YouTube

How Monetization Turned Social Media in (2005–2025)

Picture this: it’s the mid-2000s and you’re watching a grainy YouTube video of a
cat playing piano. No one’s shouting “Like and subscribe!” and the term
“influencer” isn’t a thing. It’s just people sharing goofy clips for the heck of
it. Back then, YouTube’s motto was “Broadcast Yourself,” emphasis on yourself, not
“monetize yourself.” There were no ads, no partners, no cash rewards – just viral
videos of pandas sneezing and dudes lip-syncing in dorm rooms. A simpler, innocent
time, right? Enjoy it in memory, because it didn’t last. Flash-forward to 2025:
YouTube’s a multi-billion-dollar beast, and every click, comment, and cringey prank
is potentially someone’s paycheck. The platforms we use to connect and share have
become profit-driven battlefields, where algorithms favor outrage, policy flip-
flops keep creators on edge, and everyone’s either trying to game the system or
survive it. How the hell did we get here? Strap in – this is the snarky saga of
social media’s monetization-fueled evolution.

The Viral Gold Rush: YouTube Finds a Business Model

Let’s rewind to 2005. YouTube is brand new – a funky little site for uploading
videos (born from a failed dating-site idea, fun fact). Early viral hits like
“Charlie Bit My Finger” or “Evolution of Dance” rack up millions of views, but
guess what the creators got paid? Zilch. Monetization wasn’t even on the menu yet.
It was all just for internet fame and giggles. That changed fast once Google saw
dollar signs and bought YouTube in 2006. By May 2007, YouTube launched its Partner
Program, allowing creators to run ads on videos and (gasp) actually earn money.
Overnight, being a goofball with a camera went from hobby to side hustle to
potentially a full-blown career. Everyday people realized they could get paid for
going viral. The “Broadcast Yourself” era pivoted hard into the “Broadcast and Get
That Bag” era.

For those early YouTubers, it felt like striking gold in the Wild West. Michael
Buckley, one of the first YouTube Partners (he ran a fast-talking comedy news show
called What the Buck?!), described 2007 as “such an exciting and innocent time” –
nobody really believed you could earn a living making silly online videos . “If you
told people you were making videos on the internet, it sounded silly or
pornographic. There was no thought of making money doing this. It was just a whole
lot of fun,” Buckley recalled. But once that Partner Program kicked in, fun and
profit became best friends. Suddenly, a viral clip of two otters holding hands or a
dramatic chipmunk wasn’t just internet trivia – it was an advertising goldmine. By
flipping the monetization switch, YouTube essentially minted the first generation
of YouTube millionaires. Folks like Buckley, who started vlogging in their living
rooms, saw their hobbies turn into six-figure businesses. Imagine waking up to find
your random home video got 5 million views, and realizing those views could pay
your rent. The game changed, and everyone noticed.

This was the viral gold rush. As the news spread that “ordinary people are getting
rich on YouTube!”, a wave of new creators flooded in, all chasing virality like it
was the new California Gold Rush. YouTube was happy to fan the flames – more
creators meant more content, which meant more viewers and more ads. The site’s
ethos subtly shifted: it was no longer just share yourself, it was grow an
audience, cater to the algorithm, and maybe you can quit your day job. Thus, the
modern “creator economy” was born on YouTube’s back. Other platforms would soon
copy the idea (Instagram “influencers,” Vine stars, TikTok’s Creator Fund, you name
it), but YouTube was ground zero for the notion that internet clout = cash.

Of course, where money flows, trouble follows. An influx of aspiring creators all
vying for views led to interesting behavior. People realized that if you crack the
code for getting attention on YouTube, you could literally laugh your way to the
bank. This set the stage for everything – the scandals, the scams, the raging
culture wars – that came after. YouTube grew up fast from a scrappy startup to a
corporate subsidiary that needed to keep advertisers, viewers, and millions of
creators all on board. What could go wrong? Spoiler: a lot.

Enter the Adpocalypse: When Advertisers Got Spooked

YouTube’s blissful early years couldn’t last. Once advertisers and big money got
involved, the platform’s freedom-loving vibe ran into a harsh reality: brands don’t
like their ads next to edgy or controversial content. And boy, does YouTube have
plenty of that. Thus began a recurring nightmare creators now know all too well:
the Adpocalypse – a very dramatic term for “advertiser freak-outs that punish
everyone.” In fact, there hasn’t been just one Adpocalypse. We’ve had a series of
them, each a sequel worse than the last. Think of it like the crappy horror
franchise of YouTube’s history: Adpocalypse I, II, III… (coming soon: Adpocalypse
Vs. Freddy, perhaps).

Adpocalypse I (2017) – The one that started it all. In early 2017, YouTube’s
biggest star PewDiePie (then 53+ million subscribers) decided it’d be edgy humor to
include some anti-Semitic and funny windmill wearers references in his videos. Real
classy stuff – at one point he paid two random dudes to hold up a sign that also
said something similar. Not a great look. The media (led by the Wall Street
Journal) called him out, headlines blared that YouTube’s top creator was posting
hate speech, and all hell broke loose . Major advertisers freaked. Coca-Cola,
Johnson & Johnson, AT&T – you name it – they started pulling their ads en masse.
Suddenly YouTube looked toxic to the advertising world. Google (YouTube’s parent)
panicked like its hair was on fire. Within weeks, they rolled out stricter
monetization policies and new moderation efforts to reassure advertisers. For
creators, this felt like a rug pulled out from under their feet. One day you’re
earning money fine; the next, a bunch of your videos get demonetized (no ads = no $
$) because they’re not “advertiser-friendly” enough. It was chaos. Creators big and
small saw the dreaded yellow dollar icon (indicating limited or no ads) popping up
all over. The rules of the game had changed literally overnight, all because
PewDiePie thought a Fiverr prank with an Austrian painter reference was a good
idea. Nice going, Felix. Thus, Adpocalypse I became a cautionary tale: one
creator’s controversy can scorch the earth for everyone.

Adpocalypse II (2017–2018) – If the first was sparked by edgy humor gone wrong, the
second came from a much weirder, darker place: creepy kids’ content. By late 2017,
people started noticing a disturbing trend on YouTube. There was a proliferation of
bizarre “kids” videos with millions of views – we’re talking off-brand CGI cartoons
of Elsa and Spider-Man in sketchy scenarios, real kids being forced to do odd,
upsetting pranks, and other nightmare fuel under the veneer of “family fun.” A
particularly notorious channel called Toy Freaks (a dad who filmed his young
daughters screaming in fear, eating weird food, and other exploitative stuff) had
blown up to 8.5 million subscribers. When journalists and the public realized how
much of this content slipped past YouTube’s radar, guess who noticed next?
Advertisers. Brands like Mars, Adidas, Deutsche Bank and others saw their ads
running on videos of, say, a toddler in distress – and they were not amused. In
November 2017 a bunch of these companies yanked their ads again, and Adpocalypse II
was underway . YouTube belatedly swung the ban-hammer, terminating Toy Freaks
entirely to show they meant business .

Then, early 2018 brought the Logan Paul incident, which, while different, poured
gasoline on the fire. Logan Paul (one of YouTube’s most popular vloggers) filmed a
non-alive body in Japan’s “Sea of Trees” and thought it suitable for his fun
vlogging channel. The backlash was huge – mainstream media, outraged viewers, and
yes, horrified advertisers again. It was the second time in a year YouTube had been
caught with its pants down, hosting content that made advertisers say “What the
hell are we funding here?!” So in January 2018, YouTube did something that punished
every small creator to avoid future embarrassments: they changed the rules of the
Partner Program. Suddenly, to monetize your channel, you needed at least 1,000
subscribers and 4,000 hours of watch time in the past year . No more tiny channels
making a few bucks off a viral clip – you had to prove you’re somewhat serious (and
thus presumably under control). This infuriated small creators, many of whom got
kicked out of monetization overnight. To them it felt like they were paying for the
sins of the big boys. And honestly, they were. YouTube basically said “we can’t
trust new or small channels not to be idiots, because Logan Paul was an idiot.” The
timing was blatant: they rolled out this policy within days of the Logan non-alive
body fiasco . The community’s takeaway: if a top creator does something colossally
stupid, YouTube’s response is to smack everyone on the platform with new
restrictions. Logical? No. Reality? Yes.

Adpocalypse III (2019) – Just when things were calming down, another scandal blew
up, this time involving something truly revolting: a pdf file “soft ring” in
YouTube comments. In February 2019, a YouTuber named Matt Watson (MattsWhatItIs)
posted an exposé showing how predators were lurking in the comments of innocuous
home videos of children – the videos themselves were normal (kids playing, doing
gymnastics, etc.), but creeps were time-stamping “interesting” parts and trading
contact info. Even worse, YouTube’s algorithm was inadvertently linking these
videos together, so once you watched one, the recommendation sidebar would start
feeding you more of this content, effectively creating a wormhole for pdf files.
Watson’s video went viral, the story hit the mainstream news, and the hashtag
#YouTubeWakeUp started trending to pressure YouTube and advertisers. And yep,
advertisers again pulled out in droves – Disney, Nestlé, Epic Games, and AT&T
(which, hilariously, had just returned after Adpocalypse I) were among the big
names to pause all YouTube ads. Deja vu, anyone? So YouTube scrambled to contain
the damage: they deleted over 400 channels, purged tens of millions of comments,
and disabled comments on almost any video featuring minors. That last move, by the
way, was a huge blow to many family vloggers and legit kid-friendly creators who
relied on comments to engage their audience. Innocent creators once again got
caught in the crossfire as YouTube tried to prove to the world, “Look, we’re
cleaning up the cesspool, please come back advertisers!” For viewers and creators,
it felt like yet another round of random demonetizations and rule changes. People
were afraid that all content creators were about to suffer because of this one very
nasty corner of YouTube. This was absolutely seen as Adpocalypse 3, and the sense
of dread in the creator community was palpable. How many more times would they
suffer for YouTube’s failure to police its platform?

Adpocalypse IV (2019) – “Vox Adpocalypse.” This one had a name like a bad sequel
and a culture-war twist. In May 2019, Carlos Maza, a journalist from Vox, got fed
up with a right-wing YouTuber, Steven Crowder, repeatedly harassing him in videos –
using slurs, making derogatory jokes about Maza’s identity, the whole nine yards.
Maza publicly called out YouTube, essentially saying “enforce your damn policies,
this guy is slurring me and still making money off it.” There was a media frenzy
around it – if you remember the Twitter storms, it was huge. Under pressure,
YouTube had to respond. Initially they bungled it (saying Crowder’s slurs didn’t
violate policy, a stance that got them roasted by the press), then they reversed
course and demonetized Crowder’s channel along with a bunch of other channels
deemed to be engaging in hate speech or harassment. They also updated their hate
speech policies site-wide to ban things like white supremacist content more
explicitly. This wave of action – which many conservative YouTubers saw as YouTube
caving to a liberal journalist – got nicknamed the “Vox Adpocalypse” or
“Adpocalypse 2.0” by those who felt it was a new form of crackdown . In reality, it
was more of a continuation of YouTube’s post-2017 trajectory: tighter rules, less
tolerance for controversy (at least the kind that makes headlines), and
demonetization as the go-to tool to smack down problematic content. Crowder and
several others lost their ad revenue (some permanently, some got it back later
after cleaning up their channels). This sparked a loud debate about free speech vs.
advertiser-friendly speech on YouTube. Many creators (not just on the right) grew
even more anxious – the boundaries of what was “allowed” or “monetizable” had
become a constantly moving target.

By this point, “Adpocalypse” had become almost a meme among YouTubers. It seemed
like every year (or even few months) something would trigger yet another round of
policy overhauls, mass demonetization, or advertiser panic. Creators started to
preemptively censor themselves – bleeping innocuous words, avoiding controversial
topics entirely – not because they wanted to, but because they feared the almighty
algorithm would smite them (or the next ad boycott would wipe out their income).
Demonetization became the boogeyman under every creator’s bed. Some even coined the
term “yellow icon PTSD,” referring to that gut-drop feeling when you see your video
flagged as not ad-friendly. And honestly, can you blame them? Imagine if your boss
randomly docked your pay because somewhere in the company someone else messed up,
and you wouldn’t even be told exactly why or for how long. That’s basically
YouTube’s system post-2017.

To be fair, not all the monetization changes were purely to appease advertisers –
some were (ostensibly) to protect viewers or comply with laws. In 2020, YouTube had
to enforce new COPPA (children’s privacy) rules, which demonetized “kids’ content”
targeted at children (no more personalized ads) and crippled the
comments/notifications on those videos. That wasn’t an advertiser boycott, but it
felt like yet another mini-adpocalypse for those running kids channels. And there
have been others: crackdowns on videos about sensitive tragedies, health
misinformation bans during rona, etc. Each time, creators have had to adapt on the
fly, often after suffering a hit to their wallets.

The net effect of all these Adpocalypse waves? YouTube in 2025 is a lot more
corporate and strict than the YouTube of 2015. Swearing too much in the first
minute of your video can limit your ads. Making edgy jokes or touching political
third rails can get you demonetized or buried in the algorithm. The platform really
wants content that’s palatable to a Starbucks-level of blandness: safe, upbeat,
non-controversial, or at least educational/inspirational in an “approved” way. It’s
not that all edgy or critical content is gone (far from it), but it lives under the
shadow of monetization rules. Many creators self-censor or add disclaimers like
their life depends on it – because it sort of does. As we’ll see, this tension
between authentic content vs. advertiser-friendly content defines a lot of the
social media landscape now. And it’s ripe for exploitation in its own right.

Cheating the System: Viewbots, Fake Fame, and Algorithm Hacks

Now, while YouTube was busy putting out advertiser fires in public, a lot of
creators (and some sneaky outsiders) were busy starting their own fires behind the
scenes. Let’s be real: when there’s a system with money and fame at stake, people
will try to cheat that system. And YouTube’s ecosystem, especially in the 2010s,
was like the Wild West of growth-hacking. The goal: get views, get subscribers, by
any means necessary. The motto “Don’t be evil” (Google’s old mantra) definitely
didn’t apply to some of these folks. Let’s expose a few of their favorite tricks.

View-botting & Fake Views: One straightforward method – just fake the numbers.
There’s an entire cottage industry of websites where, for a few bucks, you could
buy thousands of YouTube views, likes, or even comments. Shady as hell? Absolutely.
Effective? Sometimes, yeah. In YouTube’s early days, the view count was king. A
high view count could push a video onto the coveted “Most Viewed” page or get the
algorithm to recommend it more. So of course people tried to inflate those numbers
artificially with bots or click-farms. Even big players weren’t above suspicion. In
fact, in late 2012 YouTube did a massive crackdown on artificial views and slashed
the view counts of major music labels like Universal and Sony by over 2 billion
views – yes, billion, with a B. Those weren’t cat videos; those were official music
videos from superstar artists. The purge was aimed at shutting down “black hat
view-count building techniques,” meaning even the record labels (or their
promoters) were likely using bots or other manipulations to jack up views. If
that’s how the professionals played the game, imagine Joe YouTuber in his basement.
Plenty of creators quietly experimented with buying views or buying subscribers to
pad their stats. Some got caught and had their channels terminated; many probably
got away with it for a while. It became such a known issue that YouTube now does
routine purges of “spam subscribers” and “inauthentic engagement.” Waking up to
find you lost 5,000 subs overnight? Possibly because YouTube nuked a bunch of bots
that someone (maybe even your former promotional agency) inserted. It’s an arms
race: as YouTube’s detection got better, bot sellers got craftier. And it continues
to this day – heck, in 2023-24, people still try to buy their way to the 1,000-
subscriber threshold to unlock monetization. Risky, but if your moral compass
points to profit, you might roll the dice.

“Reply Girls” and Algorithm Exploits: Not all schemeing was via outright fakery.
Some of it was exploiting quirks in YouTube’s algorithm. One legendary example: the
Reply Girls phenomenon around 2011-2012. Back then, YouTube had a feature where you
could post a “video response” to another video, and these responses would be
displayed prominently beneath the original. The algorithm really liked video
responses – if you posted one to a trending video, your response could shoot to the
top of the “related videos” sidebar, grabbing tons of eyeballs . A few
opportunistic creators (mostly young women) realized they could abuse this. They
churned out “response” videos to anything and everything popular – a viral news
clip, a trending music video, whatever – and used spicy thumbnails (think low-cut
tops, push-up bras prominently in frame) to bait clicks . The actual videos were
usually inane: a girl rambling “umm yeah, cool video guys!” for a minute. Viewers
would click, realize it’s pointless, often hit dislike and leave. But here’s the
kicker: at the time, YouTube counted a dislike as engagement just like a like . So
even if you hated the Reply Girl’s video, your view and interaction still boosted
her in the almighty algorithm. These trollopreneurs were literally making bank off
of people’s annoyance. One famous Reply Girl (user name “thereplygirl”) was
reportedly pulling in around $100 for each of her short, rambling videos, with some
especially “successful” ones netting close to $1,000. That’s hundreds of dollars
just for sitting in front of a webcam talking nonsense, thanks to YouTube’s system
rewarding whatever got clicks – even negative attention. The Reply Girl epidemic
got so bad that it sparked community outrage. Big YouTubers called them out,
viewers were up in arms, and by 2012 YouTube was embarrassed enough to overhaul the
response system and change the related-video algorithm. Eventually, they killed
video responses entirely, largely due to this fiasco. RIP, Reply Girls; you won’t
be missed.

And that’s just one exploit. Creators have tried every trick in the book: stuffing
video tags with trending keywords (even if unrelated) to ride search trends, using
misleading titles/thumbnails, creating drama or fake beef with bigger YouTubers to
siphon clout, and so on. For a while, prank channels were huge – then it turned out
many were faking their pranks (hiring actors to stage scenarios) to get more
outrageous footage. Reaction channels (people who just film themselves reacting to
other videos) exploded, and OG creators complained it was basically content theft
or at least lazy content – but algorithm said “Well, people watch it, so okay!”
Each time the meta shifted, some cunning folks found a way to juice the algorithm a
little more.

There was even a period where having certain keywords like “Minecraft” or “Fidget
Spinner” in titles guaranteed a boost because those were hot topics – so you’d see
utterly irrelevant videos sneaking those words in for clout. A whole generation of
kids channels basically hacked YouTube Kids’ algorithm by churning out low-quality
animated videos with popular characters (often unlicensed) doing bizarre things –
simply because kids would click them, and the algorithm doesn’t exactly have taste.
That was part of the “ElsaGate” weirdness that contributed to Adpocalypse II. In
other words, people will produce absolute garbage or ethically dubious content if
it gains the system and gains them views.

Perhaps the most underhanded growth scheme was the buying/selling of entire
channels – let’s call it “channel flipping.” Because why just buy views when you
can buy an audience? The idea: some individuals would create or buy a channel,
inflate its subscriber count (maybe via bots or maybe by posting a bunch of cheap
viral content), and once it was eligible for monetization and had, say, 50k subs,
they’d sell the channel to someone else. The buyer would rebrand it as their own.
Suddenly, they have a “popular” channel without the grind. If this sounds sketchy
and against YouTube’s rules… oh, it absolutely is. YouTube prohibits transferring
channels or selling accounts. But that didn’t stop a black market from emerging.
Websites popped up where you could literally purchase a YouTube channel like it was
an Instagram handle or a domain name. Some creators quietly did this to jump-start
their success. It’s hard to pin down names because, shocker, people don’t admit to
it openly (and “allegedly” is the magic legal word here). But industry folks have
long whispered that a few now-famous YouTubers may have “bought” their initial fame
by acquiring pre-grown channels or using illicit boosts early on. Allegedly. Where
there’s smoke, there’s fire – or at least a fog machine covering some shady sh*t.

Even those who didn’t outright break rules benefited from how loose the system was
back then. Remember Michael Buckley, the OG YouTuber? He admitted that a big reason
he blew up was because in 2007 YouTube had a “Most Subscribed” and “Most Discussed”
list, and he rode those straight to the top. Every video he uploaded would dominate
the charts on the homepage, which created a feedback loop of more views and more
subs. Once YouTube removed those old-school public leaderboards, he found it way
harder to get attention. In his own words, after those features went away “it
became much harder to find me on the site”. So even without malicious intent, early
creators had discoverability advantages that today’s creators simply don’t. The
platform was smaller, competition lighter, algorithms dumber, and YouTube itself
would often feature people on the front page just because they were trending or
staff-picked. These days? Fat chance – the front page is mostly personalized or
filled with mainstream media clips.

All this to say: a lot of early “YouTube fame” was rigged, either by exploiting the
platform’s design or outright violating it. Many of the now-established creators
cut their teeth in an environment where you could get away with a lot of shady
tactics. Some eventually got caught or cleaned up their act, others just rode the
wave and don’t mention how they got their initial boost. But it created a sense
among newer creators that the playing field was, well, never level to begin with.
And you know what? They’re right. Yet, the irony is, some of those who did game the
system are now the ones complaining loudest about others doing it. (We’ll get to
those hypocrites later.)

Before we move on, let’s not forget: this is not just a YouTube story. Instagram
had (and has) massive botting issues – people buying fake followers to look
influencer-level. Twitter? Same deal. Anywhere there’s a follower count or view
metric that confers status, people will inflate it. Heck, just recently under Elon
Musk’s new Twitter (X) monetization scheme, a Vietnamese click farm allegedly
managed to con the system into paying them creator ad-share by setting up bot
networks that “engaged” with each other’s posts – literally a circle-jerk of fake
accounts liking and reposting to fabricate virality. They basically printed money
by fooling the algorithm into thinking their spammy content was super popular.
(Musk’s X is now suing them, but the fact it happened at all is telling .) The more
things change, the more people find new ways to hustle.
Favorites of the Platform: Internal Politics and Hypocrisy

You’d hope that with all the chaos of ad boycotts and cheaters, the platform itself
– YouTube – would treat all its creators fairly and just focus on cleaning up the
mess. Ha! And I’ve got a bridge to sell you. In reality, YouTube has long been
accused of running something of a two-tier system: the stars and the scrubs. The
golden children and the expendables. And honestly, the evidence backs that up.

Take the moderation and policy enforcement. Officially, everyone is supposed to

play by the same rules – but in practice, if you’re a top creator bringing in
millions of eyeballs (and thus ad dollars), you seem to get extra lives like we’re
in a video game. Insiders have spilled the tea on this. In 2019, The Washington
Post reported that YouTube’s own moderators said top creators got special
treatment. These moderators would flag a big creator’s video for, say, hate speech
or graphic content, and recommend “hey, this violates guidelines, maybe demonetize
or remove it.” Normally, that’s the end of it. But if the channel was a big money-
maker, higher-ups at YouTube would frequently overrule the flagging . In other
words: “Oh, this is [insert famous YouTuber]? Let’s not be too hasty… maybe it’s
borderline, let it slide.” The moderators specifically named people like Logan
Paul, Steven Crowder, and PewDiePie as examples – all of whom did face
consequences at times, but often after long hesitations or only after public
outcry. Logan Paul, for instance, didn’t get his channel deleted for filming a body
– he got a temporary slap and eventually returned to favor. Crowder got re-
monetized after the Vox thing once the heat died down (with some conditions).
PewDiePie, after the 2017 debacle, technically got booted from Google Preferred ads
and lost a Disney partnership, but his channel itself was never banned and he kept
making money (with some ad restrictions) soon after. If a no-name YouTuber had
uploaded a joke advocating for genocide or a body video? They would’ve been perma-
banned yesterday. Period.

Why does this happen? Oh gee, maybe because YouTube makes a ton of money off its
top creators and is terrified of losing them. As one YouTube commentator put it,
it’s a double standard but “not uncommon – top earners in any business get to play
fast and loose with the rules”. It’s the golden goose principle. YouTube will bend
over backwards to keep its cash cows happy (or at least alive) because they draw in
the audiences. Sure, if the PR gets bad enough (PewDiePie being associated with the
Austrian painter, for instance), YouTube will performatively distance itself. But
behind closed doors, they know they need those big channels. It’s telling that,
according to those moderators, when mega-creators did get demonetized, the decision
was often reversed from above to reinstate ads after a while. They might publicly
“suspend” a Logan Paul, but as soon as the news cycle moves on, he’s quietly back
in Trending and making YouTube money again. Cynical? Yes. True? The community sure
thinks so.

Speaking of Trending – that’s another area rife with perceived favoritism. The
Trending tab on YouTube is supposed to show what’s popular across the platform. In
practice, it often shows what’s popular and safe. You’ll routinely see late-night
TV clips with relatively modest view counts or music videos from VEVO, while truly
viral indie videos with millions of views in a short time are nowhere to be found.
Creators have tested this: sometimes a video with 50k views from a Jimmy Fallon
will sit on Trending above a creator-made video with 5 million views in the same
timeframe. Hmm. Many suspect that Trending is manually curated to some extent – or
at least weighted towards stuff YouTube isn’t afraid of (read: big partners,
traditional media, inoffensive fluff). YouTube has denied heavy human manipulation,
but they do admit certain criteria (like “tries to have a diversity of creators”
and only includes a channel at most once within a certain period, etc.). Yet it’s
awfully funny how edgy or controversial viral videos basically never trend, even if
the view counts explode. It certainly feels like an editorial hand picks
“appropriate” content. Maybe that’s not entirely evil – I mean, do we really want a
random video titled “I Gave My Brother 10000 Laxatives (Gone Wrong)” on the front
page just because it got views? But it contributes to the sense that YouTube plays
favorites and has an image to uphold that often excludes the grassroots creators in
favor of celebs and corporations.

Then there’s the whole YouTube Rewind saga – perhaps the most public example of
YouTube’s disconnect and favoritism blowing up in its face. For years, YouTube
released an annual “Rewind” video featuring a mashup of the year’s biggest creators
and trends. It was meant to be a fun celebration of the platform’s culture. Over
time, though, it became cringe incarnate. They started focusing only on ad-
friendly, brand-safe stuff. By 2018, it hit a boiling point. That year, YouTube
Rewind 2018 infamously became the most-disliked video in YouTube history – over 10
million dislikes in a matter of days . Why? Because it blatantly ignored the actual
YouTube community and pandered to corporate interests. They left out huge creators
(no PewDiePie, even though 2018 was largely defined by his channel’s war with T-
Series for #1). They had Hollywood stars like Will Smith opening the video – ok
dude when he isn’t slapping people over his bald lecherous wife, but not a native
YouTuber. They referenced Fortnite and some vapid “wholesome” moments, while
glossing over anything remotely controversial or community-driven. It felt like a
glossy ad for YouTube, made by the marketing department, “used by YouTube’s
marketing team to appeal to advertisers,” as one article put it . And viewers
gagged on it. The backlash was deafening . YouTubers who were in it got flak; those
left out (who were actually the platform’s lifeblood that year) subtly or not-so-
subtly mocked it. It became a meme how bad it was. YouTube’s own boss later
admitted “yeah that was pretty cringe.” The key point: YouTube tried to favor its
safe image over its real creators and got burned. Rewind 2019 was a half-hearted
clip show that also got panned, and by 2020 YouTube just noped out and canceled
Rewind entirely. An official admission of failure.

This is symbolic of a larger trend: YouTube often says one thing and does another.
They say “Creators are the heart of YouTube” – but then they push content from
Jimmy Kimmel or CNN above independent creators at every chance. They say “We hear
your feedback” – but then implement policies that nobody asked for (hello, removing
public dislike counts in 2021, presumably to protect corporate content and
YouTube’s own feelings). They tout success stories of individual YouTubers, but
then sign deals with Hollywood and promote professional content that overshadows
the little guys. It’s a love-hate, push-pull relationship. Many creators feel like
YouTube will happily use them for promotional material when it’s convenient, but
won’t hesitate to throw them under the bus if an advertiser complains or a shiny
mainstream partner comes along.

And it’s not just YouTube. Facebook did something similar, pivoting hard to favor
big publishers at times, then back to “friends and family” content when that
backfired. TikTok has had accusations of shadowbanning certain creators or content
types to maintain “community cohesion” (read: don’t spook off advertisers or
authorities). Twitter (pre-Musk at least) would quietly boost some tweets or topics
over others. Favoritism might just be another word for “strategic business,” but to
users and small creators, it feels like betrayal of the original promise of these
platforms as equal-opportunity arenas.

On YouTube, internal politics has even led to public scandals: for example, the
whole fiasco around YouTube’s verification badges in 2019. They suddenly announced
new stricter criteria (likely to appease celebs who didn’t want randoms to have the
same “verified” checkmark as them), and un-verified a bunch of legit creators,
causing uproar, which made YouTube reverse course in embarrassment. Or the times
when YouTube’s CEO (until 2023, Susan Wojcicki) would give vague, placating answers
to creator concerns that satisfied basically no one. Or how YouTube’s Community
Guidelines strikes often hit smaller channels for minor infractions while bigger
channels skate by until someone raises a stink. It’s all very… political. Like a
popularity contest mixed with an authoritarian rulebook that’s enforced
arbitrarily.

To illustrate hypocrisy: YouTube says it forbids things like graphic violence or

dangerous stunts. But the same month they’d strike a small channel for, say,
showing a brief fight clip, the Trending tab might show an MMA highlight or a late-
night show skit with violence – fully monetized. They preach about community
guidelines, but then let music videos from major labels flaunt all the sex, drugs,
and guns in the world with ads enabled (because record labels = big revenue).
Creators notice this stuff. It breeds cynicism.

Perhaps one of the most galling double standards was how YouTube handled the
“Elsagate” weird kids content versus how they treated legit animation creators.
After advertisers freaked out in Adpocalypse II, YouTube started aggressively
demonetizing anything that might be “made for kids” but not up to snuff. Legit
animators and harmless family vloggers suddenly found their comments disabled,
their revenues slashed, even though they weren’t the ones producing creepy Spider-
Man fetishes or whatever. Meanwhile, for years YouTube’s algorithm had promoted
that garbage because it drove views. Only when advertisers noticed did YouTube act
– and they did so with a shotgun approach, not a sniper rifle. The result: bad
actors often just adapted (making new channels, etc.), while good creators got hit
by collateral damage. It’s a pattern: reactive, broad, sometimes hypocritical
enforcement.

And let’s not forget YouTube’s relationship with mainstream media. Around 2017-
2018, facing criticism that YouTube was a swamp of misinformation and extremist
content (it had some, to be fair), the platform started pushing “authoritative
sources” – fancy talk for CNN, BBC, late-night comedy shows, etc. Suddenly, you
search a news topic and the top results are all CNN or ABC clips with a few
thousand views instead of an independent creator’s deep-dive with hundreds of
thousands. This really irked independent news and commentary channels, who felt
they were being intentionally downranked. YouTube basically gave the algorithmic
red carpet to old media to appease critics, while the people who built YouTube’s
massive audience (self-made creators) got side-eyed as second-class citizens. More
favoritism.

To sum it up: YouTube’s ecosystem developed an implicit caste system. If you’re

large and advertiser-friendly, you get away with a lot, you get free promotion, you
might even get direct lines to YouTube staff to solve problems. If you’re small or
deemed risky, you’re easily disposed of or ignored. The same content might result
in different outcomes depending on who posted it. That’s the definition of unfair.
And creators have long memories – many still cite examples from years ago where
they felt YouTube threw them under the bus. This internal politics game feeds
directly into the next part of our story: the content itself, and how playing
favorites and chasing engagement has basically turned social media content into a
caustic circus.

Ragebait and Outrage: The Rise of Engagement at All Costs

So far we’ve focused on YouTube, but let’s broaden the lens for a moment. It’s not
just YouTube that got warped by the pursuit of monetization and growth. Every major
social platform (YouTube included) discovered that one emotion trumps all others
for driving engagement: OUTRAGE. If you can make people angry or excited (to the
point of anger), you can glue them to the screen. And if they’re glued to the
screen, you can shove more ads in their face. It’s an ugly truth of human
psychology that tech companies have gleefully weaponized: rage = revenue.

Facebook is a prime example. Remember those reaction buttons Facebook added – the
heart, haha, wow, sad, angry? Cute little emojis to let you do more than just
“Like” a post. Harmless, right? Well, in 2017 Facebook quietly tweaked their
algorithm to give extra weight to reaction emojis, especially the “angry”
reaction . In fact, internal docs later showed they weighted any reaction (love,
wow, angry, etc.) as 5 times a regular like . The idea was: if a post gets people
to respond emotionally, it’s probably engaging content. And they noticed posts that
got a lot of reaction emoji tended to keep users hooked longer . So, the News Feed
started amplifying content that provoked strong reactions – including anger. You
can guess where this leads: by cranking up the weight on “anger-inducing” content,
Facebook essentially turbocharged the spread of divisive, inflammatory posts. They
inadvertently turned your crazy uncle’s political rant or some conspiracy meme into
high-priority content. Facebook’s own researchers figured out pretty quickly that
this was backfiring: posts that got tons of “angry” reacts were far more likely to
be misinformation, toxic, or low-quality news . Who would’ve thunk it? By 2019 they
realized they’d been systematically boosting the worst crap on the platform for
three years . Oops. As one whistleblower, Frances Haugen, later put it bluntly:
“Anger and hate is the easiest way to grow on Facebook.” Because the algorithm
incentivized it. Facebook did eventually tweak this (after being publicly shamed),
but the damage was done. Whole media empires of outrage farming had arisen (looking
at you, hyper-partisan clickbait pages). Society got just a tad more polarized, all
because angry people click and share more, and Facebook’s ledger loved that. All
those channels of people making food poorly, giving crazy looking makeovers,
espousing totally inaccurate news, history and politics, and creating crafts no one
would ever use is entirely on purpose. Once more, you are paying them to make you
angry by interacting with those entities. The other part of making someone angry is
that they are less likely to keep scrolling. I’m certainly guilty of interacting
with these types of accounts. Now you’ve been put on game, as it has been said.

Now look at Twitter (a.k.a. X). Twitter’s algorithmic timeline (the “For You” feed)
isn’t as openly discussed by the company, but external studies have shown the same
pattern: polarizing and emotional content spreads further. I hated the platform btw
but it basically showed me the pipeline I can vouch that I saw maybe women getting
paid simply to say mean things about men and vice versa. A 2023 study by academics
found that the tweets the algorithm chose to show often expressed anger and out-
group animosity way more than a chronological feed would . In other words,
Twitter’s ranking system picked the fight-starters, the dunk-tweets, the “can you
believe this idiot from the other side said this?!” posts, and served those up to
users, because those get people riled up (and replying, and quote-tweeting).
Political tweets that were highly partisan or attacking the “other team” saw a
boost in reach due to the engagement-based ranking . And again, not surprising:
when you see something that pisses you off or that you strongly agree with against
a common enemy, you engage. Nuance and calm discussion? Nah, those don’t spike the
engagement metrics. One might say Twitter was always a hellscape of hot takes and
rage, but the algorithm turning up the volume made it worse. Even Twitter’s own
team admitted in a leaked 2021 analysis that their algorithm tended to amplify
right-leaning political content more (likely because it was more incendiary on
average, not necessarily by design of ideology, but by design of engagement
triggers).

Under Elon Musk’s ownership (2022 onwards), Twitter leaned even harder into
“maximize engagement” mode. Musk himself is a chaos agent who enjoys stoking
controversy. He restored a bunch of banned accounts in the name of “free speech” –
many of which belonged to professional trolls, extremists, and anti-vaxxers. Almost
immediately, researchers saw a huge spike in hate speech on the platform – like a
~200% increase in racial slurs against black Americans, and a 60% jump in
antisemitic posts shortly after Musk’s takeover . That’s… not subtle. Musk also
introduced the Creator Revenue Sharing Program in 2023, which, for the first time,
meant Twitter would pay certain users for generating engagement (specifically, ad
impressions in the replies to their tweets). On paper, that sounds nice for
creators. In practice, it’s a recipe for ragebait heaven. Because what kind of
tweets get tons of replies? Outrage tweets, controversial statements, flame wars.
Suddenly some Twitter users were literally bragging about how much money they made
from a viral tweet that sparked a 5,000-reply dumpster fire. Trolls can now earn by
being trolls – as long as they keep it just within whatever Musk-era Twitter
considers acceptable (which is pretty lenient for inflammatory content). It got so
bad that, as mentioned, scammers in Vietnam created bot networks to farm engagement
and milk Twitter’s payouts . The program basically got “pwned” by click-farmers.
Think about the incentives here: on Facebook and YouTube, the incentive for
ragebait was indirect (more views, which might translate to more ad money or brand
deals). On Musk’s Twitter, it became direct – tweet awful, polarizing stuff, get
lots of interaction, and Twitter cuts you a check. We’ve reached peak dystopia,
folks.

And yes, YouTube also plays the outrage game, albeit in its own way. YouTube’s
recommendation algorithm for years had a reputation: you watch one video about,
say, a political issue, and it would start suggesting more extreme or sensational
takes on that issue. This led to the whole “Rabbit Hole” or “Radicalization
machine” narrative in the late 2010s – people claimed YouTube could take a curious
mind and, through autoplay and recommendations, serve them increasingly fringe
content (flat earth, conspiracy theories, extremist propaganda, etc.) to keep them
hooked. YouTube has denied it’s that straightforward and has made adjustments to
demote “borderline” content. But from a content creator perspective, the message
was clear: if you make something boring and measured, it might flop; if you add a
dash of drama, hyperbole, or controversy, it’s more likely to blow up. This is why
you see so many ragebait commentary videos thriving. Take any fandom or online
community – there are YouTubers who specialize in “Why [current thing] is RUINING
EVERYTHING!” or “The problem with [so-and-so influencer] EXPOSED” or “This new
movie is the WORST thing ever” etc. Negativity and anger get clicks. The term
“outrage porn” exists for a reason: people get weirdly addicted to feeling angry at
videos (and agreeing with the angry person or laughing at their rant). And
algorithmically, that’s candy. So creators often lean into it – some righteously
(“I’m calling out injustice!”), some cynically (“drama = views, let’s stir some
up”). Either way, it populates YouTube with a lot of shouting and “calling out” and
feuds and overly dramatic titles. Because it works.

It’s not limited to politics either. Even tech or gaming YouTubers know that a
video titled “X Product Sucks? My Rant” will likely outperform “Thoughts on X
Product.” The platforms have trained both creators and audiences that extremes get
rewarded – love or hate, hype or hate, just not mild interest. Nuance is
algorithmically starved.

Now, bring this back to monetization. On YouTube, getting people fired up not only
gets you views, it also pads your watch time (people might stick around for a juicy
rant) and fosters loyal followings (the “YEAH, this creator tells it like it is!”
crowd). That means more consistent ad revenue. On Facebook, if your page posts
outrage bait and it goes viral, you get more ad impressions on your content
(Facebook in some cases shares revenue with video creators, though not as broadly
as YouTube). On Twitter, as we noted, outrage farming can literally be a paycheck
now for select users. On short-form platforms like TikTok or the YouTube
Shorts/Instagram Reels world, ragebait takes a slightly different form – often it’s
“rage-baiting” via hot takes or deliberately divisive statements in a short, which
then gets duetted or responded to by others. Think of those “unpopular opinion”
TikToks or someone intentionally saying something somewhat offensive or dumb,
knowing it’ll get people commenting “WTF is wrong with you.” High engagement, video
goes viral, creator gains followers (and maybe gifts or monetization if available).
It’s a strategy. A crappy one for discourse, but effective for attention.

Ragebait works across the board because algorithms are designed (or have evolved)
to maximize engagement, and nothing engages quite like anger (except maybe cute
babies and pets, but those don’t keep some people as glued as a good ol’ outrage).
Social media companies didn’t set out saying “let’s piss everyone off,” but by
relentlessly optimizing for time spent and interactions, they stumbled on this
reality – and for too long, they either ignored it or secretly enjoyed the fruits
of it. It’s only in the last couple years we hear phrases like “we’re reducing the
spread of content likely to outrage” from these companies, and only because the
negative press got loud. But on the ground, day to day, ragebait is still king.
It’s why your Facebook feed might have that one relative who shares every
inflammatory political meme – because those memes were gamed into their feed. It’s
why Twitter (er, X) can feel like a perpetual dumpster fire – because the flames
are literally fanned by the code. It’s why YouTube’s top drama channels or
political commentators thrive on hyperbole – because nuance doesn’t pay the bills
as well.

In short, social media turned into a rage economy. And while that’s great for
keeping people engaged (if mentally and emotionally drained), it’s terrible for,
you know, truth, civility, or not hating your neighbors. But hey, at least the
shareholders are happy, right? Nervous laugh.

The Hypocrisy of the Old Guard: “Back in My Day…”

At this point, we’ve seen how creators can be victims of the system, manipulators
of the system, or often both. But we’d be remiss not to call out another
entertaining (and infuriating) aspect of this saga: the older or “elite” creators
who decry the state of things today, while conveniently forgetting how they
benefited from the Wild West days. It’s a classic “kids these days!” boomer energy,
except in the context of YouTube and social media.

Spend enough time on YouTube or Twitter, and you’ll eventually see some veteran
creator or influencer rant about how the new generation has it easy or is
talentless. Maybe they’ll mock TikTokers for doing silly dances and getting famous
quick. Or they’ll complain that modern YouTube is all clickbait and shallow trends,
unlike the “good old days” when content was authentic and “we had to actually work
hard for our views.” They might also dismiss up-and-coming creators as clout-
chasers who haven’t “paid their dues.” The irony, of course, is thicker than a
YouTuber’s ego after their first brand deal.

Let’s unpack this hypocrisy with a few points:

1. Early Creators Had Far Less Competition (and More Platform Help). Back in 2006-
2010, if you were a somewhat popular YouTuber, you were one of maybe a few hundred
making waves. The site was exponentially smaller. It was easier to stand out
because, frankly, there weren’t millions of others trying to do the same thing.
People like Smosh, Nigahiga, Shane Dawson, Jenna Marbles – they became household
names (at least online) partly because they were first. They rode the first big
wave of YouTube when simply being a consistent creator made you novel. Some of them
did work extremely hard, no doubt, but they also didn’t face the cutthroat
Darwinian struggle new creators face now. Michael Buckley – that early YouTuber we
keep quoting – literally said he got huge in 2007 in part because of the platform’s
features like the Most Subscribed list boosting him . He also noted that in his day
you had to grind, make hundreds of videos, before getting noticed, whereas “now
people want instant fame” . He’s not wrong that many newbies hope to go viral
overnight. But think about it: in 2023 if you make hundreds of videos with zero
support from the algorithm or community, you still might never get noticed.
Buckley’s grind paid off because the environment was fertile and he was aided by
YouTube’s early discovery mechanics. Today’s equivalent creator could grind twice
as hard and be buried under an ocean of content. So the old guard saying “we worked
harder” isn’t entirely fair – they worked in a much less saturated market.
Also, early on, YouTube actively promoted individual creators. The front page
featured user videos, the algorithm was more predictable, and, crucially, you
didn’t have legacy media and zillions of advertisers’ own channels hogging
attention. Now, new creators not only compete with other new creators, but with
Will Smith’s vlog, The Tonight Show’s clips, music superstars’ official videos,
etc., all pumping through YouTube. It’s like showing up to a local talent show vs.
showing up to an open audition where Beyoncé and Spielberg also happen to be
competing. Whole different ballgame.

2. The Rules Were Looser (and they exploited that). We’ve talked about how early
YouTube was the Wild West – you could get away with edgy content that would be
instant demonetization or ban material now. Many of the older creators made content
that definitely couldn’t be monetized under today’s rules: offensive skits, risqué
jokes, you name it. They built huge audiences on the very kind of content that new
creators are now forbidden from making if they want to stay monetized. For
instance, a lot of 2009-2012 YouTube humor was shock value – sexist jokes, gross-
out challenges, you had popular series like “Equals Three” or Smosh sketches that
today might trigger content ID or age restrictions due to the use of music or R-
rated humor. So an OG might scoff, “These new creators just do TikTok dances, no
creativity!” but if a new creator did the edgy comedy the OG did back then, they’d
likely get suppressed or banned. It’s not a level playing field at all. The OGs
essentially had a free pass to try anything to get attention – including things
that wouldn’t fly now. Now that they’ve amassed millions of followers under those
permissive conditions, they turn around and act superior. The word elitist comes to
mind.

3. They Rigged and Clickbaited Too – They Just Don’t Admit It. I find it hilarious
when an older creator (or even just a big current creator) rants about “all this
clickbait on YouTube nowadays” or how “people buy followers, so sad.” Oh really? As
if early YouTube wasn’t full of misleading thumbnails – remember “SEXIEST VIDEO
EVER” thumbnails with like 1 second of a bikini shot and that’s it? Totally common
in 2010. Clickbait titles like “I’m quitting YouTube” (but it’s a prank) – not new
either. And some of those complaining did those things. Some were part of multi-
channel networks that engaged in sub-for-sub or cross-promotion schemes that today
would be called spammy. How about the era when big YouTubers would literally collab
and shout each other out specifically to trade audiences? That’s cool, but when new
creators coordinate like that now, some big ones roll eyes like “Ugh, clout
chasing.” Bruh, you invented clout chasing.

Even buying views – we don’t have proof which major YouTubers might have done it
early on, but given the 2 billion fake views scandal with major music labels ,
it’s naive to think none of the early YouTube “entrepreneurs” dabbled in a lil’
paid traffic. Some prominent figures in the 2010s got accused of it (often by
rivals or disgruntled former partners). They’ll never confess now that they’re
respectable, but there were plenty of rumors. The point is, many of the old-school
creators had their shortcuts or benefited from a system that was easier to game.
And now that the drawbridge is pulled up, they act like every new creator must
ascend to their level through 100% merit and grit (while following far more
restrictive rules). It’s hypocritical.

4. Scorn for New Platforms. We also see a lot of OG YouTubers or Facebook content
veterans belittle newer platforms like TikTok or YouTube Shorts/Instagram Reels.
“Ugh, these TikTokers just dance and get famous, they have no talent.” First of
all, some do have talent (dancing is a talent, by the way). Second, short-form
video is just a new medium – but it’s not fundamentally less worthy. It’s like
older filmmakers sneering at TV, or theater actors sneering at movies back in the
day. Every new medium gets dissed by the old guard. Yes, TikTok has a lot of
shallow trends. It also has extremely creative stuff. And guess what, plenty of OG
YouTubers have now migrated to TikTok or Shorts to stay relevant – often
reluctantly, after talking smack about it. They realized adapt or die.

A lot of the elitist attitude comes down to this: They feel threatened. The
internet keeps churning out new stars who didn’t have to rise through their ranks
or kiss the ring of the old YouTube hierarchy. A Vine kid (like Logan Paul, Jake
Paul, etc.) can jump to YouTube and get huge in a year – that pissed off some older
YouTubers who’d been grinding longer. Now TikTokers blow up and then start YouTube
channels with instant fans – again ruffling feathers. There’s a sense of “we
suffered, so you should too.” But did they, really? They had it different, not
necessarily harder, just different challenges.

One hilarious example: a few years back, some YouTubers were moaning that “YouTube
isn’t about community anymore, it’s all about algorithms and trends.” While true to
an extent, some of those same voices were part of making YouTube a cutthroat
business in the first place, by pioneering things like daily vlogging (to game
watch time) or sensational prank content or high-frequency uploads to drown out
competition. In essence, they set the pace, and now that everyone is running at
that pace, they complain the race isn’t fun anymore.

We also saw some established YouTubers dunking on up-and-coming ones for “selling
out” or doing brand deals or merch or whatever – like, come on, you literally wrote
the book on monetizing your fame, and now you get salty if a new kid also wants to
make a living? Sometimes it’s jealousy, sometimes it’s just nostalgia tinted with
hypocrisy.

The OG vs Newbie divide came into sharp focus when platforms made changes too.
Example: when YouTube introduced the 2018 rule of 1k subs/4k hours for
monetization, a lot of older creators said “Yeah, that’s good, it stops the riff-
raff.” Easy for them to say – they were already in the club. But a newcomer who may
have been making $50 a month (hey, that’s something) suddenly made $0, and had to
climb a tall ladder to re-enter. Dismissing their frustration as whining is rich
considering the old guard never had that barrier when they started. YouTube
literally grandfathered existing small partners for a while, then cut them off. The
old guard got to monetize from sub 1k subs in their early days, maybe making lunch
money but still. New folks have to hit big milestones first. So yes, the old guard
really did have it easier on some fronts.

To be fair, not all veteran creators are like this. Some are supportive of newbies
and acknowledge their own luck. But enough have thrown shade that it’s a known
issue. It’s actually similar to how some early tech millionaires (cough some big
tech CEOs) act like anyone can replicate their success if they just hustle,
ignoring the timing and luck they had.

Let’s drop a reality check on these elitists: If you started today from scratch,
under today’s conditions, would you rise to your same level? Maybe, maybe not. A
lot of you got where you are because you surfed a wave that no longer exists – you
had less competition, you had more leeway to make mistakes or edgy content, you
enjoyed free promotion from platforms eager to grow, and you built your castle
before the masses arrived. Instead of knocking the new generation, maybe have some
humility about that. Because plenty of incredibly talented new creators grind for
years now and never see a fraction of the success that some 2008 YouTuber got by,
say, lip-syncing in a funny outfit (which at the time was novel, but now is
ubiquitous).

It’s also worth noting that some old-timers who failed to adapt love to blame the
platform or the new creators for their decline. You’ll hear, “YouTube screwed me
with the algorithm change, now it’s all these stupid vloggers doing challenges, not
real content.” Sometimes true – YouTube’s changes have hurt some genres. But
sometimes it’s just that the audience moved on, tastes changed, and yeah, newer
creators ate your lunch because they innovated and you didn’t. The bitterness
occasionally seeps out as “these new guys suck.” It’s easier to say that than to
admit your content got stale or you didn’t evolve.

To cut through it: every generation of creators stands on the shoulders (or bodies)
of the previous. The early stars built huge followings in a frontier – good for
them. The next wave had to find new ways to break in (they did: reaction videos,
collabs, etc.). The newest wave finds theirs (shorts, multi-platform presence,
extreme niche specialization). Each wave often gets flak from the previous. And
it’s all a bit absurd because from a viewer perspective, we just get more variety
and content – not inherently bad. The platforms change and so do the people who
rise to prominence. That’s life.

One last bit of comedic hypocrisy: Some OG YouTubers decry how the platform’s gone
downhill, it’s no fun, too corporate, etc. Yet they’re still here posting and
making money (or they conveniently cashed out and then complain from the sideline).
It’s like someone who got rich in a gold rush complaining that the river’s all
muddy now – while still panning for gold in it. If it’s so awful, either help fix
it or kindly step aside. But many can’t let go of the megaphone.

In sum, the old-school creators who look down on newbies should maybe take a glance
in the mirror (and perhaps at their Social Blade graphs of when their growth
happened) before ranting. They might recall they benefited from a much looser, more
easily rigged system, and perhaps even played the game dirty themselves when it
suited them. Now that the ladder is shakier, don’t kick it – hold it for the next
person or at least don’t act like you built it all alone.

Conclusion: From Viral Fun to Capitalist Circus

What a journey, huh? In roughly 15-20 years, we watched YouTube and social media
evolve from funky experiments to full-blown industries – industries that can make
ordinary people rich and famous, but that also chew up and spit out creators daily.
Monetization was the magical ingredient that made it all possible. It turned viral
videos from mere pop culture moments into economic assets. It spawned the “creator”
profession and a global competition for attention. It gave us amazing content and
ridiculous wealth… and also a truckload of unintended consequences.

On the upside, we got a whole new economy where anyone with a camera and an
internet connection might hit the jackpot. Kid in a small town can become a
superstar vlogger. Niche hobbies turned into lucrative channels. Underserved
communities found voices. That’s the rosy picture the platforms like to tout – and
it’s not false, those stories exist.

But under the hood, the machinery driving it is algorithmic attention-maximization

fueled by ads, and that has skewed everything toward extremes: extreme engagement
tactics, extreme content, extreme reactions from companies trying to control it
all. The pressure to get views at all costs led to both creativity and some real
dark stuff (fake news, dangerous challenges, exploitation – you name it). The need
to keep advertisers happy led to more sanitization and censorship – sometimes
rightly, sometimes clumsily – and left a lot of creators feeling like pawns in an
ever-changing game whose rules are written in disappearing ink.

YouTube specifically went from a site proudly showcasing user-generated spontaneity

to a platform that’s part Netflix, part network TV, part Wild West ghost town. It’s
this weird hybrid now: you have ultra-polished corporate content and homegrown
creators coexisting, but not necessarily on equal footing. The Wild West isn’t
quite tamed, but it’s fenced in by moderation bots and monetization guidelines. The
outlaws of yesterday are the influencers of today, some now playing sheriff
themselves telling the next generation to pipe down.
And social media at large – Facebook, Twitter/X, Instagram, TikTok – have learned
and mis-learned the lessons of YouTube’s monetization journey. They saw “oh, viral
content + ads = $$$” and all adopted that model in their own ways. They also faced
their “adpocalypses” (like when big brands boycotted Facebook over hate speech or
paused Twitter ads over policy concerns). It’s a cycle: platform grows engagement
by any means, something nasty comes of it, advertisers panic, platform clamps down
(at least PR-wise), creators/users feel the squeeze, and round and round.

We’ve also basically proven that engagement-based algorithms tend to reward the
worst impulses: outrage, sensationalism, tribalism. Society is still grappling with
that – it’s not an exaggeration to say it’s affected elections, public health, and
interpersonal relationships. All because in the attention economy, our lizard
brains’ attraction to drama and anger got weaponized for profit.

Can it be fixed? Platforms now talk a lot about “responsibility” and “well-being”
features. Maybe tweaks here and there will help. But as long as the fundamental
model is “maximize time spent to sell more ads,” the content that rises will likely
be the most addictive, and often that means emotional, outrageous, or otherwise
intense. It’s just how we’re wired and how these algorithms are set up.

As for creators, the modern ones have to be part entertainer, part SEO strategist,
part punching bag. It’s not enough to be creative – you must also appease the
algorithm gods, avoid angering advertisers or the platform’s opaque rules, and
somehow stand out among a million others trying to do the same. The ones who
succeed are incredibly savvy (and/or lucky). The ones who fail… well, you won’t
hear about them, because the system forgets the “losers.” It’s a tough gig with
high highs and low lows. Burnout is rampant, mental health issues are common
(imagine tying your self-worth to an algorithm’s whims – many do, and it’s brutal).

The relationship between creators and platforms remains love-hate. Creators need
YouTube/TikTok/etc. to access an audience and monetize, but they also resent how
those platforms treat them as disposable or unpredictable income sources. Platforms
need creators to keep content flowing, but they also see them as potential
liabilities if they go off-script or cause controversies. It’s a bit like an
awkward marriage mediated by an AI counselor (the algorithm) that sometimes just
does crazy things.

In closing, let’s bring back a pinch of sarcasm and say: Thank you, monetization.
You truly transformed social media – not necessarily into the utopia of free
expression some hoped for, but into something fascinatingly messy. You gave us
Adpocalypses instead of apocalypses, Reply Girls instead of reply guys, and turned
“smash that Like button” into a battle cry of a generation. You created an
environment where a kid unboxing toys can earn $20 million a year, while
journalists struggle to get folks to pay for real news. Where “content houses” and
“influencer beefs” are part of the cultural lexicon. It’s ridiculous. It’s amazing.
It’s horrifying. It’s reality.

So next time you watch a YouTube video and an ad interrupts, or you doomscroll past
a ragebait tweet, or wonder why your Facebook feed makes you oddly angry, remember:
this is the world that viral monetization built. A sharp, punchy, informative,
skeptical, often sarcastic world where everyone’s hustling for that next hit of
attention. Broadcast Yourself has become Brand Yourself; the platforms are the
stage, and we’re all dancing for our supper – sometimes literally if you’re a
TikToker.

Is it all bad? No. Is it kinda messed up? Absolutely. But as long as it stays
profitable, it’s the show we’re stuck with. And hey, we’re still tuning in – myself
included. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go come up with a thumbnail and title
for this script that won’t get me demonetized. Maybe: “Social Media Monetization
EXPOSED (The Adpocalypse Files)”. That oughta trigger a few clicks, right.

Afterword:
My personal journey on this. I have a near-monetized YouTube channel. I won’t name
it currently. I’ve been a part of the creator program on Pinterest, yes they had
one as well, I was accepted the day before they announced its closure in a month. I
did Midjourney in Beta and greatly benefitted from the lack of AI at the time
online to get 10 million impressions a month there. See I’ll admit when I benefit
from something many see as a negative thing. I was on my way to doing so on IG when
I got banned, back before it became the Wild West that it is today. Zucc was still
being PC back then. I never tried to FB ragebait or AI bait boomers there with
ChatGPT’d veterans missing a foot or 114 year old people who haven’t had anyone
tell them happy birthday. If you know, you know.

X was by far the weirdest experience but it gave me insight I hadn’t had prior.
Twitter/X is the launching grounds for crazy political takes and memes. It trickles
down through IG, then YouTube (if it’s video or a meme collection), then it ends up
on Reddit/FB. You also have 4chan, Tumblr, and other actors from different places
and times. Q and many other psyop memes come from 4chan in particular. The OK hand
gesture famously becoming a racist symbol overnight after reports by news outlets
based off a 4chan meme. Wearing New Balances was also a part of that. I do have a
copy of Battletoads btw and I can tri-force. Again, if you know, you know.

As I said, X was my most enlightening experience. That is where I came to truly

understand the things I speak on here. I saw outright hate groups working out in
the open. From White Supremacy, primarily in Spaces, to Hoteps, people who want to
eradicate entire populations in the Middle East on either side, to everything in
between. I saw supposed women, you never know, who made a living off ragebait
engagement against men and vice versa.

How I came to be on there: I had promoted my music channel to 10k followers in the
old days and since there was no incentive to grow it, as it wasn’t drawing in
YouTube engagement, I just let it dwindle for years until I saw monetization
coming. Then I rebranded to a meme account right before the 2024 US elections and
drove my engagement to monetization levels. I was good until Elon randomly decided
you had to have 500 Premium Followers. Well remember most of my followers were old-
school. Even if I achieved my impressions which I easily did I had to have 500
premium subs, which are generally other content creators. I had never networked
there and even though I knew I could I simply didn’t care to interact with 99.9% of
those degens. Dark Hegel was pretty cool to me most of the time.

I’ll quit rambling now.