There is No Such Thing as Honest Content.

“Content” is a strange word. As it’s used today, it can mean practically anything that fills a screen, be it a tweet, a blog post, a podcast episode, or a ten-second video loop. It’s a catchall term, ran over to near meaninglessness. But if you stretch back the layers, you’ll find that content isn’t just meaningless. It’s something more intentional: a veneer, a managed surface.

Take the word itself. Originally, “content” referred to what’s contained within something. It had weight, a sense of fullness. Today, that weight has been hollowed out. When content creators or marketers say “content,” they’re talking about filler for the void. There’s a reason why there’s no real notion of “good” content—it’s defined by its ability to perform. The thing itself is incidental; it’s the metrics it generates that count. Content is judged not on its insight but on its engagement—on whether it hooks, holds, and stirs up activity, regardless of substance.

If that sounds a little conspiratorial, it’s because it is. Content is carefully manufactured. Articles are designed to match keywords, not thoughts; social media posts are crafted to mimic conversations, not to feed them. Search engine optimization is at the heart of most writing published online. The goal isn’t to inform but to be seen. Look no further than Google’s own advice to “write for people, not search engines.” Yet we know exactly why that message exists: too much writing is, in fact, designed for the latter.

Even Google has acknowledged the trap: John Mueller from Google Search Central warned against treating SEO like a game, as it risks turning writing into a hollow exercise (Mueller, Google Search Central Blog). But “write for people” is a myth within the content industry. What sounds like a helpful reminder is, in truth, a contradiction. Writing for an algorithm makes “writing for people” nearly impossible.

The Performance of “Authenticity”

Social media has only deepened this hollowness. Take the kind of “relatable” storytelling seen on LinkedIn or Twitter: the casual anecdotes, the orchestrated vulnerabilities. CEOs and influencers alike seem to have embraced a formula: share a “personal” experience, ideally one that ends with a lesson or a twist. The more they reveal, the more it feels like they’re hiding something. Why? Because it’s structured. What should be human feels choreographed. “Authenticity” has become a brand in itself, a way to package vulnerability to make it palatable, productive.

At its core, this is a content marketing dressed as honesty. When every story is optimized to trigger engagement, even the rawest moments begin to feel artificial. Baudrillard described something like this in Simulacra and Simulation: the simulacrum doesn’t hide the truth; rather, it’s a truth hiding the absence of truth (Baudrillard, Simulacra and Simulation). Content has become this simulacrum: a copy of a copy, until the original fades, indistinct, irrelevant.

The irony here is that this “authentic” veneer is less real than a sales pitch. At least a commercial is up-front about what it wants from you. Content is more slippery, its motives more veiled, couched in “personal stories” and “brand narratives.” Yet we see the intent because it’s repetitive, predictable. The average viral post isn’t unique; it’s crafted to mimic success in format and tone, a careful rendition of previous success.

The “Content Creator” Paradox

Creators themselves are caught in this bind. Once, a creator might have simply been a writer, a painter, a thinker. Today, “content creator” encapsulates any digital output, regardless of the craft or message. Creators optimize for visibility, not for substance, as they are continually reminded that their worth is measured by clicks, likes, and views. The algorithms decide who is seen, which means the creator is forever on shifting ground, adjusting to rules that make expression secondary to exposure.

Content’s role, then, is not to communicate ideas but to sustain platforms. Eli Pariser’s “filter bubble” theory is a perfect explanation for this: the algorithm isn’t there to broaden your view but to reinforce what you’re already inclined to engage with (Pariser, The Filter Bubble). Content doesn’t introduce new ideas; it repeats what’s effective, what’s safe, until it begins to resemble a closed loop. It maintains an echo chamber.

If content is inherently dishonest, it’s because it asks for your attention under the guise of giving something meaningful back. It promises information but functions to perpetuate itself. That’s why it’s so rare to find something truly original on most digital platforms—it’s all orbiting the same few predictable patterns.

The Disappearance of Meaning

Maybe the biggest irony is that, for all its claims to reach audiences, content does very little to move us. Despite the flood of information, many readers come away feeling strangely empty. Each click, each scroll brings us more surface, more noise, but no greater understanding. Content may perform well on metrics, but it doesn’t tend to make much of a mark. This is the ultimate cost of prioritizing engagement: we end up with content that merely exists, designed to sustain the cycle without filling it with anything substantial.

So, if “good content” feels like an oxymoron, it’s because it is. Good content is art, literature, genuine inquiry—anything but “content.” Content’s purpose is to keep us here, in this perpetual now, forever consuming but rarely truly satisfied.