Breyer believes social media is “the fastest path to make a difference.” Her content focuses on empowering young women, challenging hookup culture, and building confidence. To her, this is meaningful work, even if the path is uncertain.
These stories represent two sides of an economy that’s reshaped how an entire generation thinks about work. Walk into any middle school classroom and ask about dream careers. You won’t hear “astronaut” or “doctor” anymore. Instead, 32% of Gen Alpha list “YouTuber” as their top career choice, with another 21% aspiring to be TikTok creators.
The numbers behind this shift tell a complicated story. The creator economy is projected to nearly double from $250 billion to $500 billion by 2027. Yet of the 207 million creators worldwide, only 4% make enough to do it full-time.
The platforms themselves are the clear winners. YouTube made roughly $20 billion from creator-generated content in 2024 (35% of their total revenue). Scott Galloway, the NYU business professor and tech critic, calls it plainly: “The Creator Economy is a myth for most. Platforms like YouTube and Instagram rake in billions, while creators struggle to make ends meet.”
But beyond the economics, there’s a deeper shift happening in how people approach creative work. Yeraldina Marques sees a fundamental distinction that often gets lost: “Being an artist is completely different from being a creator. The difference is in the purpose. Artists create out of personal, introspective need; many creators are driven by exposure and reaching personal goals, usually related to consumption.”
The ecosystem demands constant output. Breyer describes the energy required: “Videos take so much energy. Speaking authentically isn’t easy. Sometimes I make ten videos in a row, sometimes none at all.” The work is also isolating: “You don’t have an office to go to and no one is telling you to work.”
The entire system runs on a currency most people don’t realize they’re spending: attention.
Unlike money, attention is deeply personal, finite, and is tied to identity. When it becomes commodified, creators aren’t just selling their work – they’re selling themselves. Every vulnerability shared, every authentic moment documented, every piece of their lives becomes potential content. The currency is mispriced, the market is winner-takes-all, and the costs aren’t measured in dollars but in the exhaustion of constantly performing for an algorithm that may never reward you.
The creator economy has undeniably democratized media, giving voice to marginalized communities and enabling new forms of entrepreneurship. But when interest in STEM careers has dropped to just 29% among Gen Z (with healthcare below 15%), and 40% of global users report feeling addicted to social media platforms, we have to ask harder questions.
The system rewards speed and visibility over depth and expertise. It optimizes for engagement rather than impact. And it’s teaching an entire generation to see attention (their own and everyone else’s) as the most valuable commodity, to be captured, measured, and monetized. I don’t want to diminish what creators like Breyer and Marques have built. There’s genuine value in their work, real communities they’ve fostered, and authentic ways they’ve turned their passions into livelihoods.
But I worry about what happens when an entire generation orients itself around this model. Not because there’s anything wrong with creator work itself, but because we’re losing something vital: the understanding that some paths require years of building expertise, impact sometimes comes slowly, and the “fastest path” isn’t always the most meaningful one.
When everyone is watching screens, performing for algorithms, chasing that lottery ticket moment, we’re not just missing out on scientists and healthcare workers. We’re abandoning the idea that some things are worth doing even when they take decades to master, even when the algorithm will never notice.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: If everyone’s playing the lottery, who’s doing the work?