When Isabella first appeared, the viewers in front of their TVs were genuinely puzzled.
Because, well, her going on stage as a contestant didn't seem to make any sense.
Only when she explained her purpose for disguising herself as a contestant did the audience finally understand. In most people's eyes, Isabella was using a little bit of theater to show that The Voice was a fair and just competition.
Uh…
North Americans aren't all idiots.
Sometimes we assume they are, but that's just because we live in different environments. When you've been lied to by your government enough times and have seen how disgusting capital can be, all that "stupidity" is just a matter of "my country has its own special circumstances."
And, well, "happy education" didn't go wild until the 1990s.
The 21% illiteracy rate it produced didn't really show itself until twenty years later.
If, at this time, over 40% of Americans couldn't even recognize common words, Harry Potter wouldn't have sold five million copies in 24 hours. Reading Harry Potter requires at least some vocabulary.
So yes, most people still had a brain. And once they followed the logic of Isabella's little skit, when the twist came—the Rock teasing her, her blank face, her angry outburst—it all gave the audience that special kind of "gap moe."
Especially since Isabella was mocking her own fame, the laughter was even louder.
Once the gag had played out, Isabella's solo show entered its second half:
she stepped onto the stage with her guitar and performed Love Story.
No surprise, all four coaches recognized her voice immediately.
The four-chair turn lit up the entire nation.
"Oh… so this really is a blind audition?"
"I think this setup is amazing! Judging purely by voice avoids bias from appearance or stage performance—it's all about sound! Music is the art of sound!"
"Wait, if I remember right, the movie version of The Voice didn't have this mechanic, right?"
"This blind turn thing is genius! I thought The Voice would be just like American Idol, but this is way more interesting!"
And so on.
Isabella completed her mission perfectly.
The producers had her perform as a contestant to give the TV audience a clear idea of how the national competition worked. After all, The Voice's concept was totally new.
Once everyone understood the rules, the real show began. Contestants from across the U.S. took the stage. People cheered for their favorites, screamed when their idols were chosen, and groaned when they weren't.
But that was just how everyone felt during the first half of the episode.
About an hour in, people started noticing a pattern: everyone who'd made it to nationals was strong. So a coach turning around wasn't special anymore.
What really mattered was multiple turns.
What really thrilled people was all four coaches spinning their chairs at once.
That's when a contestant's talent became visible.
"Four turns! Four turns!! FOUR TURNS!!!"
"Ahhhh—just one more!"
"Turn! Turn!! TURN!!!"
"Oh my god, she's so good! Why won't Mimi turn?!"
"Another one—just one more—why is it Elton this time?!"
The audience was losing their minds.
To be blunt, The Voice succeeded and dominated the world—running 28 seasons in 15 years in the U.S., killing off American Idol—because it mixed its ingredients perfectly.
The show's rules, taken separately, are simple. But when combined, they form a dopamine machine that hits viewers twice over.
The first satisfaction: the lottery effect.
Every time your favorite gets a chair turn, that excitement? It's the same neurochemical hit as winning scratch-offs.
The second satisfaction: the "younger lover" fantasy.
In Korean drama terms, that's the famous noona romance: an older woman, younger man story. It blew up in Korea because of the suffocating hierarchy there—where even a one-year age difference requires calling someone "senior."
When people are trapped in social cages, fantasies like a bold older woman choosing a puppy-eyed younger man become catnip.
The shows don't sell stories—they sell daydreams.
The Voice's "double selection" system is basically a remix of that.
All the coaches are celebrities.
Then these stars start fighting over some unknown talent with potential?
Come on—that's literally a webnovel plot: The Genius Healer Descends the Mountain, The Billionaire's Family Begs for Mercy.
Blind auditions invert the power dynamic, letting the underdog be chosen by the elite—instant satisfaction.
That's why The Voice is basically a serialized drama in disguise.
It just keeps feeding the audience that rush.
If that still doesn't click, look at the latest 2025 short drama hits:
"The American Sun Fell in Love with Me, a Janitor" and
"The North American Tax God Pursued Me at My Husband's Funeral."
Trashy? Sure. Effective? Absolutely.
That's why when Isabella came up with The Voice, she never thought she'd lose.
She fully expected to win big.
And indeed—
"Oh, this girl named Katy Perry is amazing!"
"Finally! Another four-chair turn! That's the second tonight, right?"
"Yeah, the first was Isabella."
"Uh… let's not count her, okay?"
"Who will Katy pick? Elton? Sting? Or the Boss?"
"I bet she'll choose the Boss! She just sang Alanis Morissette's You Oughta Know—pure grunge! Only the Boss can unleash that wild side!"
Time flew.
When the clock hit 10 p.m. on the East Coast, episode one of The Voice came to an end.
Katy Perry's finale performance was a hit.
The second four-chair turn of the night had everyone glued to the screen, waiting to see whose team she'd choose.
Then Katy looked around, spotted Isabella nearby, and raised her mic.
"Oh, Isabella, I'm your fan! I came to this show because of you!
I'm so happy to see you today—and I want to ask, does The Voice really only have four teams? No offense to the coaches, but… I want to fight for you."
"Honestly, I think 'Team Beaver' sounds the best."
"HUH???"
The entire continent exploded.
"WHAT?? She wants Isabella?!"
"Oh, s***—you can pick her?!"
"This Katy Perry girl is a genius! She's the smartest one on this show—only she thought of choosing Isabella!"
"Now what? Is Isabella gonna switch roles again?"
Thing is, when designing The Voice, Isabella had defined her role from the start: she would only be the founder.
For two simple reasons.
First, she wasn't qualified to be a coach.
She'd released only a few songs. Becoming a mentor that early? Instant PR suicide.
Second, she didn't plan to stick around.
She wanted to make one hit IP, then sit back and count the money.
So before filming, she told Disney clearly: after the opening show, her on-screen job was just to greet contestants with The Rock, clap when they advanced, comfort them when they lost, and that's it.
Maybe a few extra appearances for fan service, but nothing more.
So when Katy asked to join "Team Beaver," Isabella looked genuinely regretful.
"Oh, Katy, thank you for liking me, but the show's designed for four teams."
Katy wouldn't give up. "Can't we just add one more?"
"Uh…" Isabella pressed her lips together, thinking.
The audience split right down the middle—some shouting support, others insisting the rules couldn't change.
Supporters:
"Add it! Add it! Why not?"
"She deserves her own team!"
"Lots of people came because of her anyway!"
Opponents:
"No way! The rules are the rules!"
"It wouldn't be fair to the other coaches or contestants!"
"She's only just started her music career—how's she gonna teach anyone?"
Under the chaos, Isabella finally made up her mind.
"I'm not very good at saying no, so…"
The supporters went wild. The others frowned.
Then Isabella suddenly asked a staffer for her bag.
While The Rock held the mic for her, she dug inside and pulled something out.
"Actually, while preparing this show, I thought of something.
Because I'm the founder, a lot of people might come here for me.
Some contestants might ask, 'Which coach should I choose?'
Some coaches might ask, 'Should I turn around?'
But The Voice is a competition first, so I can't give opinions—it wouldn't be fair.
At the same time, staying silent would look weird, since so many came to see me.
So I came up with a solution."
Rustle—
She pulled out a stack of hand cards.
Some said "Good!"
Some said "Love it!"
Some said "Tea break."
And one said "Confused."
Right now, she picked up the "Confused" card.
"Katy Perry, this is my only answer to your question.
Don't ask if I can form a team, because I'm just a thirteen-year-old baby.
I can't solve your problem—I'm powerless."
She hid her face behind the round card.
That adorable little beaver act instantly melted the viewers.
"OH MY GOD—did she really make those cards?!"
"She drew expression cards so she wouldn't have to talk?!"
"Ahhh—she's too cute!!"
"Look! The beaver on her card is the same as the one on her mini album cover!"
"Yeah, totally her sister's art!"
"I want those toys!"
"Me too! But she's never released any merch…"
Yes, Isabella didn't plan to hog screen time. But when you know your show is a guaranteed hit, you'd be a fool not to slip in a little extra charm, right?
So, out came the Beaver emoji cards—Kathleen's tireless handiwork during Azkaban filming.
Isabella adored them, believing the cute design showed her soft side.
The audience agreed. Her playful rejection satisfied everyone, and the four-team setup stayed intact.
Katy Perry apologized to the coaches, then chose her mentor—Sting.
Viewers were thrilled; most had predicted that outcome.
Then came the ending credits—
"What? That's it?"
"Wait—already over??"
"I just got into it and now it's DONE??"
"How many episodes per week? ONE? Are you kidding me? ABC aired Who Wants to Be a Millionaire three times a week!"
"One episode a week? Lazy bums!"
"I'm calling ABC right now—demanding more!"
"Posting on Yahoo! Fans unite!"