There’s a saying that bad publicity is still publicity. The idea is simple: as long as people are talking about you, you have power. Visibility equals value. Companies, influencers, and even ordinary people know this. In a world where attention is currency, it doesn’t matter whether that attention is positive or negative — what matters is being seen.
But in the era of cancel culture, where moral outrage can destroy reputations overnight, does that old saying still hold true? Can one still afford to gamble with public perception when a single misstep can lead to digital exile? Or perhaps the rules have changed — not because people have become more forgiving, but because outrage itself has become part of the show.
Once, a scandal could make someone seem daring, rebellious even. Celebrities in the 1990s and early 2000s survived infamy because controversy fed curiosity. Think of Madonna’s provocations or Eminem’s lyrical battles — their careers thrived on rebellion. But social media shifted the landscape. Now, every act is documented, dissected, and judged in real time. The spectacle never ends.
Yet, people continue to stage conflicts — public feuds, emotional outbursts, even apologies that feel rehearsed. Some are “leaked” conveniently close to a product launch. Others involve “accidental” revelations that align suspiciously well with promotional timelines. And the most disturbing part? These conflicts are often not real. They are manufactured dramas, designed for clicks, comments, and attention.
In 2021, a study by the University of Technology Sydney found that social media outrage cycles are now shorter, but more intense. People express moral anger faster, but move on just as quickly — creating what researchers call “flash moralities.” What this means is that public shaming has become not only expected, but profitable. Engagement drives revenue, and even outrage is a form of engagement.
So when someone says, “all publicity is good publicity,” they’re not exactly wrong — but they’re not right either. It’s a dangerous half-truth. Because yes, the person who creates chaos gets noticed. But in today’s world, the same attention can also turn into a digital mob.
And when these stunts involve innocent people — children, family members, colleagues — the consequences extend far beyond the intended audience. There are influencers who have publicly argued only to reveal later that the “fight” was planned as part of a campaign. Others have used minors as props for sympathy, crafting a narrative that manipulates the public’s emotions. The lines between performance and authenticity blur until it’s hard to tell where the acting ends and the damage begins.
Psychologist Sherry Turkle, in her book Alone Together (2011), warns that social media creates “a performance culture rather than a conversation culture.” We are no longer interacting — we are curating personas. And once everything becomes a performance, truth loses its weight.
The impact isn’t just psychological; it’s social. Audiences begin to assume that every tear is strategic, every breakdown scripted. Sincerity becomes suspect. Genuine pain is dismissed as manipulation. When people confess, we question their timing. When they apologize, we assess whether it’s for redemption or rebranding.
Even the media’s moral outrage has become entertainment. Outrage trends, sells, and resets. Researchers at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT, 2018) found that false stories spread six times faster than true ones on social media, mainly because they evoke stronger emotions. The more shocking or divisive a story appears, the more likely it is to be shared. The result is a system that rewards exaggeration and punishes nuance.
And yet — we, the audience, feed this system. We say we hate drama, but we watch it anyway. We criticize performative apologies, but we replay them. We claim to value truth, but we engage more with the sensational. Every like, share, and angry comment extends the lifespan of the spectacle. In a sense, the people staging the conflict aren’t the only actors. We are their chorus, their co-performers in a digital theatre of contradictions.
Sociologist Jean Baudrillard described this phenomenon decades ago, calling it hyperreality — a world where the distinction between reality and simulation collapses. In Simulacra and Simulation (1981), he argues that modern media creates illusions so convincing that they become more real than the truth itself. We are now living his prediction. The feuds are scripted, but we react as though they are real. The emotions are staged, but our responses are genuine.
And this cycle comes with consequences. It breeds cynicism, mistrust, and fatigue. When everyone is selling something — a brand, a lifestyle, a persona — even authenticity becomes a marketing strategy.
Worse, it numbs our empathy. When minors are dragged into controversies, their faces edited into content and their lives publicly debated, we scroll past as if it were just another headline. We forget that behind the screen, someone’s childhood or dignity may be at stake.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: society rewards this behaviour. It rewards virality, even if it’s harmful. It rewards visibility, even when it’s exploitative. The system is built to privilege noise over nuance, visibility over virtue. And because the system is profitable, it keeps running.
It’s easy to point fingers at those who stage the drama — the influencers, the corporations, the politicians — but what if the problem isn’t just them? What if it’s us?
Every time we click, we reinforce a value system that prioritizes visibility above integrity. We have become complicit in the very culture we criticize. Our collective appetite for spectacle sustains the market for manipulation.
In a study from the University of Pennsylvania (2020), researchers found that reducing social media use led to measurable improvements in mood and self-esteem within just three weeks. The takeaway wasn’t merely psychological — it was moral. The less we consume artificial conflict, the more space we create for real connection.
And yet, imagine for a moment a dystopian world — not one of chaos and misinformation, but of order and “perfect optics.” A society where everyone is responsible for maintaining a “healthy image.” Where all citizens must curate positivity, harmony, and moral balance for the sake of collective well-being. Where staged conflicts are no longer chaotic, but systematically managed for public morale.
In this world, sincerity would be regulated. Outrage would be scheduled. Even grief would have to be aesthetically pleasing. Every act of kindness would be documented and shared for verification. Everyone would look happy, balanced, and productive — because the illusion of stability is mandatory.
At first glance, this world sounds utopian — a society free from online hostility. But look closer, and it becomes deeply dystopian. Authentic emotion would be outlawed if it disrupts the collective aesthetic. Vulnerability would be replaced with performative positivity. Humanity itself would be filtered until all that remains is a polished echo of what once made us real.
We are not there yet — but we’re inching closer. Every time we reward performative sincerity, we move one step toward a world where performance replaces truth. Every time we ignore exploitation because it’s “just content,” we normalise manipulation as entertainment.
So, what can we do differently?
Perhaps it starts with restraint — the act of not engaging in outrage, not rewarding manipulation, not feeding the algorithms that thrive on our reactions. We can be more discerning about what we consume, and more deliberate about what we share. We can question before we repost. We can pause before we judge.
We can also be kinder — not in the artificial, hashtag sense, but in the quiet act of giving others the space to be imperfect without spectacle.
It’s not easy to resist the pull of virality. The world rewards those who are loud, controversial, and seen. But the truth is, not everything worth saying needs to be broadcast. Some things deserve to stay private, sacred, or silent.
Publicity, at its best, can be a tool — a way to share art, ideas, and stories that matter. But when it becomes a weapon for manipulation or exploitation, it corrodes the very trust that makes connection possible.
Perhaps we’ve confused visibility with worth for too long. The real challenge now is not to be seen, but to be understood — and that can only happen when honesty is valued over optics.
So, can we do better? I believe we can.
We can start by reclaiming sincerity from spectacle. By acknowledging that truth doesn’t need an audience, and kindness doesn’t need validation. We can stop measuring value by views, and start recognising it in quiet integrity.
Because at the end of the day, the goal isn’t to trend. It’s to matter.
And that difference — between being seen and being worth seeing — may just be what saves us from becoming the very performance we’ve been watching.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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