Podcasts and various forms of digital media are reshaping our understanding of friendship, often reducing it to a monetized form of self-care, creating what we call parasocial relationships.
Over the last decade, it’s become increasingly common to observe intense, one-sided connections forming between individuals and internet personalities. These “parasocial” relationships, implying a skewed or imitation of social interaction, are now pervasive. Consider the fans of figures like John Mulaney, whose audience expresses deep concern over his personal life, mirroring the investment one might have in a friend, even as they enjoy his comedic work. Similarly, the massive fanbases of K-pop groups such as Blackpink (Blinks) and Twice (Onces) fill online spaces with supportive comments, creating an echo chamber of digital affection. Zoomers spend countless hours in Twitch chats watching streamers play games, and even Peloton instructors are marketed as personal companions on fitness journeys, rather than just trainers.
Podcasters, in particular, often become the focus of these intense parasocial bonds, as noted by commentators like Rachel Aroesti. Many individuals, including myself, find themselves deeply invested in certain podcasts and their hosts. For instance, the McElroy Brothers, known for their comedy advice show My Brother, My Brother and Me and the Dungeons and Dragons podcast The Adventure Zone, have cultivated a dedicated fanbase. I engage with fan subreddits, enjoy McElroy-related memes, and purchase merchandise to support these “good good boys,” as they are affectionately known within their community. My connection extends beyond their content; I feel invested in the McElroys themselves. I’m familiar with anecdotes from their childhood, their openness about struggles with mental health, and personal stories like Justin’s Blockbuster mishap.
The McElroys have become a consistent and comforting presence in my routine. The predictable arrival of a new My Brother, My Brother and Me episode each week offers a sense of reliability. During challenging periods, listening to their podcast provided a sense of comfort. It’s almost embarrassing to admit, but it feels as though the McElroys are my friends, individuals with whom I could share a casual conversation and a beer if our paths crossed. Logically, I understand this isn’t the case. Yet, the persistent feeling is that a genuine friendship could exist under different circumstances.
To grasp the widespread appeal of online celebrity friendships, we must examine the historical context of friendship itself. At its core, friendship addresses our fundamental need for belonging. Psychologists Roy Baumeister and Mark Leary’s 1995 research highlighted that this need is satisfied through consistent, positive interactions within a predictable framework. Historically, this sense of belonging was primarily rooted in extended family structures. The evolution of modern friendship reflects how people have sought belonging outside these traditional family bonds, turning to friends, mentors, and, more recently, media personalities.
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 Western history, this shift arguably began in the 14th century with the Great Famine and the Black Death, which decimated populations and disrupted family structures. This upheaval led individuals to cultivate strong bonds with non-family members, particularly those with shared interests or perspectives – friends. The term “friend” gained increased prominence in written records. People began corresponding with friends about personal matters, daily life, and emotions. Formalized brotherhoods emerged, with rituals of commitment, shared symbols, and even plans for joint burial plots, mirroring marital bonds. New social structures, like confraternities, facilitated these relationships, turning strangers into “siblings” through shared rituals like communal meals and songs. These friendships were built on reciprocity and reliability: mutual support in times of need, from shared meals to financial assistance and spiritual care.
Friendship’s importance grew further in the 18th and 19th centuries as urbanization increased and communities became more transient. The shift from agrarian to industrial and service-based economies disrupted traditional social rhythms. Leisure moved from communal village spaces to commercial venues like pleasure gardens and coffeehouses. Shared consumption became a basis for bonding – enjoying coffee, literature, or art together. Formal institutions of belonging adapted to support increasingly dislocated populations. In 19th century Britain, a significant portion of adult men joined Friendly Societies, clubs offering social and financial benefits through membership fees. Similarly, fraternal organizations like the Elks Clubs and Oddfellows in 19th century America fostered a culture of community building.
Post-World War II America faced another crisis of belonging. The affluence of the 1950s fostered individualism and consumerism, leading to more insular family units focused on private consumption. Non-conformists found themselves excluded from traditional community institutions. Mass-marketed products and media emerged to address this belonging gap, including self-help books, Tupperware parties, and mass media, particularly radio and television.
This period saw the initial description of parasocial media consumption. In their seminal 1956 paper, “Mass Communication and Para-Social Interaction,” social scientists Donald Horton and Richard Wohl identified the “personality show.” These programs were designed to simulate intimate conversation. Camera angles emphasized the personality’s expressions, settings were domestic, and hosts addressed the audience directly, sharing personal details and anticipating responses. Viewers felt they were intimately acquainted with these personalities. Shows like the 1951 radio program Lonesome Gal, featuring a nameless woman speaking intimately to a presumed listener, exemplified this. Horton and Wohl argued that parasocial relationships offered a sense of belonging to those feeling marginalized and isolated.
Recently, economic shifts have triggered another belonging crisis. While material goods have become more affordable, essential services like healthcare, education, childcare, and housing have become increasingly expensive. This economic pressure has further strained family structures. Millennials are having fewer children than desired or forgoing parenthood altogether. Friendship networks are also under pressure due to longer work hours and increased mobility. Participation in civic organizations has declined, as noted by scholars like Robert Putnam and Theda Skocpol. This has led to a “friendship recession,” particularly among men. A 2006 study indicated a decrease since the 1980s in the number of confidants Americans have. The isolation imposed by recent global events has only amplified these trends.
Throughout history, people have used available technologies to address belonging crises: letters during the Renaissance, clubs in the industrial era, and television in the 1950s. Today, mobile digital technology is the primary tool.
Like the personality shows of the 1950s, contemporary parasocial media relies on a carefully constructed performance of intimacy. Content creators adopt conversational styles, share personal narratives, and present curated vulnerabilities. Content is often set in informal domestic spaces, mimicking the spontaneity of real friendship. Bo Burnham’s recent Netflix special exemplifies this: filmed in his home studio, he appears alone with the viewer, presenting an image of isolation and raw confession. Yet, the production is polished, with deliberate lighting and framing. He even highlights the artifice, showing the meticulous effort behind his “authentic” self-presentation, subtly revealing the performance of friendly intimacy designed to make viewers feel personally addressed.
However, unlike the televisions and radios of the past, today’s parasocial media is ubiquitous, accessible at any moment of boredom or loneliness. Furthermore, online content is increasingly niche-focused. Mass media aimed for broad appeal, but the internet’s vast reach allows for highly specialized content. This niche culture, encompassing phenomena like fake baseball leagues, ASMR, and mukbang, creates a sense of personalized discovery. Finding content that resonates deeply can feel like uncovering a hidden aspect of oneself, expressed through the private engagement with screens.
The intimacy of modern media clashes with its inherent scalability. While I know My Brother, My Brother and Me has a massive audience, my listening experience is solitary, through headphones. This privacy allows for the illusion of direct, personal communication, even though the hosts are addressing a vast, dispersed audience.
Modern parasocial media resolves this tension by blurring the lines between creator and consumer. It cultivates the feeling that creators can “step through the screen” and acknowledge individual fans, transforming passive consumption into active participation. Taylor Swift’s surprise appearances at fan events exemplify this. Niche genres even more explicitly integrate fan interaction, often to drive engagement and sustain their model. The podcast Doughboys, for example, incorporates fan content like “roasts” and fan-made theme songs into each episode, creating a sense of ongoing dialogue.
Platforms like Patreon, OnlyFans, and Twitch precisely monetize these simulated intimate exchanges. Twitch’s “chat” function allows real-time user comments, memes, and emojis for hosts to interact with. VTubers like Chester the Otter respond to chat prompts, performing actions based on viewer requests. Many streams offer personalized shout-outs for donations. Patreon formalizes this further, tiering fan access based on financial contribution. Amanda Palmer’s Patreon offers webchats and even personal postcards for higher-tier supporters. These interactions are framed as personal connections, not economic transactions. Fans “support” creators like friends, and creators reciprocate with the language of friendship – answering questions, mentioning names, sending personalized items, and offering digital gestures of affection.
Parasociality promises to fulfill a need for connection, but ultimately intensifies it. Fans often desire reciprocal recognition, wanting creators to see them as valued individuals, not just metrics. However, the scale of internet culture makes genuine individual recognition impossible; fans remain an anonymous mass.
Yet, the structure of parasocial media repeatedly stages the possibility of this impossible reciprocity. We see examples of creators reaching out to fans, fueling the hope for personal connection.
Performers speak to us conversationally, they let us know about their personal lives, they reveal what are framed as their vulnerabilities.
The cycle of evoked and then frustrated desire for recognition can lead to volatile fan behavior. This was evident within the My Brother, My Brother and Me community when fan dissatisfaction with the direction of The Adventure Zone led to criticism directed at one of the hosts, Travis McElroy. Fans, feeling a sense of personal connection, reacted strongly when they felt let down, using their perceived intimacy to fuel their critique.
Early analyses of parasociality, like Horton and Wohl’s, often portrayed fans as passive recipients of media manipulation. Similarly, contemporary critiques often blame creators and platforms for exploiting vulnerable fans. Such analyses often suggest top-down solutions, like shaming creators into adopting healthier practices.
However, this perspective underestimates the agency and critical engagement of fans themselves. Fan spaces, while centered on creators, can be genuine communities. Fan creativity in art, fiction, and criticism is substantial. Furthermore, fan communities are often self-aware and critical of parasocial dynamics. The term “parasociality” itself has gained traction within fandom, used to analyze fan-creator dynamics and community behavior. Many fan communities actively caution against the pitfalls of parasocial relationships.
You support the creator because that’s what friends do, and the creator responds in the language of friendship.
Despite the potential for community and self-awareness within fandoms, even these spaces can be deceptively unsatisfying. Online platforms present a skewed view of community, where engagement appears widespread. However, the vast majority of online participants are lurkers, passively observing without actively contributing. Seemingly vibrant fan communities are often parasocial relationships layered upon parasocial relationships: lurkers passively consume the active engagement of a smaller, more visible group of super-fans.
This reality deviates from the early promise of the internet as a democratic space for open dialogue and peer-to-peer growth. Instead, it often resembles observing a private conversation, unable to truly participate. The prevalence of parasocial media highlights a broader parasocial dynamic inherent in the internet itself. Social media platforms can reduce even genuine friendships to parasocial interactions: scrolling through curated images of acquaintances while passively observing from the sidelines.
Many of us now curate our online presence as if hosting our own personality show, crafting an image of friendly engagement. We address the camera, adopt a conversational tone, and mimic gestures of friendship, cueing observers to feel personally addressed. However, this performance is often directed at an idealized self-image or a projected online persona. Parasocial media is not the root problem, but a symptom of a deeper yearning for belonging within societal structures that struggle to provide it. We are left scrolling through enticing, fleeting, one-sided interactions that capture our attention but rarely fulfill the fundamental human need to be genuinely seen, known, and connected as individuals, as true friends.
