Tag: Attention Economy (page 1 of 1)

I Hate The Way We Talk Online

A little over a week ago, I asked on Threads:

Without googling or using a chatbot, do you know what the top songs (by chart position) in your favorite genres are right now? Could you sing, rap, or even hum them if asked?

What I expected in return were answers from acquaintances and strangers alike about their awareness of what’s actually popular, rather than the hyper-personal, algorithmically curated music being piped into their ears or the tunes that the hyper-niche online music fandom they may be a part of was promoting. 

What I got instead were weirdly defensive or hostile replies that seemed to take my innocuous question as an invitation to debate the merits of charts including conspiracy theories about their purpose.  Others merely wanted to pat themselves on the back for having edgy tastes.

I’m desperate for some sense of a shared cultural language or zeitgeist right now, but not like this.

On a recent episode of Brittany Luse’s It’s Been A Minute podcast, Wired’s Jason Parharm argued that this current stage of overly algorithmic social media has fostered a “main character” mentality where the primary currency is attention and everything, and everyone is judged through that lens. In this world, platforms reward “algorithm-speak” over individual expression and nuance, and any sense of a monoculture around anything other than the algorithm is almost non-existent.

The price of engaging with topics I care about or content I enjoy in spaces where I know like-minded folks exist is that I earn the attention of those who care more about winning algorithmically than connection. Much like literacy, social skills have atrophied in this age of social media. 

As the World Cup has been showcasing lately, we can still find commonality and shared language around live sports, but even that is being fractured by the ways we experience the world through our digital frameworks.  I’ve written before about how attending WNBA games in-person is nothing like the tribalism rampant when discussing the W online. I’d amend that today to note that fandom around one particular player and team can sometimes feel like the comments section IRL when they come out in full force at your home arena.

They reek of that “main character” mentality in which people assume they are the most entitled to everyone’s attention rather than reading the room and being good guests. 

It’s infuriating.

I’m rejecting the shifting social mores that place the highest value on attention. I’m done with aura, rizz, maxxing, and mogging. I’m not accepting a post-literate society. 

I refuse!

Let’s discuss topics without feeling the need to win a non-existent argument. 

Hot takes? No.

Unsourced Breaking News from non-journalists? Nah, B.

Engage with nuance. Show the grace you would extend offline to those you meet on these virtual streets.

Have something real to say? Write a blog.

Want to better understand the world we live in? Read a book. 

Want to be a creator? Don’t let AI write your shit, render your art, or make your infographics.

Don’t be a “main character.” Be a person. 

Don’t make me enter my curmudgeon era.

Despite how far back I have to scroll to find my year in age verification features, I’m too young and pretty to be a full-time crank. 

Joy is the Signal

Dylan Byers said something on an end-of-2025 episode of The Grill Room that stuck with me (paraphrasing):

The best media story of the year is about people who have created something on their own. I don’t know what their long game is as businesses, but they’re definitely having fun. And it’s joyful. I spend a lot of time in my inbox with people who are very upset at their media organizations. It’s nice to look out and see a younger generation genuinely enjoying themselves.

It crystallized something I’d already been feeling.

I noticed it at Bloomberg ScreenTime in 2024, right after I was laid off from Paramount: the vibes in legacy media were bleak, while the energy around podcasters, independent journalists, and digital studio mini-moguls was fully lit. Those in the Creator Economy were the ones with the glint in their eye, big dreams of making it, and often with impeccable skin.

No one knows the long-term financial viability of going out on your own—or the sustainability of always operating as an individual or a small team—but the joy is unmistakable. The people who leapt look alive.

I remember that feeling from the halcyon days of blogging, when staying up late to post on my little website—or editing LAist back when it was just a city blog—felt more energizing than my very cool TV job. One of the mindfucks of getting older is failing to recognize when those shifts are happening again. Or worse, greeting them with skepticism instead of curiosity.

That might explain why my initial reaction to Evan Shapiro’s rollout of his Attention Economy chart last fall was dismissive. It felt undercooked. Unlike his meticulous maps of legacy media, this one didn’t really show how creator businesses make money. Lumping creators, streamers, influencers, and brands together without distinction doesn’t help those of us trying to navigate what this ecosystem actually is.

Shapiro’s follow-up conversation with his co-host Marion Ranchet was more satisfying. They acknowledged the chart’s limitations and explained why mapping the ecosystem, rather than breaking down the financials, was necessary. Creators aren’t lone wolves. They’re small media companies that rely on platforms, agencies, white-label studios, and contractors to provide their teams.

For legacy media professionals contemplating the jump, that matters. The most abundant opportunities may not be in front of the camera or mic, or even directly with a creator doing those things, but in the infrastructure—joining partner companies or building businesses that serve new creatives in aggregate.

That entrepreneurial leap is the hardest part for those of us raised in corporate systems, where being excellent at a narrow role was enough. Clock in, clock out, collect a paycheck. Creators don’t work that way. They live to work—partly because the competition for attention is ruthless, and also because they love it. They expect collaborators to bring that same energy.

I include myself among those who need to get over themselves—and over our judgments about what “counts” as media in 2026. We’re not going back. I may never fully embrace the pejorative use of “plot-based media,” but I also have to admit: my wife is just as likely to find me watching a reactor video on YouTube as she would find me deeply engaged in a prestige drama on HBO.

What earns my attention is joy. Enthusiasm is infectious. I listen and watch because I can feel that the people making this stuff want to be there.

I still worry about the creator business model—financially and operationally—when you’re the sole proprietor, star, and producer of your own mini-media empire. Not everyone becomes a Joe Rogan, Joe Budden, MrBeast, or Ms. Rachel. But a “Creator Middle Class” is emerging. One that can control its business, build direct relationships with its audience, and sustain a career without celebrity status.

For those of us who love plot-based media and accept how much we’ve grown to enjoy the attention-based kind, the real work is figuring out where we fit in and having the humility to recognize that joy, not legacy, may be the clearest signal of where the future already lies between these two worlds.