What Happens When the TikTok Economy Dies?

Tressie McMillan Cottom

The looming TikTok ban has convened an interesting group of strange bedfellows: lawyers, politicians, journalists, commentators and activists have been joined by rank-and-file social media influencers in watching — and critiquing — the move. Some of those incensed content creators are following the legal arguments about civil liberties and market competition. But a lot of them are throwing something else into the mix: They see the ban as an attack on their economic viability. TikTok is how they pay their bills.

The truth of that statement is a case study in the obscure economics of online hustling. For every viral social media star who translates 15 seconds of fame into a substantial payout, there are untold millions of users who will either never go viral or go viral but not make any money. Even the infrastructure of influencer stardom is convoluted. White influencers make more money than nonwhite influencers. There are credible charges that platforms and user biases unfairly promote white creators over minority-group creators. There is also a parallel star-making system in Hollywood. Agencies and representatives cherry-pick influencers for the real-world endorsements and live events that can turn marginal celebrity into actual money.

Very few viral influencers break through, and that is kind of the point. Influencing looks a lot like a Ponzi scheme. A small group of winners justifies the millions of people who will never make a dime being popular online. So the question is, why do so many people see social media influencing as an economic opportunity? Influencers tap into the folk economics that a lot of young people believe in. They intuitively sense that the prescribed route to success — a college degree, student debt and an ever more nonexistent entry-level job market — is precarious. My college students frequently report that they would leave their professional paths if they could hit it big as an influencer.

They probably do not have the right assessment of their personal risk. Their degrees are a better bet. But they do have a sense of their generation’s collective risk. People without college educations or prestige or specialized skill sets especially will have a bumpier road moving along the opportunity structure.

But even with good odds in that structure of sorting or allotting income, jobs and status, a lot of younger people will find it harder to secure housing, save money, get health care and afford to start a family than previous generations. For them, influencing is about as risky as obtaining a middle-class lifestyle. TikTok and other social media platforms — and the influencer fantasy — seem like they are spackling over the deep cracks in our social mobility ladders.

When users complain about their app being banned, a lot of them are also decrying the circumstances that make virality their best shot at economic security.

The rage around banning TikTok poses a lot of political problems. There is the sense that out-of-touch politicians dislike young people who like and use the app. There are also big issues about the First Amendment, proxy wars with China and executive overreach (should Donald Trump intervene as he implies he will). But there is also a less-observed problem: Young people feel trapped. Their sense that they don’t have a shot at economic opportunity is being funneled into their online influencer fantasies. They seem desperate for anything that promises a way forward, even if it is just an algorithm.

Shutting down TikTok won’t solve that existential crisis, and it may, for many, make it worse.