronic heart patients against one another in a treadmill race — the last man standing wins. But the Network makes its real money, according to one contestant, on the programs "where they do more than just land you in the hospital ... the ones where they kill you. Prime time, baby."

In the same way, real-life reality-based shows derive their entertainment value from pain, physical or emotional, and the more intense the pain, the higher the ratings. Ratings for "Survivor" skyrocketed throughout the first season, as contestants ate rats, participated in painful, disgusting challenges, and bickered their way through political games. Producer Mark Burnett hyped "Survivor II" with a boast that "the level of suffering in this season would make you want to cry."

Only the continual escalation of this risk and pain can draw viewers who continually become jaded with the latest gimmick. TV execs have learned that whenever a new line is crossed, ratings go up. When "Temptation Island" promised sexual betrayal and emotional agony, or when Michael Skupin stabbed a wild boar to death on "Survivor," ratings soared. During CBS’s short-lived "Big Brother," one could almost hear the producers praying that their contestants would fight, to keep the show from going under.

How long, in this pain-driven environment, will "The Runner" last before ABC is forced to introduce a real risk to the contestant? How long, for that matter, before viewers in general tire of pain that merely "lands you in the hospital?" Stephen King’s predicted date of 2025 doesn’t seem far off.

The story of Michael Skupin’s burnt hands on "Survivor" highlights an unsettling aspect of reality-based shows which may push that date even closer. During a rest time alone, Michael fell asleep and tumbled into a campfire, badly burning his hands. Since multiple cameras record virtually every waking moment of each "Survivor" contestant, almost certainly one of them captured the incident on film, though the footage was never aired. "No matter what, the show goes on," Mark Burnett told reporters. When asked whether any crew members came to Michael’s aid, Burnett said, "If [a cameraman] had dropped his camera and tried to help, I would have fired him on the spot."

What exactly does he mean, we might ask, by "no matter what?" Would the staff have intervened if a contestant were attacked by a crocodile? Or injured intentionally? Or killed?

There is a vast gulf, admittedly, between merely watching people suffer and watching them murdered on screen, a gulf some think will never be crossed. That line, however, has been crossed in the past — certainly gladiator contests and witchcraft trials used voyeuristic pain and death to draw crowds. Reality-based shows tap into an ancient human attraction which America presumes to have left behind with public executions.

Those who casually dismiss Running Man-like predictions about the future of television also underestimate the vast sums of money at stake in the competition between networks. ABC initially had difficulty finding executive producers for "The Runner," mainly because the premise of a contestant racing through America in real time presents gigantic liability risks. How, for instance, can the network prevent fans from harming the fugitive physically, or the contestant from harming bystanders in his desperation to escape? In the heat of a high-priced bidding war, however, these concerns fade. According to Variety magazine, ABC stepped up with an offer that includes "significant penalties" if the network does not produce 13 episodes. In plain English: this show will get produced as soon as possible, and physical safety be damned. How long before ignoring these risks gives way to ignoring human life? It’s a large obstacle to clear, granted, but not insurmountable. If the profit margin exceeds the liability, nearly any objection can be smoothed over.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of Stephen King’s vision is the way reality TV causes Americans to blur the distinction between fantasy and reality. Clever editing turns contestants into villains no matter what they do. The public’s hatred, despite the trickery, becomes frighteningly real.

CBS achieved a similar blurring in its treatment of "Survivor" contestant Jerri Manthey. For several weeks, Jerri became a household name in America, mainly because most viewers found her incredibly annoying. The network packaged her accordingly, showing her staring coldly at others in unfocused background shots and bragging to the camera about her cutthroat strategies. Other contestants made snide "confidential" comments about her voice, her intellect, her grating personality. Annoyance quickly gave way to darker emotions, prompting one New York radio station proclaim Jerri "the most hated woman in America."

What Americans seemed to forget, however, is that Jerri Manthey is a real person. She is not Iago or Hannibal Lecter, a fictional character we can safely love to hate. She is a fellow human being, and our hatred for her carries genuine consequences. We also forgot, like The Running Man audience, that the million-dollar carrot in front of Jerri’s nose, which largely explained her actions, was placed there by CBS. Through its blind hatred of Jerri, the American media and public inflicted real pain upon a real person, a fact evident in the way she desperately defended herself later on TV and radio talk shows.

Perhaps the most common argument in defense of reality television is that all of the contestants on these shows choose to participate. They know the risks, the logic goes; therefore, they are responsible for any pain they incur in their quest for fame and fortune.

Whether they choose to participate or not, however, the people whose pain we vicariously enjoy truly are suffering. To paraphrase your parents: it’s all fun and games until someone gets his hands burnt so badly the skin falls off in sheets ("Survivor"). Or someone gets knocked to the ground by a charging bull ("The Mole"). Or someone is seduced away from the mother of his 10-month-old child ("Temptation Island"). According to the networks, though, it’s still fun and games after all those things happen. In fact, those events are what make the games fun in the first place.

And in their opinion, the fun is just beginning.