We live in an era of content abundance but attention scarcity. There are more movies, songs, podcasts, and games than any human could consume in ten lifetimes. That abundance has cratered the perceived value of any single piece of content.
Meanwhile, a handful of mega-franchises (Marvel, Star Wars, The Rock, Taylor Swift) capture a disproportionate share of both revenue and cultural oxygen. Mid-budget films and niche genres are squeezed out. LegalPorno.24.06.19.Honey.Hold.Alexa.Liepa.And....
But there is a shadow. The same technology that empowers creators burns them out. In the attention economy, you are not a viewer; you are a product. And the product is exhausted. We live in an era of content abundance
Doomscrolling—the compulsive consumption of negative or neutral content long after it stops being rewarding—is now a clinical behavior. The dopamine loops engineered by TikTok and Reels have led to a generation reporting shorter attention spans than goldfish (a popular but debunked statistic, yet a powerful metaphor). Meanwhile, a handful of mega-franchises (Marvel, Star Wars,
Entertainment has become labor. Keeping up with the Marvel Cinematic Universe requires a spreadsheet. Following five different podcasts requires a queue manager. The joy of discovery has been replaced by the anxiety of the unwatched—the endless "My List" that looks more like a homework assignment than a leisure activity.
Parasocial relationships—once the domain of talk show hosts and soap opera stars—are now the engine of modern fandom. Streamers on Twitch talk directly to their chat; YouTubers share their breakfast, breakups, and breakdowns. Fans don’t just consume content; they feel known by the creator.
This intimacy drives fierce loyalty and commercial power (merch, memberships, Patreon). But it also creates a dark side: boundary erosion, obsessive fandom, and the mental health toll on creators who are expected to perform authenticity 24/7.