By: James Wen
Edited by: Jessica Enns
“TikTok and Reels have spurred the downfall of the new generation” is a statement you will certainly hear in our current society. In fact, some of the loudest advocates for this narrative are the ones who use these platforms themselves. Among them, you will likely find general agreement that the short-form content revolution has created a generation of addicted, politically charged, “brainrotted” youth. Our lives are supposedly being wasted as we sit idly, “locked out” for hours, moving only our thumbs, trapped in algorithms. Youth are supposedly being radicalized to all corners of the political compass. In fact, the general consensus is that our attention spans are being annihilated, and that this is very bad. Yet, even amidst this condemnation, TikTok surpasses 1 billion users a day, and over 2 billion users use Instagram Reels each month. Why is this? Why is our relationship with short-form video content one of harsh demonization, yet one where we still consume massive volumes of content daily, knowing it’s bad for us?
The answer to this question is found in how humans interact with societal narratives. Short-form content is highly addictive—that’s a given. People scrolling at the dinner table, on the toilet, on the bus, on the couch—it seems like wherever life breathes, a Reel is another breath away. Highly addictive substances are often so heavily demonized that most people are societally pressured to avoid them, resulting in small user bases proportional to population sizes. So why do platforms like TikTok and Reels, which are similarly addictive, still manage to attract such massive audiences? The difference is in society’s attitude towards social media compared to other addictive substances. Most addictive substances are highly frowned upon socially, and as a result, have much higher barriers of entry, as individuals must cross many physical hurdles to obtain said substances, and social hurdles, like the risk of ostracization, to even begin usage. Think of the difficulty of obtaining narcotics, and the social exclusion of those that consume it. Humans, as rational actors, view this extremely high risk, and as a result are deterred from usage. Short-form content, however, although likely milder in raw addictive potential than narcotics, has a very low barrier of entry, as it is vastly more socially accepted. No one bats an eye at someone “chronically online” the same way they do at a narcotics user. This incredibly accepted societal view of short-form content stems first from the prevalence and normalization of tech in our lives, where tech is used for practically every daily function, and second that scrolling provides no obvious or immediate bodily harm as drugs do. It is quite reasonable to say that a large proportion of consumers know they are victims of the algorithm, know that they’re addicted to short-form videos to some extent, and feel they are wasting their hours away unproductively. So why haven’t we, as rational, free individuals, moved to stop our destructive habits of scrolling? Why do we still consume what we know is clearly bad for us?
It is precisely short-form content’s social acceptability—the thing that makes us start scrolling, that prevents us from stopping. Users see that virtually everyone around uses, consumes, and discusses short-form content, and thereby rationalize that these things must not be as bad as other addictive mediums which see tremendously less discussion. After all, they see short-form video content posted by everyone; even higher institutions that the individual trusts: universities, hospitals, governments, etc. As a result, there exists vastly more open discussion revolving around our relationship with these platforms. Although this explosion of discussion helps to give people a louder voice, it also creates an overly tolerant view of addiction, a view that hinders our ability to recognize its true dangers and demand real change. As a result, we are stuck in a limbo state where we can rationalize reasons that we should quit, yet we find ourselves unable to reach a tipping point where we are deeply convinced that we must stop.
The question that arises is such: should we be cautioning more heavily against consumption of short-form content? Would changing this relationship actually better society? These are intriguing questions, but I argue that these are likely the wrong questions to ask. With any new technology or societal change, pros and cons always exist. Supporters and critics are two societal roles that will never fade. But change is what turns the wheels of this world, and accepting this, we cannot too hastily make normative judgments over whether or not societal changes are “good” or “bad.” Our role in society is to recognize these changes, both upsides and downsides, and to critically engage with the world as it progresses through its various ages. Think about your own scrolling habits. Why do you scroll? Why have you not stopped? Everyone has their own answers to these questions. One person’s habits may not apply to another. But the most important step is to reflect on our habits and our world, in order to make better informed decisions about how we choose to live our lives.
Image Source: Japanexperterna.se. (2015). Scrolling on phone [Photograph]. Wikimedia Commons. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Scrolling_on_phone.jpg
References:
Backlinko Team. (2025, March 8). TikTok Statistics You Need to Know. Backlinko. backlinko.com/tiktok-users.
Ruby, D. (2022, July 28). 30+ Instagram Reel Statistics of 2022 (Data & Trends). Demandsage. www.demandsage.com/instagram-reel-statistics/.