Marketing a fantasy
If we told the truth, we couldn't sell the stuff.
You will never see that turn up as a snappy tag line on one of Hill Holliday's new radio ads for the Massachusetts lottery. But that startling bit of candor comes from a lottery spokeswoman who in last Sunday's Globe was explaining to my colleague, consumer reporter Bruce Mohl, why the lottery doesn't allow winners of Megabucks and other games to collect their money immediately.
To review: Lottery winners receive their prizes over 20 years. The lottery says it doesn't offer winners the option of an immediate payout versus a 20-year income stream because it would make it impossible to market the lottery effectively. For instance, the minimum jackpot on Megabucks is $400,000 paid out over 20 years, but only $200,000 -- less taxes, of course -- if cashed out immediately. Worse still: If the lottery did offer a lump-sum payout it would have to disclose just how low the number is, the lottery says.
''It would kill our lower jackpot games," said lottery spokeswoman Beth Bresnahan, who just may be too honest for her chosen line of work, public relations.
In other words, disclosing the real numbers would be bad -- very bad -- for business. If a company selling more energy-efficient light bulbs started advertising the savings based on a 20-year period, it would be hearing very shortly from the attorney general's consumer affairs office. So would a bank advertising its low mortgage rates without also disclosing the real costs -- the annual percentage rate that includes all the closing costs. We would call that a scam in most businesses; in the lottery business it is called marketing.
That's because we need the lottery. Over three decades the lottery has come to be a necessary evil -- a voluntary tax skewed heavily to those who can least afford to lose. Last year the lottery raised more than $700 million for communities to pay for schools and cops and firefighters. In Massachusetts, every man, woman, and child spends on average $650 a year on lottery products, nearly four times the national average.
And it is still not enough. In its constant search for more millions, the state is revving up the lottery machine. The lottery is getting ready to offer a horse-racing game, played on Keno-style video monitors, and is juicing up Keno, the slimey old standby. It experimented last fall with something that sounds suspiciously like a slot machine. And the Legislature, at the urging of state Treasurer Tim Cahill, has restored the lottery's advertising budget. This year's $10 million budget is scheduled to rise to $15 million under the governor's proposed budget.
It's a better bet than any of you will get from the lottery that the new campaign will not spend a lot of time talking about the real jackpots. In the lottery business, you sell the dream, not the numbers. For instance, the ''advertised jackpot" won by Douglas Bartley of Norwood last month was $3.8 million; the lottery press release makes no mention that his jackpot would be worth about $2.5 million today. People in my business are all too ready to repeat the fiction. In this supersized world of ours, the lottery knows that players are motivated by big jackpots. If the lottery is looking to really pump up the volume, why not extend the payouts over 30 years? Or 50? Imagine the jackpots then!
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Neighborhood news: Fenway Park patrons: It is OK to tip your server for those $6 beers but do it discreetly, please. Listed in the employee handbook of Aramark, the team's food vendor, as a violation that may result in ''immediate termination" without notice: ''Solicitation of tips (or any form of gratuity solicitation) from our guests and customers. This includes the use of tip cups." Servers and bartenders, on the other hand, are expected to ''up-sell" customers ''on a daily basis."
Steve Bailey is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at bailey@globe.com or at 617-929-2902.
