Lately, I have been wondering about the shortcomings of journalism in the 2010s, a period when publishers and newsroom leaders were swept up in the intoxicating optimism surrounding the flourishing of Big Tech and its expansive reach. It completely changed journalism in that era. Journalists often ruminate on this period, and how well-paying it was even as a freelancer. The click-through rates were soaring. Many publishers even “pivoted to video,” driven by metrics provided by Big Tech companies. However, this strategy ultimately crumbled like a house of cards when internal documents surfaced, exposing the dubious methodology upon which it was built.
Several years have passed since that occurred, and consumption patterns have shifted significantly since COVID-19. People now engage with videos, particularly short-form vertical ones, and increasingly create and share them. This phenomenon is far from unusual; history repeatedly shows generations distinguishing themselves by embracing unique styles. However, what strikes me is how these changes are far from entirely organic. Much like in the previous era, a significant portion of this shift has been subtly imposed upon us through our devices, creating the illusion of choice where, in reality, there is little.
In June 2020, at the height of the Covid-induced lockdowns, the Indian government banned TikTok. A month later, Instagram launched reels in India to select a group of users, which later had a complete rollout towards the end of that year. This void was understood by other players as well, Google-owned YouTube launched its own short-form vertical video tab called “Shorts”. And so did countless other locally grown short-form video hosting start-ups emerge. However, there was one problem, short-form vertical videos were looked down upon by the urban audiences of India, who thought that TikTok was an app used by folks of lower strata. To abstain from engaging with short-form vertical videos became a marker of elitism and intellectual superiority. To avoid being labelled a “TikToker” was, for many, a definitive boundary of distinction.
I hypothesise that the folks at Big Tech were acutely aware of this challenge and strategically targeted the parasocial relationships we had formed with our favourite influencers. Given that our timelines were algorithmically controlled, even a minor tweak could impact millions—and this is likely what transpired. The high engagement levels that influencers once enjoyed began to dwindle. Faced with declining engagement and stagnating follower counts, influencers and their agencies, in a moment of panic, realised that creating videos was the most effective way to sustain a steady flow of engagement. It became the key to maintaining their livelihood and securing brand deals, especially since these platforms had introduced video as their latest tool and likely rewarded this action with tons of engagements.
As a result, the societal barrier eroded. Engaging with short-form content became socially acceptable, and creating it was no longer frowned upon. More importantly, this shift wasn’t occurring on TikTok but on platforms favoured by the upper strata of society, making it even more palatable to those who once disdained such content. Once this market was captured and the lack of a better alternative, users consolidated between Instagram Reels and YouTube Shorts.
Let me draw from my own experience. Before becoming a journalist, I had my fair share of running meme pages. I created, published, and co-administered multiple pages, and even sold a few. This was during a time when Gen-Z began migrating to Instagram, leaving the Facebook era behind. Memes then were mostly static—one-panel, two-panel, or four-panel images with accompanying text. As I stepped into my professional career, I had less time to indulge in the creation of memes, but I continued to observe the development of India’s meme culture from afar.
As Instagram Reels became a thing, page admins started noticing a drop in engagement when memes remained static. Gradually, they began incorporating a new approach: adding static text at the top while the bottom panel featured a short clip, essentially qualifying the post as a video or reel. Fast forward to today, and memes have evolved far beyond those formats. Your feed is now filled with short-form vertical video memes, some even AI-generated, made possible by affordable and easily accessible technology capable of producing surprisingly convincing deepfakes.
Static memes haven’t disappeared; they’ve simply been disincentivised. Similarly, your favourite creators did not have a sudden epiphany about videos, they were forced to pivot. Naturally, with the rise of short-form content, users became hooked. And why wouldn’t they? Television had already perfected the art of capturing attention, driven by giant corporations adept at keeping audiences engaged.
All these creators and their agencies needed to do was adapt some of the proven techniques from that industry: catchy music, stock footage, and relatable figures (influencers or creators) to convey their message. Thus, we transitioned from the 16:9 aspect ratio to the 9:16 vertical format. The key difference? Television was heavily regulated, with strict schedules and a risk-averse approach from corporations. It was also expensive and resource-intensive. By contrast, internet content is arguably unregulated, perpetually streaming, and accessible anywhere, conveniently carried in your pocket.
As you and I became addicted, the culture began to shape itself around our shared obsessions. Our favourite Bollywood songs are now crafted with the intent to go viral alongside short-form content. Choreography is deliberately designed to spark viral trends, and cinematography is executed with the 9:16 crop in mind. What once was a creative choice has now become the default setting. In essence, creativity, for lack of a better word, has been gentrified. These platforms are also partnering up with other giants to steer culture in that direction. A year after launching YouTube Shorts, Universal Music Group (UMG) and YouTube partnered to launch #JugnuChallenge. A year after that i.e., in October 2022, T-series launched a Hindi version of the Sri Lankan hit sensation Manike Mage Hithe on YouTube Shorts by marketing it with the #ManikeMove dance challenge–which was also actively promoted by YouTube.
There’s a reason why text-based posts on Instagram are often paired with the song currently trending on Reels: participating in the latest trend is actively incentivised. Which makes you wonder whether true choice even exists? A subtle act of defiance against the algorithm could easily push your favourite influencer into obscurity.
This doesn’t mean you won’t stumble upon unique content. The algorithm occasionally falters, and presents you with something genuinely novel—but this is quickly followed by countless creators replicating that same content until it becomes formulaic. There’ll be many creators who will find ingenious measures to circumvent the norms dictated by the algorithm but then the circumvention becomes the norm— its a paradox. Moreover, these platforms aren’t designed for deep engagement; they don’t want you to think critically about what you’re watching. That’s why the share button is so prominent—it encourages you to DM (direct message) it to your mutuals and swipe to the next thing. In the abundance of content, you rarely remember which creator you engaged with. In the end, influencers wield limited influence because the moment they step outside the algorithm’s constraints in pursuit of creative freedom, they risk fading into irrelevance.
Today, it is short-form content, tomorrow, it will be your favourite influencer competing against AI-generated creators on your feed. And you, the audience, cannot protest, you are merely a slave to the dopamine hit.
Kalim Ahmed is a columnist and open-source researcher specialising in technology, meme culture and disinformation.
