How Audiences Came to Control Us
The psychological underpinnings of social performance
The interaction between creator and an audience is one as old as time:
“Did the painting provoke?”
“Did the sonnet move?”
“Did the speech change the public’s thinking?”
A creator always does something to the masses: entertain, persuade, manipulate, etc. But an overwhelming amount of discourse puts the artist, content creator, or public-facing cultural contributor first. The agent. The one in control.
What’s less discussed is the other direction of this relationship. What can an audience do to a creator? What’s possible when we consider that the recipient is in control?
This inverse dynamic is just as established and increasingly deserving of our attention as its prevalence is growing, and its gravitational pull now dramatic.
The term used to describe this phenomenon is called “audience capture”—an audience has hypnotized or captured a creator. To better understand its history and future, in a series of analyses we’ll explore audience capture through three critical lenses:
Philosophical: What social theory is driving this phenomenon?
Pop culture: What can we learn from analyzing its current form?
Personal: What intimate tips can we embrace to maintain integrity?
There’s never been a moment in history where more people have been putting themselves on display in public for judgment by creating works of art (or content): podcasts, newsletters, original music, novels, and videos, both long and short—including our everyday Instagram Stories.
Public “likes,” reactions, or retweets of others’ are “published works” of ours, too. They’re just other atoms in our public library of content.
All of this content, intertwined with our identity, is viewable by an audience. And others’ perceptions of this content is considered, ultimately influencing us.
The more we publish, the more opportunities there are to contemplate what an audience thinks about our performances. This is happening at every single waking moment. Both consciously and subconsciously, we’re constantly examining ourselves through the lens of others and then re-posturing. On stage, an audience directs us or, more ominously, puppeteers our sense of self, worth, and future.
Audience capture is not a phenomenon reserved for artists or household name influencers, but for anyone who participates online. And audience capture isn’t escapable by which platform we use. From Instagram to BeReal, no matter how “genuine” or “spontaneous” a post is meant to be, authenticity is moot. Performance is chronic.
We’re each susceptible to an audience’s hypnosis—to a Pavlovian ping, ding and hit of notification dopamine, or realization that others are available to give us attention, “caring” about us. Our existence is affirmed. We’re evolutionarily hardwired for acceptance: each “heart” or “view” is a carrot, governing our actions.
On the bright side of audience capture, we can experience resonance, securing “market fit”—knowing we’re doing something right. There’s traction. Keep it up. But there’s a fine line between holding oneself to a high standard for audience satisfaction, and allowing an audience to alter our intent. The difference is the strength of grip around artistic integrity.
The result of our moment of hyper-publication and online living is another of hyper-vulnerability and influence from those from whom we seek validation. We’ve finally obtained the audience and attention we’ve been after all this time. But we’re at risk of losing something in return: ourselves.
The philosophy of audience capture
Sam finally finishes editing and collects the confidence to hit “publish.” Within minutes—and without a reaction—he considers taking it down.
Layers of philosophical explanations are at play in this emotional response, and unpacking three core philosophical principles will help us better understand why audience capture is everywhere and so utterly overwhelming today.
1. Cooley’s looking-glass self
The “looking-glass self,” coined by sociologist Charles Cooley, symbolizes our tendency to understand ourselves through the perceptions of others.
The self is not constructed privately nor independently, but rather in social settings. We alter our behaviors based upon what we feel others may think about them (even if our perceptions of their perceptions are completely off). We imagine their imagining, and pivot accordingly.
Alas: all social interactions are mirrors or a “looking glass”—our self is formed via others’ perception of us. But this process isn't static; instead, it’s active and iterative. We’re continually inferring and tweaking.
Now introduce social media, and instead of a single mirror, we’re victim to a funhouse hall of mirrors. Reflections bounce off one another. We’re subjected to an endless stream of imagined perceptions—some more distorted than others.
Ever find yourself reviewing a newly published post or an updated profile, imagining how it’ll be seen by others? That’s the looking glass. It’s a normal means of understanding ourselves—but the radical difference today is that these mirrors are everywhere. Every piece of content is a mirror: an opportunity to review ourselves.
Existence today is an infinity mirror.
2. Goffman’s presentation of self
Sociologist Erving Goffman compared everyday social interactions to actors on a stage. We each star in various roles. And on this “stage” we’re able to see our audiences’ reactions.
We may not be able to control how others perceive us, but at least we can do everything in our power to control an appearance with the hopes of others perceiving us exactly how we wish. Consider wardrobe, language, and backdrop—everything is a prop.
On Goffman’s “front stage,” we’re in a process called impression management: altering appearance and perceptions according to our goals. Only “backstage” can we finally release this role or identity.
But when modern online living is taken into account, we’re “on stage” even if we’re away from the keyboard. Profiles are live, and stories and writing are on display 24/7. The stage lights never dim. We perform around the clock for as long as our content is accessible. There is no longer backstage. Everywhere is a stage. The result is a never-ending, exhausting performance.
Ever find yourself editing and re-editing and then re-editing a post more, tweaking incessantly before publishing? We’re preparing to step on stage, recognizing our act will never end. Our performances are immortal.
Or how about the habit of checking social apps in rotation, seeing if a new notification awaits us this time? We’re managing multiple versions of ourselves, each meticulously crafted and each on a stage. We check in to make sure the audience loves us.
Our countless one-man shows are forever in previews.
3. Foucault’s village
Philosopher Jeremy Bentham’s “panopticon” infamously illustrated a surveillance tower watching prisoners who each can’t see the tower. Out of fear they’re being watched, prisoners must be on their best behavior. These prisoners are imagining how they’re being perceived from the tower and tweak their actions accordingly … even if no one is actually up in the tower.
Building upon this panopticon premise, philosopher Michel Foucault argued that its influence can be applied beyond prison systems, to everyday life and social control.
Imagine a village hit by a plague centuries ago. To keep everyone safe, citizens are instructed to stay inside. If you leave home, the punishment is death. The result is a state of constant surveillance. More specifically: constant imagined surveillance.
In today’s social dilemma, our actions are “seen by all” … yet we never actually see an observer observing. An audience is always out there. Often, we receive a sweet morsel of feedback proving its existence—it conditions us. But always, we’re acting as if we’re watched. We behave to fall in line much like Bentham’s prisoners.
In this eternal state of very real surveillance, we’re prisoners of an endless high-pressure performance. Constantly envisioning others watching us, an imagined gaze sways our behavior in order to meet expectations.
Mirrors, stages, and towers
We are not ourselves without others. As we’re constantly refining ourselves, we constantly require others’ feedback.
We’re shaped by our social environment. We may prefer to consider ourselves completely independent, free thinkers, and in control of our identity, but our self is influenced by everything and everyone around us. When we consider the effects of the internet and social interactions, mirrors, stages, and towers loom above us, exaggerating thoughts and behaviors.
Like our philosophical theories, audience capture ironically only exists because of the emphasis we place on the self. We face the ultimate tension between me (the center of the universe) and others (the perquisite to affirm our existence).
As creators, we seek attention, ego, hierarchical status, differentiation, elevation. But none are possible without first considering the others: our audience.
They give us what we require. So it makes sense how they can hypnotize and capture us. But it’s not that the audience is so manipulative.
It’s that we’re so open.
In the next piece, we’ll examine audience capture through the lens of pop culture and modern examples, seeing how extreme it can get. Lastly, I’ll reflect upon my own experience of audience capture, gleaning insights for potential solutions.
Thanks to Gurwinder, Tom Krell, PhD, and Adam Arola, PhD.
Jan 9, 2023
·
7 min read
How Audiences Came to Control Us
The psychological underpinnings of social performance
The interaction between creator and an audience is one as old as time:
“Did the painting provoke?”
“Did the sonnet move?”
“Did the speech change the public’s thinking?”
A creator always does something to the masses: entertain, persuade, manipulate, etc. But an overwhelming amount of discourse puts the artist, content creator, or public-facing cultural contributor first. The agent. The one in control.
What’s less discussed is the other direction of this relationship. What can an audience do to a creator? What’s possible when we consider that the recipient is in control?
This inverse dynamic is just as established and increasingly deserving of our attention as its prevalence is growing, and its gravitational pull now dramatic.
The term used to describe this phenomenon is called “audience capture”—an audience has hypnotized or captured a creator. To better understand its history and future, in a series of analyses we’ll explore audience capture through three critical lenses:
Philosophical: What social theory is driving this phenomenon?
Pop culture: What can we learn from analyzing its current form?
Personal: What intimate tips can we embrace to maintain integrity?
There’s never been a moment in history where more people have been putting themselves on display in public for judgment by creating works of art (or content): podcasts, newsletters, original music, novels, and videos, both long and short—including our everyday Instagram Stories.
Public “likes,” reactions, or retweets of others’ are “published works” of ours, too. They’re just other atoms in our public library of content.
All of this content, intertwined with our identity, is viewable by an audience. And others’ perceptions of this content is considered, ultimately influencing us.
The more we publish, the more opportunities there are to contemplate what an audience thinks about our performances. This is happening at every single waking moment. Both consciously and subconsciously, we’re constantly examining ourselves through the lens of others and then re-posturing. On stage, an audience directs us or, more ominously, puppeteers our sense of self, worth, and future.
Audience capture is not a phenomenon reserved for artists or household name influencers, but for anyone who participates online. And audience capture isn’t escapable by which platform we use. From Instagram to BeReal, no matter how “genuine” or “spontaneous” a post is meant to be, authenticity is moot. Performance is chronic.
We’re each susceptible to an audience’s hypnosis—to a Pavlovian ping, ding and hit of notification dopamine, or realization that others are available to give us attention, “caring” about us. Our existence is affirmed. We’re evolutionarily hardwired for acceptance: each “heart” or “view” is a carrot, governing our actions.
On the bright side of audience capture, we can experience resonance, securing “market fit”—knowing we’re doing something right. There’s traction. Keep it up. But there’s a fine line between holding oneself to a high standard for audience satisfaction, and allowing an audience to alter our intent. The difference is the strength of grip around artistic integrity.
The result of our moment of hyper-publication and online living is another of hyper-vulnerability and influence from those from whom we seek validation. We’ve finally obtained the audience and attention we’ve been after all this time. But we’re at risk of losing something in return: ourselves.
The philosophy of audience capture
Sam finally finishes editing and collects the confidence to hit “publish.” Within minutes—and without a reaction—he considers taking it down.
Layers of philosophical explanations are at play in this emotional response, and unpacking three core philosophical principles will help us better understand why audience capture is everywhere and so utterly overwhelming today.
1. Cooley’s looking-glass self
The “looking-glass self,” coined by sociologist Charles Cooley, symbolizes our tendency to understand ourselves through the perceptions of others.
The self is not constructed privately nor independently, but rather in social settings. We alter our behaviors based upon what we feel others may think about them (even if our perceptions of their perceptions are completely off). We imagine their imagining, and pivot accordingly.
Alas: all social interactions are mirrors or a “looking glass”—our self is formed via others’ perception of us. But this process isn't static; instead, it’s active and iterative. We’re continually inferring and tweaking.
Now introduce social media, and instead of a single mirror, we’re victim to a funhouse hall of mirrors. Reflections bounce off one another. We’re subjected to an endless stream of imagined perceptions—some more distorted than others.
Ever find yourself reviewing a newly published post or an updated profile, imagining how it’ll be seen by others? That’s the looking glass. It’s a normal means of understanding ourselves—but the radical difference today is that these mirrors are everywhere. Every piece of content is a mirror: an opportunity to review ourselves.
Existence today is an infinity mirror.
2. Goffman’s presentation of self
Sociologist Erving Goffman compared everyday social interactions to actors on a stage. We each star in various roles. And on this “stage” we’re able to see our audiences’ reactions.
We may not be able to control how others perceive us, but at least we can do everything in our power to control an appearance with the hopes of others perceiving us exactly how we wish. Consider wardrobe, language, and backdrop—everything is a prop.
On Goffman’s “front stage,” we’re in a process called impression management: altering appearance and perceptions according to our goals. Only “backstage” can we finally release this role or identity.
But when modern online living is taken into account, we’re “on stage” even if we’re away from the keyboard. Profiles are live, and stories and writing are on display 24/7. The stage lights never dim. We perform around the clock for as long as our content is accessible. There is no longer backstage. Everywhere is a stage. The result is a never-ending, exhausting performance.
Ever find yourself editing and re-editing and then re-editing a post more, tweaking incessantly before publishing? We’re preparing to step on stage, recognizing our act will never end. Our performances are immortal.
Or how about the habit of checking social apps in rotation, seeing if a new notification awaits us this time? We’re managing multiple versions of ourselves, each meticulously crafted and each on a stage. We check in to make sure the audience loves us.
Our countless one-man shows are forever in previews.
3. Foucault’s village
Philosopher Jeremy Bentham’s “panopticon” infamously illustrated a surveillance tower watching prisoners who each can’t see the tower. Out of fear they’re being watched, prisoners must be on their best behavior. These prisoners are imagining how they’re being perceived from the tower and tweak their actions accordingly … even if no one is actually up in the tower.
Building upon this panopticon premise, philosopher Michel Foucault argued that its influence can be applied beyond prison systems, to everyday life and social control.
Imagine a village hit by a plague centuries ago. To keep everyone safe, citizens are instructed to stay inside. If you leave home, the punishment is death. The result is a state of constant surveillance. More specifically: constant imagined surveillance.
In today’s social dilemma, our actions are “seen by all” … yet we never actually see an observer observing. An audience is always out there. Often, we receive a sweet morsel of feedback proving its existence—it conditions us. But always, we’re acting as if we’re watched. We behave to fall in line much like Bentham’s prisoners.
In this eternal state of very real surveillance, we’re prisoners of an endless high-pressure performance. Constantly envisioning others watching us, an imagined gaze sways our behavior in order to meet expectations.
Mirrors, stages, and towers
We are not ourselves without others. As we’re constantly refining ourselves, we constantly require others’ feedback.
We’re shaped by our social environment. We may prefer to consider ourselves completely independent, free thinkers, and in control of our identity, but our self is influenced by everything and everyone around us. When we consider the effects of the internet and social interactions, mirrors, stages, and towers loom above us, exaggerating thoughts and behaviors.
Like our philosophical theories, audience capture ironically only exists because of the emphasis we place on the self. We face the ultimate tension between me (the center of the universe) and others (the perquisite to affirm our existence).
As creators, we seek attention, ego, hierarchical status, differentiation, elevation. But none are possible without first considering the others: our audience.
They give us what we require. So it makes sense how they can hypnotize and capture us. But it’s not that the audience is so manipulative.
It’s that we’re so open.
In the next piece, we’ll examine audience capture through the lens of pop culture and modern examples, seeing how extreme it can get. Lastly, I’ll reflect upon my own experience of audience capture, gleaning insights for potential solutions.
Thanks to Gurwinder, Tom Krell, PhD, and Adam Arola, PhD.
Jan 9, 2023
·
7 min read
How Audiences Came to Control Us
The psychological underpinnings of social performance
The interaction between creator and an audience is one as old as time:
“Did the painting provoke?”
“Did the sonnet move?”
“Did the speech change the public’s thinking?”
A creator always does something to the masses: entertain, persuade, manipulate, etc. But an overwhelming amount of discourse puts the artist, content creator, or public-facing cultural contributor first. The agent. The one in control.
What’s less discussed is the other direction of this relationship. What can an audience do to a creator? What’s possible when we consider that the recipient is in control?
This inverse dynamic is just as established and increasingly deserving of our attention as its prevalence is growing, and its gravitational pull now dramatic.
The term used to describe this phenomenon is called “audience capture”—an audience has hypnotized or captured a creator. To better understand its history and future, in a series of analyses we’ll explore audience capture through three critical lenses:
Philosophical: What social theory is driving this phenomenon?
Pop culture: What can we learn from analyzing its current form?
Personal: What intimate tips can we embrace to maintain integrity?
There’s never been a moment in history where more people have been putting themselves on display in public for judgment by creating works of art (or content): podcasts, newsletters, original music, novels, and videos, both long and short—including our everyday Instagram Stories.
Public “likes,” reactions, or retweets of others’ are “published works” of ours, too. They’re just other atoms in our public library of content.
All of this content, intertwined with our identity, is viewable by an audience. And others’ perceptions of this content is considered, ultimately influencing us.
The more we publish, the more opportunities there are to contemplate what an audience thinks about our performances. This is happening at every single waking moment. Both consciously and subconsciously, we’re constantly examining ourselves through the lens of others and then re-posturing. On stage, an audience directs us or, more ominously, puppeteers our sense of self, worth, and future.
Audience capture is not a phenomenon reserved for artists or household name influencers, but for anyone who participates online. And audience capture isn’t escapable by which platform we use. From Instagram to BeReal, no matter how “genuine” or “spontaneous” a post is meant to be, authenticity is moot. Performance is chronic.
We’re each susceptible to an audience’s hypnosis—to a Pavlovian ping, ding and hit of notification dopamine, or realization that others are available to give us attention, “caring” about us. Our existence is affirmed. We’re evolutionarily hardwired for acceptance: each “heart” or “view” is a carrot, governing our actions.
On the bright side of audience capture, we can experience resonance, securing “market fit”—knowing we’re doing something right. There’s traction. Keep it up. But there’s a fine line between holding oneself to a high standard for audience satisfaction, and allowing an audience to alter our intent. The difference is the strength of grip around artistic integrity.
The result of our moment of hyper-publication and online living is another of hyper-vulnerability and influence from those from whom we seek validation. We’ve finally obtained the audience and attention we’ve been after all this time. But we’re at risk of losing something in return: ourselves.
The philosophy of audience capture
Sam finally finishes editing and collects the confidence to hit “publish.” Within minutes—and without a reaction—he considers taking it down.
Layers of philosophical explanations are at play in this emotional response, and unpacking three core philosophical principles will help us better understand why audience capture is everywhere and so utterly overwhelming today.
1. Cooley’s looking-glass self
The “looking-glass self,” coined by sociologist Charles Cooley, symbolizes our tendency to understand ourselves through the perceptions of others.
The self is not constructed privately nor independently, but rather in social settings. We alter our behaviors based upon what we feel others may think about them (even if our perceptions of their perceptions are completely off). We imagine their imagining, and pivot accordingly.
Alas: all social interactions are mirrors or a “looking glass”—our self is formed via others’ perception of us. But this process isn't static; instead, it’s active and iterative. We’re continually inferring and tweaking.
Now introduce social media, and instead of a single mirror, we’re victim to a funhouse hall of mirrors. Reflections bounce off one another. We’re subjected to an endless stream of imagined perceptions—some more distorted than others.
Ever find yourself reviewing a newly published post or an updated profile, imagining how it’ll be seen by others? That’s the looking glass. It’s a normal means of understanding ourselves—but the radical difference today is that these mirrors are everywhere. Every piece of content is a mirror: an opportunity to review ourselves.
Existence today is an infinity mirror.
2. Goffman’s presentation of self
Sociologist Erving Goffman compared everyday social interactions to actors on a stage. We each star in various roles. And on this “stage” we’re able to see our audiences’ reactions.
We may not be able to control how others perceive us, but at least we can do everything in our power to control an appearance with the hopes of others perceiving us exactly how we wish. Consider wardrobe, language, and backdrop—everything is a prop.
On Goffman’s “front stage,” we’re in a process called impression management: altering appearance and perceptions according to our goals. Only “backstage” can we finally release this role or identity.
But when modern online living is taken into account, we’re “on stage” even if we’re away from the keyboard. Profiles are live, and stories and writing are on display 24/7. The stage lights never dim. We perform around the clock for as long as our content is accessible. There is no longer backstage. Everywhere is a stage. The result is a never-ending, exhausting performance.
Ever find yourself editing and re-editing and then re-editing a post more, tweaking incessantly before publishing? We’re preparing to step on stage, recognizing our act will never end. Our performances are immortal.
Or how about the habit of checking social apps in rotation, seeing if a new notification awaits us this time? We’re managing multiple versions of ourselves, each meticulously crafted and each on a stage. We check in to make sure the audience loves us.
Our countless one-man shows are forever in previews.
3. Foucault’s village
Philosopher Jeremy Bentham’s “panopticon” infamously illustrated a surveillance tower watching prisoners who each can’t see the tower. Out of fear they’re being watched, prisoners must be on their best behavior. These prisoners are imagining how they’re being perceived from the tower and tweak their actions accordingly … even if no one is actually up in the tower.
Building upon this panopticon premise, philosopher Michel Foucault argued that its influence can be applied beyond prison systems, to everyday life and social control.
Imagine a village hit by a plague centuries ago. To keep everyone safe, citizens are instructed to stay inside. If you leave home, the punishment is death. The result is a state of constant surveillance. More specifically: constant imagined surveillance.
In today’s social dilemma, our actions are “seen by all” … yet we never actually see an observer observing. An audience is always out there. Often, we receive a sweet morsel of feedback proving its existence—it conditions us. But always, we’re acting as if we’re watched. We behave to fall in line much like Bentham’s prisoners.
In this eternal state of very real surveillance, we’re prisoners of an endless high-pressure performance. Constantly envisioning others watching us, an imagined gaze sways our behavior in order to meet expectations.
Mirrors, stages, and towers
We are not ourselves without others. As we’re constantly refining ourselves, we constantly require others’ feedback.
We’re shaped by our social environment. We may prefer to consider ourselves completely independent, free thinkers, and in control of our identity, but our self is influenced by everything and everyone around us. When we consider the effects of the internet and social interactions, mirrors, stages, and towers loom above us, exaggerating thoughts and behaviors.
Like our philosophical theories, audience capture ironically only exists because of the emphasis we place on the self. We face the ultimate tension between me (the center of the universe) and others (the perquisite to affirm our existence).
As creators, we seek attention, ego, hierarchical status, differentiation, elevation. But none are possible without first considering the others: our audience.
They give us what we require. So it makes sense how they can hypnotize and capture us. But it’s not that the audience is so manipulative.
It’s that we’re so open.
In the next piece, we’ll examine audience capture through the lens of pop culture and modern examples, seeing how extreme it can get. Lastly, I’ll reflect upon my own experience of audience capture, gleaning insights for potential solutions.
Thanks to Gurwinder, Tom Krell, PhD, and Adam Arola, PhD.
Jan 9, 2023
·
7 min read
Lens in your inbox
Lens features creator stories that inspire, inform, and entertain.
Subscribe to our weekly newsletter so you never miss a story.
Lens in your inbox
Lens features creator stories that inspire, inform, and entertain.
Subscribe to our weekly newsletter so you never miss a story.
Lens in your inbox
Lens features creator stories that inspire, inform, and entertain.
Subscribe to our weekly newsletter so you never miss a story.
