There’s something magnetic about the wild, frenetic energy of content creators like Mr. Beast. Each video is a spectacle, bigger and bolder than the last, perfectly engineered to capture the ever-shifting tides of online attention. It’s an extraordinary model that works for many – viewers who crave stimulation, creators who thrive on the thrill of outdoing themselves, and platforms that feast on every new click, every like, every share. But when I think about what it means to create, to leave behind something of value, that world of viral shock and endless pursuit of a higher “aha” moment isn’t for me.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing inherently flawed about the hustle of building content that grabs attention. It’s an art in itself, and for some, it’s the perfect expression of creativity. But for me, creation is less about the next hit of dopamine and more about peeling back layers of experience, one word, one thought at a time. It’s about soul work. And soul work doesn’t play well in the space where the only metric is the size of your latest explosion – whether that explosion is literal or metaphorical.
This is where my approach diverges, because my aim isn’t to beat my own numbers with every piece of content. Instead, I focus on something far more internal: leaving behind a legacy that’s steeped in depth, thought, and sincerity. Content creation, to me, is an intensely personal endeavor. It’s not a race to build the next viral phenomenon, but a journey of self-expression and an effort to document ideas that reflect my values, experiences, and beliefs. And legacy – real legacy as I see it – doesn’t hinge on how many people I reach in a week, a month, or even a year. It’s about touching lives in a meaningful way, regardless of how many or how few.
Personally, I think there’s a trap in the constant escalation that platforms and algorithms feed on. It’s not just that it becomes exhausting; it also starts to feel like chasing a shadow, always fleeting, never quite within reach. For creators like Mr. Beast, the magic lies in the game itself: outdoing your last act, shocking your audience into giving you their attention once again. And in many ways, it’s thrilling for the audience, too – who does not want to see how high the bar can go. But at what cost? At some point, the constant ratcheting up of shock and awe becomes unsustainable. You’re no longer telling your own story; you’re simply reacting to the pressure to top yourself. And that’s a pressure I’m not interested in shouldering.
For me, content is a form of reflection. It’s a space where I can be candid, vulnerable even, without needing to worry about the views, the shares, or the subscriptions. I don’t want to create out of necessity to maintain a certain image or to feed a machine that never rests. My contributions, while humble, are built from a place of intentionality. I’m not aiming to be the loudest voice in the room; I’m looking to be my thoughtful self, the most authentic I can be. If that means my work doesn’t go viral or doesn’t spark the same level of engagement, that’s fine. The trade-off is worth it, because what I do create will resonate with the people who need it the most.
In many ways, the difference lies in the purpose behind the work. For some, it’s about the thrill of creating larger-than-life experiences that capture the imagination and shock the senses. That’s a perfectly valid approach, and there’s certainly an audience for it. But I see my role as something a little quieter, maybe even slower. I’m not trying to shout above the noise; I’m trying to find people who are looking for moments of calm in that noise, people who are ready to sit with a thought, an idea, and let it marinate. I don’t want the high that comes with outpacing myself; I want the quiet satisfaction of knowing that I’ve put something out into the world that I believe has meaning and substance. That I can both defend, and take pride in.
Content, for me, is a craft. It’s more than just entertainment on steroids, more than just a quick hit of novelty or shock value. It’s the slow burn of ideas, experiences, and reflections. It’s the unhurried process of peeling back layers, exposing something real, something honest. And while there’s a market for the sensational, I believe there’s also a place for content that doesn’t compete with the chaos but rather offers a respite from it. I have an audience in mind, and that audience is not looking to be thrilled, but to be inspired.
That’s not to say I look down on creators who take a different approach. There’s a beauty to the variety of voices and styles that exist online, and there’s room for all of it – whether it’s the spectacle-driven world of Mr. Beast or the quieter, more introspective corners of the internet where I find myself more at home. But the key for me is staying true to the reasons I started creating in the first place: not to be seen, but to be understood. Not to chase the next high, but to build something enduring, something that, I believe, will outlast the trends and the algorithms.
At the end of the day, content creation should feel like an extension of who you are. And for me, that means creating without the pressure to constantly outdo myself, without the need to turn every video or post into a spectacle. I am not making a case that the content should not be “exciting”, I am just aiming to excite a different demographics. I want to build something more lasting, more thoughtful, more permanent, more me. It may not bring the same rush of instant fame or attention, but it will bring something far more valuable – a legacy that speaks to who I am, what I stand for, and what I hope to leave behind.
In that way, I don’t want to be Mr. Beast. I want to be me, creating on my terms, in my own way, for those who want to engage with me. And that, for me, is enough.