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Calm is bad for business. Nuance is bad for engagement. But outrage? Fear? The giddy dopamine hit of a 15-second dance challenge? The voyeuristic thrill of a true-crime documentary? These are the currencies of the modern attention economy.

The line between the "producer" and the "consumer" has blurred. Platforms like have turned everyday individuals into media moguls.

This reflexivity is brilliant and intellectually thrilling, but it also signals a kind of cultural exhaustion. We have become so fluent in the grammar of media—the tropes, the plot devices, the character arcs—that we can no longer look at them straight on. We must always look at them, winking. The danger is that popular media risks becoming a closed loop, a conversation that only people who have watched other pieces of popular media can understand. It is a hall of mirrors, and the exit is no longer visible.

The result is a culture of hyper-niche saturation. You no longer need to like what your neighbor likes. The algorithm will build a bespoke universe just for you: a non-stop parade of ASMR cooking videos, deep-cut 1970s funk, true-crime podcasts, and Korean dating shows. This is, in one sense, a golden age of abundance. A queer teenager in rural Mississippi can find representation and community. A fan of experimental jazz fusion can find thousands of hours of obscure performances.