“A mind like a roomful of starlings.”

Theater of the real: YouTube's manufactured authenticity

YouTube, TikTok, Insta feel more impromptu, more raw, more real, more authentic … but isn’t all just part of the bezzle?

Decades ago, especially when I couldn’t sleep, I’d switch on the telly in the wee hours of the morning and bask in the glow of infomercials. While the salesmanship of Ron Popeil and Billy Mays and the demos of countless products—from OxiClean to the Bumpits to the ShamWow—were mildly entertaining, they were never entertainment.

Entertainment in that era was usually television programming. The content needed to be just adequate enough to attract eyeballs to the commercials. For example, in the 1980s, NBC satisfied the public’s Brobdingnagian appetites for chimpanzee hijinks and long-haul trucking with B.J. and the Bear. We, the TV-viewing public, gladly paid for that programming by consuming commercials—so avidly, some claim, that NBC’s ad rates have not touched such heights since.

Perhaps this is why I find this thoroughly modern media landscape so baffling.

Unlike the traditional TV model, where commercials were the price of admission, today’s social media content is the commercial. The line between entertainment and advertising has disappeared. You’re not watching content with ads. You’re watching ads disguised as content.

To wit, in the pre-streaming era, people consumed two to three hours of television daily. Or, given the standard 45:15 programming-to-commercial format, the average American viewer paid for their 90 to 135 minutes of programming by sitting through 30 to 45 minutes of commercials. Such was the price for simian shenanigans.

Fast forward to today, where many scroll through YouTube, TikTok, or Instagram for two to three hours daily. Much of the content is, in effect, commercial. There are great, heaving glugs of:

And, of course, this is not counting the constant requests to smash that like button and subscribe so the infomercial actor (ahem, creator) can receive a cut of the interstitial commercials and display ads that litter the interface.

Perhaps the greatest trick social media ever pulled was convincing us watching commercials 100% of the time was better than watching commercials 25% of the time.

But wait, there's more!

Few Make What You Watch

Another reason so much online content seems commercial is that it’s professionally made. A tiny fraction of creators produce most of the content. At first glance, it appears that 2.64%—66 million among 2.5 billion—create content. But this figure is misleading because site traffic is heavily skewed toward a very small group within the 66 million.

In 2016, researcher Mathias Bärtl reported that only 3% of all creators accounted for 90% of the traffic.

\(
3\% \times 66,000,000 = 1,980,000 \text{ (Elite Creators)}
\)

Or, rounding up, 2 million of the 66 million creators get 90% of the traffic. However, we know that not everyone in that group of two million top creators receives an equal share of traffic. To wit, channels with 10,000 subscribers do not receive the same number of views as ones with more than a million subscribers.

While there isn’t any granular traffic data, we could use a power-law distribution and information about subscribers to estimate traffic for the segments within the 2 million.

Here’s a breakdown of YouTube creators by subscriber count from Sept 2024,

To estimate how traffic is distributed across these elite YouTube creators, we use a power-law model, which follows the equation:

\(
T_N = k \times N^{-\alpha} \times 90\%
\)

Where:
\( (T_N) \) = The share of traffic allocated to a creator tier ranked at position \( (N) \)

\( (N) \) = The rank of the creator tier, where 1 is the highest-ranked (100M+ subscribers), 2 is the next highest (50M+ subscribers), and so on

\( (k) \) = The normalization factor, which ensures that all traffic shares sum to 100%, we use 0.6238

\( (\alpha) \) = The power-law exponent, which controls how steeply traffic declines as rank increases. For YouTube traffic, we use \( (\alpha = 1.8) \), a value commonly observed in empirical studies of digital platforms.

We multiply by 90% since these elite creators represent 90% of the traffic

And that gives us the following result:

  1. 100M+ Subscribers – 56.14% of YouTube traffic

  2. 50M – 100M Subscribers – 16.12% of YouTube traffic

  3. 10M – 50M Subscribers – 7.77% of YouTube traffic

  4. 1M – 10M Subscribers – 4.63% of YouTube traffic

  5. 100K – 1M Subscribers – 3.10% of YouTube traffic

  6. 10K – 100K Subscribers – 2.25% of YouTube traffic

Or, the creators who have more than 1M subscribers, roughly 60,000 accounts, 0.002% of users, represent 85% of all traffic on YouTube.

\(
56.14\% + 16.12\% + 7.77\% + 4.63\% = 84.66\%
\)

But wait, there’s more!

Even Fewer Get Paid

Since most of the content consumed on YouTube comes from just 60,000 creators, they also capture nearly all the revenue. As a result, they have the revenue to produce content professionally—with high-quality shooting, sound design, editing, foley, and more. For example, reports estimate the monthly earnings of YouTubers based on subscriber count:

What this indicates is that YouTube is a professionalized media ecosystem. The top 0.002% of users produce nearly everything that’s being seen. These are not amateurs, hobbyists, or bedroom vloggers making viral hits for the lulz. These are professionally-run channels, operating at a scale that demands staff, production budgets, and corporate partnerships.

But wait, there’s more!

Professionally Amateurish Media

Perhaps the strangest thing about this thoroughly professional content is how it mimics the amateurish, extra-janky style of the early web.

Take one example, kitchen singing videos on TikTok, a trend recently skewered in an exceptionally hilarious takedown. If you’re not in the know, kitchen singing refers to videos of “friends” casually harmonizing in a kitchen, a vibe meant to evoke impromptu jam sessions. (n.b. I am thankful this isn’t some odd sex thing, which is often the case on the internet.)

The trick, of course, is that none of this is actually casual.

In the video, Fil exposes the staggering amount of professional production work that goes into making these “spontaneous” kitchen jams look effortless. Here’s what actually happens:

  1. Each singer records their part alone in the kitchen.

  2. The vocals are autotuned to perfection.

  3. All the vocals are mixed together with the instrumental track.

  4. Finally, the singers and accompanist return to the kitchen to lipsync to the finished recording.

An incredible amount of time, money, and effort is spent making a highly produced video look impromptu. It’s a fascinating con—using the aesthetics of amateurism to manufacture a simulacrum of authenticity.

But why?

After all, at first glance, this makes no sense. If these creators are making millions, why on earth take the time and effort to make their professionally shot video look like piece of shit someone threw together on iMovie?

Because they need to.

Is it possible that looking professional is a problem for top influencers/creators/YouTubers? High production values create psychological distance between the viewer and the creator, reducing the sensation of “authenticity” and blocking the development of a deep parasocial bond.

A parasocial bond is a one-sided psychological relationship in which an audience member feels a personal connection with a public figure—despite the relationship being entirely unreciprocated. The more “real” and “relatable” a creator appears, the easier it is for viewers to feel as if they know them personally.

In the case of all those YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram infomercials, the parasocial bond is what makes the content sticky. That feeling of attachment builds loyalty driving viewers to return, not just because they like the content, but because they feel connected to the creator.

This “stickiness” is what keeps fans watching the same YouTuber for years. The parasocial bond transforms a casual viewer into a repeat consumer. They watch more, spending hours hooked on the platform, driving up ad revenue. They engage more, liking, commenting, and sharing—keeping the algorithm happy. And most importantly, they spend more—on subscriptions, merch, and Patreon pledges. In other words, stickiness equals stability. A viral hit might bring fleeting fame, but a loyal parasocial audience is the foundation of this thoroughly modern infomercial model.

Or, at their core, YouTube and its ilk aren’t just content platforms—they’re machines designed to manufacture parasocial relationships at scale. After all, when it comes to recommendations—where to travel, what to buy, which workouts to try, even what to believe—who can you trust if not a friend?

Even if that friend only exists in your head.

But wait, there’s more!

The Parasocial Con

Parasocial relationships aren’t inherently bad—for many, they’re just another form of entertainment. But for a growing number of viewers, synthetic relationships are replacing real friendships.

And therein lies the problem.

Many—especially men—are deeply lonely. Social atomization, declining communities, and shifting relationship dynamics have left millions struggling to form real bonds. Into this vacuum, parasocial relationships step in.

The result? Deep loyalty—not just to a creator’s content, but to the creator as a “friend.” Fans defend them aggressively, parrot their talking points, and emotionally invest in their success or failure as if it were their own.

At their most extreme, YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok aren’t just content networks. They’re replacements for real-world communities. They offer a sense of belonging, where fandoms mimic friend groups, a shared language, where inside jokes and repeated opinions create a tribal identity, and a feeling of intimacy, where the illusion of connection makes fans feel seen in ways real life often doesn’t.

This is powerful, but also dangerous. The relationship is one-sided—creators sell attention for money, and fans buy connection with time, loyalty, and emotional investment. And yet, for many, it feels real. Real enough to shape their worldview, their opinions, their emotions.

And that’s the con.

The huge beezle that hurts my heart in ways that are hard to describe.

For purely commercial reasons, and in ways we never intended, we’ve accidentally engineered a world where synthetic “connection” is easier than real friendship.

A real friend might challenge you. YouTube will only validate you.

A real friend requires effort. TikTok is always available.

A real friend is unpredictable. Instagram follows a content schedule.

The push-and-pull, the rough-and-tumble of real friendships—the arguments, the joy, the heartbreak, the messy, pee-your-pants-it’s-so-funny moments—that’s what builds trust, connection, and true happiness.

These platforms? In the end, just hollow pleasures.