I never thought I’d say this, but there’s a part of me that misses those absurd boner pill ads. You know the ones – they'd show up at the most inconvenient times, like in the middle of a presentation, boasting their bold claims and flashy banana graphics, screaming "Big Chucky’s Champion Enhancers” from every corner of your screen.
Back then, ads were ads, and we knew where we stood with them. I miss the clarity, the clumsy straightforwardness of it all; I find it weirdly refreshing to look back on.
Ads were becoming more sophisticated by the time I started my career in advertising. During our weekly pitch meetings, copywriters introduced ideas and divided them into categories: “Fear” or “Greed”. This approach always struck me as crass, and I was shocked when I first heard it. What exactly did it mean to classify a pitch as being driven by “Fear” or “Greed?" Promotions were separated by whether they exploited feelings of lack, scarcity, and the urgency of resolving a problem (Fear), or if they appealed to desires to acquire, retain, and dominate (Greed). It was actually inspired by the CNN Fear and Greed index, which measures the temperature of the financial markets, using data to show if they're scared (fear) or eager to buy (greed). It’s a tool to understand if investors are feeling cautious or risky.
In the cold light of day, this seems nuts and almost dystopian, but it effectively highlights what greases the machine. As wild as it may sound, there are numerous young people now, just like I once was, sitting at their desks, ironically aiming for an honest living in a situation with few good options. They're not bad people, and I wasn't either; it's simply the kind of job you can fall into easily without perspective, financial stability, or life experience to guide you. Right now, they're in meetings, devising tactics to subtly nudge you into spending your money, all while making it feel like you're just chatting with a trusted friend.
Because now, nearly every corner of the internet blurs the lines, weaving advertisements into the fabric of personal stories and lifestyle posts so seamlessly that you're halfway to buying a $900 pair of pants before you realize you've been sold to. Not by a brand, but by someone who just yesterday was sharing their favorite lasagna recipe.
I now liken my experiences of ‘greed’ and ‘fear’ to what's known in marketing as ‘relational’ and ‘aspirational.’ This reflects a shift from direct, emotion-targeting tactics of the past to more nuanced strategies today. Modern marketing doesn't just exploit our fears or desires (it certainly hasn't stopped doing that), it also aims to create a connection with us (relational) or motivate us toward our goals (aspirational). Products sneak into our life stories, so ads feel less like sales spiels and more like your BFF's unsolicited advice. It’s emotional manipulation, but like, cute.
We think we’re savvy and immune to influence, but if we look at the progression of blogging over the years, it makes sense why this works. Bloggers first shared their lives out of sheer enjoyment. I remember spending hours on sites like Lookbook or tumblr, marveling at how stylish young girls from Krakow ingeniously sourced and pieced together their outfits from the treasures of a post-Cold War thrift shop, creating looks reminiscent of Brooklyn graffiti artists' wildstyle from the 80s. Back then, it was all about the creativity and the stories behind clothes. I wasn't concerned about brand names, and neither were they; our focus was on the emotions and mood the outfit created. If I saw a look that resonated with me, I'd head to the thrift store in search of that same vibe, not considering labels or price tags.
The content was genuine, created by enthusiasts who shared photos and ideas for the pure joy of it, perhaps making connections and finding friends in the process. These “creators” (as we call them now) were seen as quirky and overly sincere in their endeavors and they were nothing if not real. Back then, the goal was not big monetary gain but rather to acquire a few more followers and receive some positive feedback.
So, when exactly were we given the memo that things had changed? Creators, who once felt like far-away friends sharing their authentic selves, slowly started monetizing every post, every outfit, every “casual” recommendation. The personal connection we felt was being recalibrated into a business model. They weren't just sharing their lives, they were capitalizing off of them, turning personal narratives into lucrative ventures, often without us realizing the depth of their commercial agenda.
Even when we're aware of changes and insist we won't be tricked, our wired-in need for community and connection messes with our brains. It's easy to poke fun at others for developing parasocial relationships, feeling close to media personalities as if they were real-life friends, yet most of us are doing it now to an extent. Whether sad or creepy to you, it's a survival instinct in our human nature. And exploiting those instincts? Yep, that’s human nature too.
I can say with confidence that the era of authentic content creation, as we knew it, is mostly a relic of the past. The transition is hardly surprising, considering the significant money to be made online. Platforms like Instagram and TikTok, once charming windows into someone's world (or just tragic sandwich pics) have morphed into digital storefronts within a bustling, yet still at times unsuspecting, marketplace. The authentic content we once took for granted is overshadowed by an endless stream of commercials, "link in buy-o" prompts, shopping features, brand deals, and sponsored content. Why would anything remain authentic when it has the potential to generate serious cash? Why should anything be free? And who could’ve predicted that your crazy boomer uncle's Facebook page would become the final frontier of unfiltered, unsponsored content?
The shift from straightforward ads to undercover marketing schemes has transformed every online encounter into a laborious puzzle. I might be moved by a touching tale of a woman’s postpartum body acceptance, only to discover it's a ploy to sell jeans. When someone shares an affiliate link for a blender they're recommending, I'm left wondering: are they genuinely pointing me to the best option, or did they just go for the one with the fattest commission? It’s a maze of concealed motives, where true connections are rare, and sincerity is scarce.
So, here's the question: If everything is an ad, does that mean nothing is an ad? When navigating online creators, how do you discern between genuine ones and those who are essentially walking billboards? And can you pinpoint the moment this transition occurs? Is it something that just doesn't bother you, considering it's the trade-off for keeping content free? Does being sold to by an influencer you admire feel more authentic or relevant than a straightforward advertisement? Should we prioritize the needs and rights of creators, or the preferences and interests of consumers? Is there a way to do both? I’d love to know what you’re thinking.
In the weeks ahead, I'll explore strategies for differentiating genuine endorsements from sponsored content, for supporting creators who prioritize sincerity, and for reclaiming control of our online spaces from the clutches of unchecked overconsumption.
Thank you for reading and a big shout out to Big Chucky’s Champion Enhancers for sponsoring today’s message.
Til next time,
🍒Total Rec
P.S. I’m very aware male enhancement ads are alive and thriving, they just don't pop up (ha) in my feed any longer.
I've been thinking about this quite a bit lately. Especially in the substack realm which on one hand can read more genuine - writing requires more effort, more context, more realness than taking and posting a picture, right? But I'm genuinely increasingly disgusted by the cascade of "recs" from many, too many, newsletters. To say nothing of those that then double down on that by having you pay them for a subscription for the privilege of them selling you shit. Why are we falling for this? What are we getting out of it? Is the parasociality hitting us that hard? Or put another way, are our lives feeling that empty? - It's something of a terrifying prospect to face up to.
So I guess this is all to say - thank you for this. This dialogue seems sorely missing.
Wow! I will be thinking about this post for days to come, especially as someone with a background in PR/Advertising. We all are certainly getting better at discerning the undercover hawking of products but I still find myself sucked into certain influencers because their lifestyle is aspirational. It’s like “I’m going to buy her dress because I want her vacation” which is insane thinking. I am not on IG anymore and I stepped away (about 2 weeks ago) from even checking in on influencers and I’m trying to find my own voice in what I wear, buy, etc. because it’s been lost in the noise of influencing.
Most excited to think about this “Should we prioritize the needs and rights of creators, or the preferences and interests of consumers?” Because so many influencers are women who are juggling motherhood (which corporate america is typically unkind to) I want there to be space for creators to make money but what boundaries are we drawing to protect consumers?