TikTok’s “attention economy” distorts our wallets and our brains

At first glance it seems absurd. Why should people make decisions based on what they heard on an app run by the Chinese communist government?

Most people don't view the TikTok influencer phenomenon through this prism, but this scenario aptly describes the decisions millions of Americans make every day. Beyond the question of whether the app should (and shouldn't) have anything to do with the Chinese government, there are also larger existential questions about the nature of 21st century society.

Waste as narcissism

A recent article in the Wall Street Journal examined TikTok's impact on Americans under 30. The article contained several disturbing quotes and examples of questionable financial behavior, based largely on what so-called “influencers” do and say on social media:

• A 20-something financial analyst said she uses a budgeting app “to afford the things she thinks she needs to buy, like Lululemon leggings.” “Through TikTok and having friends around you are under pressure to buy things because you want to belong. … It’s always been that way, but with TikTok it’s more important.”
• “According to a survey by Citizens Pay, a buy now, pay later service, about 91% of Generation Z say they have purchased something they saw on social media.”
• “BreAunna Rodriguez, a 23-year-old mother of two from Houston, likes to buy TikTok-popular baby clothes and other little things for herself, including eyelash extensions, coconut oil mouthwash and a pumice stone that influencers say reduces stretch marks. “It’s hard not to buy things when they say they’re good for me,” she says.”
• A 28-year-old lawyer noted that “in my age group, there is an internal pressure to have these experiences all the time and to share them.”
• The financial analyst said she bought a Stanley cup six months ago: “'I held on as long as I could,' she says, adding that she had bought several other water bottles that were trending on TikTok.”

The Journal article also mentions a number of financial super savers on the app. As with most things social media-related, both extremes get the most views, so “there are Dave Ramsay TikToks warning about the evils of debt, followed by influencers selling their shopping haul of skincare products and handbags Put it on display.” So it’s no wonder that financial advisors have coined the term “money dysmorphia” to reflect the distorted prioritization of some young adults.

“Influencers” are professional pitchmen

The quotes from the Journal article reveal the harmful nature of social media and the distorted image it portrays. Start by saying, “It's hard not to buy things when they say they're good for me.” The comment belies the obvious: professional “influencers” ultimately get paid by people based on their videos Buy things. Products promoted by these modern pitchers may or may not be good for their viewers, but they are definitely good for their own bottom line.

For some, the informality of social media may make TikTok videos seem more authentic than, say, a traditional television commercial. But both still have their roots in the profit motive, so viewers should maintain a healthy dose of skepticism. It's not for nothing that TikTok developed its own e-commerce engine last year to take market share from Amazon and other retailers. And beyond the TikTok Shop, this app and other social media companies are manipulating their algorithms to generate more clicks and therefore more sales.

Need for belonging

The lawyer interviewed by the Journal got to the heart of this waste when he spoke of the “pressure in my age group to constantly have these experiences and share them.” But in this case, the word “stock” has a far deeper meaning than it did a decade or two ago.

For example, at least for this observer, the sharing of experiences describes a group of people eating a meal in person – something that can be done quite affordably at home if you can cook. It doesn't exactly describe something like making a TikTok video that shows an “unboxing” or shows off the new Gucci handbag or even shows off “TikTok-popular baby clothes.”

And therein lies the real problem and the real dysmorphia. This “influencer” culture – the “attention economy,” so to speak – consists of people spending money chasing clicks in the vain hope that clicks can somehow replace real human connection. As bad as the waste may be for the individual's wallet, it indicates psychological bankruptcy as much as financial bankruptcy.

For better or worse, conspicuous consumption and “keeping up with things” existed long before modern times, as medieval castles and palaces across Europe attest. But the force-feeding of this culture through our ubiquitous phones has sent the movement into hyperdrive. And our society would do well to step back and examine the level of alienation, fear, and even paranoia that our culture—in which we are always connected virtually but increasingly disconnected in real life—has engendered.