Podcasts and various forms of “parasocial” media are redefining friendship as a monetized form of self-care.
Brendan Mackie July 01, 2021
Image: Surface Tension (1992) by Rafael Lozano-Hemmer. Photo by Maxime Dufour. Courtesy the artist and Bitforms Gallery, New York.
Full-text audio version of this essay.
Over the last decade, it’s become increasingly common for individuals to develop intense, one-sided relationships with internet personalities. These so-called parasocial relationships – meaning almost social, or perhaps deviantly social – have become ubiquitous. Consider, for example, the John Mulaney fans voicing their concerns about his recent personal struggles as much as they celebrate his comedic genius. Similarly, fans of K-pop sensations like Blackpink (Blinks) and Twice (Onces) dominate YouTube comment sections, showering their idols with millions of supportive messages (“Rosé has worked so hard for this moment, let’s support her as much as we can!!”). Zoomers enthusiastically spend hours in Twitch chats watching livestreamers play Minecraft or PUBG. Even Peloton trainers are now marketed as personal allies in our fitness journeys, rather than simply instructors pushing us to exercise.
Podcast hosts, in particular, are often the focal point of these intense feelings of connection, as numerous commentators, including Rachel Aroesti in this Guardian article, have observed. I myself have a few parasocial podcast obsessions, especially the McElroy Brothers podcasting family, creators of the comedy advice show My Brother, My Brother and Me and the Dungeons and Dragons “actual play” podcast The Adventure Zone, among others. I engage with fan subreddits, enjoy McElroy memes, and purchase merchandise to support the good good boys (as they’re affectionately known). I’ve become a fan of the McElroys “themselves” as much as their content. I’m familiar with their childhood nicknames, their battles with depression and social anxiety, and even the anecdote about Justin being fired from Blockbuster for stealing a Fight Club DVD.
The McElroys are a consistent presence in my life. Every Monday brings a new episode of My Brother, My Brother and Me, as comforting as a familiar box of Kraft mac and cheese. During dissertation struggles, I would often retreat under the covers and listen to the McElroys until my anxieties felt more manageable. I feel – and this is somewhat embarrassing to admit – like the McElroys are my friends, that if we were to meet on the street, we could have a pleasant conversation about our lives and maybe share a beer. I am, of course, aware that the McElroy brothers are not actually my friends. Yet, the lingering sensation persists that we could be friends, if only we spent time together in person. This feeling encapsulates the essence of why can’t we be friends, or at least, why it feels like we could be.
To understand the surge in online celebrity friendships, we must examine the historical context of friendship itself. In its simplest form, friends are individuals who fulfill our fundamental need to belong. Psychologists Roy Baumeister and Mark Leary demonstrated in their seminal 1995 paper that this need for belonging is satisfied when positive interactions with others are structured in a predictable and consistent manner. Historically, this belongingness was primarily provided by the extended family: spouses, parents, children, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. The evolution of modern friendship reflects how societies have responded to disruptions in this traditional family structure, seeking belonging elsewhere – in sworn brotherhoods, friendships, and now, through TV personalities and podcasters. This quest to understand why can’t we be friends with those we admire is deeply rooted in our social evolution.
I know, of course, that the McElroy brothers are not my friends. But I listen to the show completely alone, through the privacy of my earbuds. I can fool myself into thinking they are talking directly to me
In the Western world, this shift arguably began in the 14th century, marked by the Great Famine and the subsequent Black Death. The devastating loss of up to half the European population profoundly disrupted the family unit, the cornerstone of belonging. In response, people cultivated close, bonded relationships outside their families, particularly with those sharing common interests or perspectives: friends. The term friend and its related forms became increasingly prevalent in written records. People began corresponding with friends about their daily lives, emotions, and spiritual concerns. Men sometimes pledged eternal brotherhood in church ceremonies, exchanging rings, combining their heraldry, and even planning to be buried alongside each other, mirroring marital vows. New institutions emerged to foster these non-kin bonds, such as the confraternity. These belonging institutions transformed strangers into brothers and sisters through shared rituals of solidarity, like breaking bread and singing together. These friends were dependable, offering mutual support in times of need: sharing meals in hunger, providing financial assistance, and conducting memorial masses after death, secure in the expectation of reciprocity. This historical need for reliable connection underscores the timeless question of why can’t we be friends in a world that often feels isolating.
Throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, friendship gained even greater significance as populations migrated from rural areas to increasingly crowded cities filled with unfamiliar faces. However, the structure of friendship needed to adapt as the gradual transition from agrarian labor to manufacturing and service industries eroded the traditional rhythms of seasonal work and communal leisure. Leisure activities shifted from public spaces like village squares and marketplaces to commercial venues like pleasure gardens, theaters, and coffeehouses. Here, people bonded over shared consumption, such as enjoying coffee together, reading periodicals, or appreciating the same art. Institutions of belonging became more formalized under growing pressure to support an increasingly displaced population. In 19th century Britain, over half of adult males belonged to a Friendly Society, a club where members paid regular dues to socialize, eat, and drink together, with a portion of the fees saved for social insurance. Elks Clubs and Oddfellows groups contributed to a similar “nation of joiners” in 19th century America, as Gerald Gemald Gamm and Robert Putnam have argued. These historical adaptations highlight the persistent human desire for connection and belonging, continually asking why can’t we be friends in evolving social landscapes.
Post-World War II America faced yet another belonging crisis. The unprecedented prosperity of the 1950s fostered a culture of individualism and private consumption. More families retreated into suburban homes, focused on the isolated enjoyment of their possessions. Conversely, nonconformists often found themselves excluded from the dwindling institutions that could offer belonging, such as churches or community centers. New mass-marketed consumer products emerged to address this belonging deficit: self-help books, Tupperware parties, and especially mass media. This era sets the stage for understanding the modern dilemma of why can’t we be friends in the age of mass media.
This context is crucial for understanding the emergence of parasocial media consumption. In their widely cited 1956 paper “Mass Communication and Para-Social Interaction,” social scientists Donald Horton and Richard Wohl identified a novel type of radio and TV program they termed the personality show. These programs were intentionally designed to make viewers feel like they were engaged in a personal conversation with a close friend. Camera angles were carefully chosen to capture every charming facial expression of the personality, sets were designed to resemble domestic spaces like living rooms and bedrooms, and the personality directly addressed the audience, anticipating responses and sharing personal details, creating the illusion that viewers were “living with him” week after week. Most of these were talk shows, the 1950s precursors to Stephen Colbert. However, these shows could evoke a surprising sense of intimacy. For example, the 1951 radio program Lonesome Gal featured a nameless woman delivering a “throaty, unctuous” monologue to her imagined shy, withdrawn, and lonely lover. “Don’t you see darling, that I am only one of millions of lonely girls. I belong to him who spends his Sundays in museums, who strolls in Central Park looking sadly at the lovers there. But I am more fortunate than any of these lovers, because I have you. Do you know that I am always thinking about you?” Horton and Wohl argued that these parasocial relationships offered lonely, isolated, and marginalized individuals a sense of belonging that was otherwise absent in their lives. These early examples of parasocial interaction demonstrate the enduring human need for connection and raise the question: why can’t we be friends with media personalities?
More recently, another belonging crisis has arisen, fueled by economic shifts. While material goods like food, electronics, and cars have become more affordable, essential services like healthcare, education, childcare, and especially housing have become increasingly expensive. This economic pressure has further weakened the family unit. Millennials are having fewer children than they desire or choosing to forgo families altogether. Friendship, already strained by longer work hours and more transient lifestyles, can only partially compensate for this gap. Institutions of belonging have also continued to decline. As scholars like Robert Putnam and Theda Skocpol have documented, fewer people participate in civic organizations like bowling leagues, churches, or political groups. This has contributed to a friendship crisis, particularly among men. A frequently cited 2006 study revealed a decline since the 1980s in the number of people Americans confide in about important matters. The forced isolation of quarantine has only amplified this trend. This contemporary context highlights the urgency of understanding why can’t we be friends in an increasingly disconnected world.
Throughout history, people have responded to each belonging crisis with the technologies available: letters in the Renaissance, clubs in the industrial era, television in the 1950s. Today, the answer lies in our phones.
Similar to the personality programs of the 1950s, modern parasocial media is characterized by a carefully crafted performance of intimacy. Performers adopt a conversational tone, share curated glimpses into their personal lives, and reveal what are presented as vulnerabilities. Content is often set in domestic environments – bedrooms, home offices, among family and friends – creating an informal and spontaneous atmosphere reminiscent of real friendship. Bo Burnham’s recent Netflix special exemplifies this genre: he is alone in his cluttered home studio with his camera – alone with us – sporting an isolation beard and tired eyes, projecting sadness and self-disclosure. Yet, the lighting is professionally calibrated, and the shots are meticulously framed. He even subtly reveals the artifice, showing himself adjusting the precise angle and hue of his professional lighting, carefully constructing a performance of friendly self-confession to make viewers believe he is speaking directly and intimately to them, like a friend. This curated intimacy begs the question: why can’t we be friends beyond the screen?
Parasociality promises to satisfy a need that it can only make more acute
However, unlike the televisions and radios of the 1950s, which were stationary appliances in living rooms, today’s parasocial media is ubiquitous, accessible whenever boredom or loneliness strikes: on public transport, in the bathroom, or in bed. Moreover, the content itself has become increasingly niche-focused. Mass media in the 1950s had to appeal to a broad audience to be financially viable. But today, the vast online audience allows content to target highly specialized interests. This exuberant obscurity is what makes internet culture so compelling: fake baseball leagues, ASMR, mukbang. When you discover something you enjoy, it can feel like uncovering a hidden, precise part of yourself, a part you didn’t even know existed, and that you get to express for the first time in the private moments spent with your screens. This personalized connection intensifies the desire to understand why can’t we be friends with these niche content creators.
The intimacy of modern media is paradoxically at odds with the scalability that ensures its financial success. I know, for example, that My Brother, My Brother and Me has hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of listeners. Yet, I listen to the show in complete solitude, through my headphones. I can almost convince myself that the McElroy brothers are speaking directly to me, even as they address a massive crowd of isolated fans. This inherent contradiction fuels the persistent question of why can’t we be friends in a scalable digital world.
Contemporary parasocial media bridges this tension between intimacy and scalability by blurring the lines between content creator and consumer. It can feel as though these online personalities can transcend the screen and acknowledge us, transforming us from passive viewers into active participants. Taylor Swift, for instance, has famously surprised fans at significant life events, like weddings and bridal showers. Niche subgenres rely even more heavily on fan interaction to drive engagement and maintain their business model. Every episode of the fast-food review podcast Doughboys, for example, opens with two pieces of fan-generated content: a “roast” of host Mike Mitchell about his weight, and “the drop” – a fan-made song referencing past episodes, memes, and inside jokes. This not only provides consistent content but also fosters the feeling of a conversation between the hosts and their fanbase. These interactive elements offer a fleeting sense of connection, yet the underlying question remains: why can’t we be friends in a truly reciprocal way?
Payment platforms like Patreon, OnlyFans, and Twitch enable the precise monetization of these illusions of intimacy. Twitch streams feature “the chat” – a continuous flow of user comments, memes, and emojis that hosts can interact with. The VTuber (a streamer using a computer-generated avatar) Chester the Otter dons a maid costume when the chat collectively chants MAID COSTUME. (Viewers can even virtually pet Chester). Many streams monetize this interaction: hosts will give shout-outs to donating viewers. Patreon further formalizes this relationship by allowing fans to organize themselves into tiers based on their financial contribution. On singer-songwriter Amanda Palmer’s Patreon, pledging a certain amount grants access to regular webchats. Higher pledges might unlock personal postcards from her travels. This is framed as a personal connection, not a financial transaction. You support the creator as a friend would, and the creator responds in the language of friendship – answering questions, mentioning names on stream, sending postcards, even allowing virtual head pats. This transactional nature of parasocial relationships further complicates the question of why can’t we be friends when economic exchange underlies the interaction.
Parasociality promises to satisfy a need for connection, but it often intensifies the very loneliness it seeks to alleviate. Fans often yearn for reciprocity in these one-sided relationships, wanting content creators to recognize them as individuals who are valued for themselves, not just for their utility as fans. However, given the vast scale of internet culture, creators inevitably perceive fans as an anonymous mass of fluctuating metrics. This inherent disconnect deepens the sense of why can’t we be friends in the parasocial dynamic.
Yet, the interactive structure of modern parasocial media repeatedly stages this impossible mutual recognition. We see Taylor Swift surprising fans at weddings – why not us? We can virtually pet Chester the Otter – maybe they can acknowledge us in return? This constant cycle of evoked and then frustrated desire for recognition from the creator can make fan culture notoriously fickle. This capricious nature makes us ponder even more deeply: why can’t we be friends in these online communities?
Performers speak to us conversationally, they let us know about their personal lives, they reveal what are framed as their vulnerabilities
I witnessed this dynamic within the My Brother, My Brother and Me community when Travis McElroy, “the middlest brother,” took over The Adventure Zone, and the show’s quality seemed to decline. Reddit threads transformed into lists of grievances, and discontent rapidly focused on Travis’s personality. Fans’ extensive history of consuming Travis’s persona provided ample ammunition for criticism. And fans were angry – angry that he had projected such closeness and then seemingly failed to listen when it mattered. This fan backlash highlights the precarious nature of parasocial bonds and the underlying question of why can’t we be friends even when we feel so invested.
Horton and Wohl initially viewed the lonely individuals watching personality programs as naive victims, easily manipulated by cynical mass media producers. Similarly, contemporary critiques of parasocial media often blame creators and platforms for exploiting vulnerable and lonely fans. A common solution stemming from this perspective is to shame parasocial content creators like Travis McElroy, hoping they will stop presenting themselves as “the internet’s best friend” and instead promote a healthier, more sustainable model of media consumption. However, this approach overlooks the critical and creative agency of fans themselves. This top-down approach fails to address the core issue of why can’t we be friends in a genuine and meaningful way.
Fan spaces, while centered around the content creator’s personality, can also become genuine communities offering belonging in their own right. The creative output of fan art, fan fiction, and fan criticism is immense. Fan communities are also often surprisingly self-aware. The term parasociality itself gained prominence through fandom circles. The McElroy critique subreddit quickly adopted the language of parasociality, particularly after YouTube critic Sarah Z used the concept to analyze the fan backlash against the brothers. Many niche fan communities frequently issue explicit warnings about the dangers of parasociality: VTubers, John Mulaney, KPop. This self-awareness within fan communities suggests a deeper understanding of why can’t we be friends in the parasocial context.
You support the creator because that’s what friends do, and the creator responds in the language of friendship
Yet, even the promise of community and self-critique within fandoms is ultimately deceptive. Online fan spaces only appear to be collaborative communities because social media platforms present a skewed picture where everyone seems popular, active, and engaged. However, the vast majority of users on social networks – perhaps 90 percent percent – are lurkers, rarely contributing to the conversation. What seem like thriving fan communities are, in reality, parasocial relationships within parasocial relationships: most individuals participate by passively consuming the performative engagement of a select few. Lurkers passively consume superfans’ fan art, fan criticism, and expressions of affection, just as they passively consume the creator’s persona. This passive consumption within online communities further highlights the question of why can’t we be friends in a truly participatory digital space.
This reality deviates from the democratic ideal once promised by social media – an open and unpredictable exchange among peers fostering growth through free debate. Instead, it often resembles peering through a window at a group of friends in conversation, unable to be heard even as you laugh at their jokes. In this sense, the prevalence of parasocial media exposes the underlying parasocial dynamic inherent in the internet more broadly. Social media platforms like Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook tend to reduce even interactions with our real-life acquaintances to parasociality: we scroll through images of people we know living their lives while we are idle, waiting, or alone, not actively participating. This pervasive parasociality in our broader digital interactions underscores the fundamental question: why can’t we be friends in the way we truly desire, both online and offline?
Many of us have learned to create online content as if we were hosting a 1950s personality show, carefully crafting an image of providing one end of a friendly interaction. We look directly into cameras, address our audience directly, and use gestures of friendship, cueing viewers to believe we are responding to them personally and individually. However, we are ultimately responding to something else – an idealized self-image or the reflection presented back to us by the screen. Parasocial media itself is not the core problem, but rather a symptom of a deeper longing for belonging within societal structures that fail to sustain it. We are left scrolling through tempting, fleeting, one-sided interactions that capture our attention but rarely fulfill the fundamental human need to be genuinely seen, known, and valued as individuals – as true friends. Ultimately, understanding why can’t we be friends in the digital age requires addressing these deeper societal issues of isolation and the yearning for authentic connection.
Brendan Mackie recently received his PhD in History from Berkeley. You can find his writing about history, technology and parenting on his substack.
