Why are we so obsessed with 50-part storytimes?

Since the content creator @reesamteesa posted a 50-part storytime series on the Chinese video platform at the beginning of the year, there has been a real boom in content. Some are about old toxic relationships, others about star dramas (including Central Cee), but despite being broken into dozens of parts, they manage to accumulate hundreds of millions of views. The format is not innovative, indeed, it has deep roots: from Emily Dickinson's novels to Orson Welles' radio series, to Hollywood sitcoms, episodic media have always fascinated. Recently, however, we have witnessed a serious TV series crisis, highlighted by an overproduction of poor-quality content, and long waits for new seasons of the most beloved titles (such as Stranger Things and Euphoria). All this goes hand in hand with a bigger problem, the inability to maintain concentration which has made having ADHD a commonplace. The 50-part storytimes, capable of gathering thousands of views on TikTok, perfectly embody the current reality of the entertainment world: the invasion of popcorn content. It used to be customary to sit passively for hours in front of the television to watch the new weekly episode of your favorite series, whereas now it seems almost impossible to consume media lasting more than ten minutes. Perhaps, however, it is simply the format that no longer attracts as it once did. With the advent of TikTok, we are increasingly accustomed to interacting with audio-video media quickly and actively - you can like, comment, and share. The more engaging the video, the more it attracts. Whether it's our passion for gossip or the feeling of being on FaceTime with a friend, we are completely obsessed with storytimes divided into countless parts.

The pioneer of multi-part storytimes was Tareasa Johnson, who in her ultra-viral series called “Who TF Did I Marry?” recounted, in about fifty episodes, her love story with her ex-husband, nicknamed Legion, from their meeting to their divorce. The series included 52 parts uploaded over three days and reached a total of 122 million views. Despite each video being 5 to 10 minutes long, the series amassed an extraordinary following, with comments from thousands of users. It may have been the sense of community or the chaotic setting, but this format managed to be loved by the algorithm to the point that it was no longer necessary to search for the profile, as the videos would directly appear on the For You Page.

In the following months, many creators rode the wave, but the phenomenon only exploded when American influencer Brooke Schofield posted a series of 16 parts about her toxic relationship with the (apparently) Australian singer Clinton Kane. In this series, the influencer explained that Kane had faked his family's death to become famous, pretended to be Australian when he is Burmese, lied about his age and, the icing on the cake, cheated on her with numerous girls. The series reached nearly 140 million views across its parts, but the dispute between the two doesn't end there, as the singer then posted a series of 26 videos to justify himself. Public reactions to these two versions were completely opposite: Schofield gained approval and esteem for addressing difficult topics regarding a toxic relationship, receiving support from other influencers who shared their experiences with the singer-songwriter. Kane, on the other hand, was accused of manipulation and gaslighting, even on his version of the facts, as his arguments mainly concerned semantics and minor details.

The most recent, and also the shortest of all, series concerns the relationship between English rapper Central Cee and influencer Madeline Argy. The topic has become hot in recent days after Madeline posted a five-part series on her TikTok account in which she accused Central Cee of cheating on her with rapper Ice Spice and trapping her in a marketing scheme to promote the rapper's new single without her consent. The couple, who had been together since 2021, recently split after the musical collaboration between Central Cee and Ice Spice. The relationship between Argy and the rapper had long been turbulent and disapproved by the influencer's community, to the point that Madeline's management had asked her not to be seen publicly with the ex anymore. “I only realized it when photos I had asked not to be released were published; I was simply a pawn in his PR stunt,” the influencer commented in one of the videos, which reached almost 180 million views and 9 million likes.

The strength of storytime is the active experience of the viewer, unlike TV series, traditionally considered passive media. Often, a TV product becomes “cult” thanks to social engagement, as evidenced by the massive comments from viewers on X during broadcasts: think of the nostalgic #EuphoriaSunday or the “holy week” of the Sanremo Festival. However, it is rare for traditional media to achieve the same engagement rate that thousands of TikToks manage to get daily. Storytimes actively involve viewers, both through comments and scrolling, equally highlighting both the observer and the creators. The intimacy of those who post the video is enticing for both the viewer and the algorithm, the perfect combination to build a loyal and active community—an essential aspect for those who earn through the video platform. With the “creator fund,” the service offered by TikTok that allows users to profit from posted videos, every second, every follower, and every public action affects the creators' finances. The results of storytimes speak for themselves: during the week of the drama between Kane and Schofield, the influencer gained over 400,000 followers on Chinese social media. If traditional media knew how to take up the challenge of new platforms, we might see the return of sitcoms, but this time in 9:16 format.