On 25 July 2010 the final episode of the second season of MasterChef Australia became the most watched non-sporting television program in Australian history. Network Ten claimed that a peak audience of 5.7 million had tuned in, more than a quarter of the country’s population.

I wasn’t one of them, of course, because I was in it.

Almost 10 years on it’s easy to forget just how influential the show was. Frequently described as a “ratings juggernaut” it epitomised the industry holy grail of “water cooler television”. If you weren’t watching it you were out of touch.

Just one year earlier FremantleMedia Australia had taken the simple and reserved British MasterChef format and whisked it into an enormous, big-budget television spectacular.

What had been a relaxing weekly dose of interesting English cooking became a pioneer of strip-formatted reality television. Episodes ran every weeknight featuring enthusiastic amateurs sprinting around a kitchen full of dramatic fireballs, with pulsating soundtracks and orchestral crescendos accompanying stories of tragedy and triumph.

The show was a global smash, syndicated around the world, and its format was licensed to dozens of international markets. It has undoubtedly been Australia’s most successful television program.

Adam Liaw on MasterChef Australia in 2010. Photograph: Network Ten

It’s strange to consider that when I applied to go on to the show I had never seen an episode. I was living in Japan and had been encouraged to apply by friends in Australia who were avid fans and thought I would enjoy it. I knew little of what I was getting myself in for but in those days the show was in its infancy and I suspect that contestants, judges and producers were all finding their feet.

After the audition we spent seven months in what the television world calls “lockdown”. No television, radio or newspapers. One 10-minute phone call with our loved ones a week. Every moment, waking or otherwise, was spent supervised or chaperoned between either “the house” – a multimillion-dollar harbourside mansion in Sydney’s ritzy Elizabeth Bay – or the production studio in Alexandria.

It was oppressive but to me it also represented a kind of freedom. No mobile phone to check. No social media to update. No deadlines, bills or emails to respond to. For a short period it clears the mind.

The idea is that by removing external stimuli you become focused on the task at hand. Like Tom Hanks’s Castaway wailing for the loss of his volleyball friend, what was once inconsequential takes on a new level of importance. Bear that in mind when you next see a reality TV contestant weeping over a burned scallop.

There are no social rules for how to act when competing with a total stranger over who can make the best risotto

Filming that record-breaking final was a feat in itself. On television it ran for about three hours but we filmed most of it weeks earlier, over three days. After that we were sent home (I stayed with my family in Adelaide rather than return to Japan) to wait for the broadcast day and the announcement of the result.

It was a nervous period, not least because for my fellow finalist Callum Hann and me it was our first time back in the real world for months.

We were warned not to read the mountain of online commentary but inevitably we did. It’s a rude transition from an ordinary private life to one where seemingly everyone in the country has a strong opinion on your ability, character or value as a person.

On broadcast day we filmed the announcement about noon. It’s now a well-worn reality TV trope: a booming announcement, tears of joy, glitter falls from the sky as everyone embraces and the screen fades to black.

Such was the public interest and risk of leaks that nobody was allowed to leave the studio for the next 10 hours until the result had aired. We twiddled our thumbs and had a few drinks while that part of the episode was edited onsite and transmitted for broadcast from a van parked outside.

When we were finally allowed to leave, Callum and I were chased by paparazzi to our hotel. A whirlwind media tour followed. Our partners were offered piles of cash to pose in bikinis for lads’ mags (they declined). The tabloids published all kinds of exposés and “exclusives” about us (with varying levels of connection to the truth). In the months and years that followed things, thankfully, returned to a kind of normal.

‘It’s now a well-worn reality TV trope: a booming announcement, tears of joy, glitter falls from the sky as everyone embraces and the screen fades to black.’ Photograph: Stuart Bryce

To me there’s a beautiful truth in reality TV. In our everyday lives we live under a veneer of politeness, rehearsed social interactions and mores. By creating a fantasy world where those mores no longer apply, we see reality. There are no social rules for how to act when competing with a total stranger over who can make the best risotto. It’s ridiculous, but it’s not about the risotto. It’s an unvarnished look at human nature.

The list of reality television contestants who feel they have been edited unfairly is long but in my experience people on reality TV are portrayed precisely as they are. I think the truth of it is that we rarely have a chance to see ourselves as we truly are and, when we do, sometimes we don’t like what we see.

MasterChef Australia’s ratings record of 2010 is unlikely to be broken. After the final aired, a slew of digital channels flooded the market, fragmenting Australian television viewership. The meteoric rise of streaming a few years later signified all-out war, far beyond broadcast television’s battle for our eyeballs. TV programs hardly ever see viewer numbers in the multimillions that were common a decade ago.

MasterChef itself is moving into brave new territory. Last year George Calombaris, Gary Mehigan and Matt Preston, the three wildly popular judges who stewarded the show since its beginnings, left the show and have been replaced by relative newcomers Andy Allen, Melissa Leong and Jock Zonfrillo.

What the future holds will depend largely on the show’s ability to continue its popularity in overseas markets like India, quite apart from whether the new-look program resonates with its Australian audience.

When I applied for MasterChef Australia more than 10 years ago, one question on the application form stood out for me and still does. It asked whether I had ever “jumped for joy”. I thought it an odd thing to ask and to my recollection at the time was that I had not, but one year later after the “journey” of reality TV ended I had done so more times than I could count.

• Adam Liaw is a former cook turned writer and winner of the second series of MasterChef Australia