There were episodes that didn’t need to exist. There were characters who should never have shown up. There were story lines that should have been abandoned. In truth “Everybody Loves Raymond” probably should have gone off the air three seasons ago – when it still reverberated with deep truths about marriage and family, and resonated with clever dialogue and rich, rewarding humor. But television is a business, not an art form, and for most of its nine-year run, “Raymond” represented the apotheosis of the industry’s most enduring and profitable enterprise: the family sitcom. Its departure from television next Monday night will mark a sad moment for an assembly-line manufacturer that has seemingly abandoned production of its most popular and income-generating product line. That has happened for the simple (and inexplicable) reason that television executives cannot figure out how to design a model that measures up to the “Raymond” standard. “Raymond” was not one of a kind; it was merely the best of its kind during an era when network television comedy seemed to be losing its soul.

The roots of “Raymond” can be found in television’s beginnings; not much has changed, really, in the 50 years since Alice Kramden railed against Ralph in the humble kitchen where most of “The Honeymooners” took place. Ralph Kramden and Ray Barone traveled the same rocky path in their marriages to strong, sensible women who questioned them at every turn – and reaped the same reward at the end of every episode, when all was set right for another week. The Barones added parents and children to the mix, and substituted familial dysfunction for the class conflicts that formed “The Honeymooners”‘ standard construct. Ray had a decent job – he was a sportswriter for Newsday, and rarely suffered insecurity about his station in life, the way Ralph the bus driver did. But Ray and Ralph both found themselves in regular battle with their wives over their inability to function in mature and reasonable ways. Like virtually all successful television comedies, the humor on “Raymond” (and “The Honeymooners”) came from characters who behaved like children in a grown-up world.

The mark of a great family show isn’t how it breaks with the past; it’s how it embraces the tradition and takes it to a new level, the way “Roseanne” did when it blasted into the Nielsens’ top five right after its debut in October of 1988. Nothing about that series was particularly groundbreaking; there was the couch and the kitchen, there were the bickering parents and the sarcastic children, just like on every show that came before. What set “Roseanne” apart was the honesty of its characters. You had the feeling that Roseanne Barr and John Goodman, as the parents, would split your television apart with the raw emotions that made their marriage an eternal sparring match. They couldn’t wait to tell each other what they really felt, and it hurt them – and us. They were the fattest, ugliest couple ever to land a series on network television, and America couldn’t take its eyes off of them.

We can safely assume that comedian Ray Romano and “Raymond” creator Phil Rosenthal had “Roseanne” on their radar screens when they set out to put Mr. Romano’s brand of marital comedy on television in September, 1996. The young stand-up comic from Long Island had recently appeared as a guest on “The Late Show with David Letterman,” and the talk-show host immediately sensed a rich television persona in his material. Mr. Letterman signed Mr. Romano to a deal with his production company, Worldwide Pants, and launched development of a family sitcom. (For a comedian who positions himself as cynical and anti-network, it’s ironic that Mr. Letterman deserves most of the credit for setting in motion the billion-dollar behemoth that is “Raymond.”) Mr. Rosenthal’s pilot script offered CBS a traditional family comedy with a kitchen and a couch – and a very, very funny script. To CBS programming guru Leslie Moonves’s eternal credit, he didn’t say no, nor did he cancel the show for mediocre ratings despite two seasons of them.

Right away, the show immersed itself in the rich material of married life, in ways that carried traditions forward to a new generation. The Barones had as their models – and their nemeses – Ray’s parents, who lived across the street, classic meddlers and interlopers who (like all sitcom characters) thought nothing of walking through a front door unannounced, at any time. But quickly the show settled into a rewarding rhythm of jokes and character references, matched up with stories that seemed grounded in a relatable reality. Only a few episodes in, Frank Barone – Ray’s father, endearingly overacted by Peter Boyle – moved in with Ray and Debra, to escape the overbearing persona of his wife, Marie, played with consistent skill by Doris Roberts. It was Marie’s character who defined the show in early seasons, often set in opposition to her son’s behavior. She gave him a way to show his juvenile side, seeking her approbation while desperate to escape her clutches. Mercifully, less was made of Robert, Ray’s brother, who was set up early as the less-favored son, and whose humor derived less from his character than his appearance. Some people are just too tall for television, and Brad Garrett is one of them.

Episodes explored the complexities of human interaction in ways that even “Roseanne” never bothered, and that “Seinfeld” – television’s other recent comedy of manners – ignored because of its obsession with single life. “Raymond’s” second episode dealt with Ray’s inability to say “I love you” to his wife; later that first season, the show explored the balance of work and family, insecurities about appearance, and honesty between husband and wife. The fact that Mr. Romano was still working out his chemistry with his on-screen wife – the immensely gifted Patricia Heaton – worked to the show’s advantage; they seemed tentative with one another, as though their marriage had yet to reach a level where it could sustain itself for a lifetime.

In future seasons the couple would explore a seemingly endless number of variants on that theme. In a terrific second-season episode called “The Letter,” Debra writes her real feelings towards her mother-in-law in a letter that Ray tries to keep from being delivered – but of course it reaches its destination, and turns their lives upside-down for at least the remainder of a 22-minute episode, when her honesty becomes the reward. Yes, like every family comedy from “The Honeymooners” to “The Simpsons,” “Raymond” resolves itself each week with a tender reconciliation that simultaneously advances the characters, and returns them to where they were before the episode began. It’s a neat trick; don’t try it at home.

In recent weeks, “Raymond” has shown both the advantages and perils of television longevity. Two weeks ago, an episode called “The Power of No” cleverly continued the show’s ongoing exploration of marriage and sex; in it, Ray discovers that by denying Debra sex, he only increases her desire for it. It seemed a premise so obvious – and so rich with potential – that it’s hard to believe it took the “Raymond” writers nine years to think of it. But then there was last Monday’s episode, “Pat’s Secret,” in which Robert’s mother-in-law (played by Georgia Engel, most famous as Ted Baxter’s wife, Georgette, on “Mary Tyler Moore”) turns out to be a closet smoker. What might have been an interesting examination of hypocrisy and health deteriorated into a set-up for yet another sickening group hug.

It’s time for “Raymond” to go. But after next Monday, there will be no family comedy on television to compare to “Raymond” at its best; the bar will be lowered, and CBS’s second-rate “King of Queens” will be hailed as the half-hour to beat. A comedy format that began more than a half-century ago threatens to disappear, as the networks find new ways to trample their traditions. The couches and the kitchens may live on, but the great performances, characters, and scripts that gave classic family shows their heart and soul seem missing from the comedies that now fill the few half-hour holes left on network schedules. Strange, isn’t it? Halting production on what made you rich, successful and beloved seems an odd way to run a business.