Chapter 1: The Rise of "Content"

I distinctly recall the first time the term "content" entered my vocabulary. It was during the late 1990s, amid the euphoric boom of the dot-com era. Companies were launching their websites, embracing the latest digital trends. Their goal was to create "sticky" sites—platforms that would keep visitors engaged. This required a wealth of captivating material, leading to the commissioning of articles, photos, animations, and even short films, despite the fact that many Americans were still grappling with slow dial-up connections.

For a brief period, it seemed like a golden age for writers, photographers, and illustrators. Compensation for creative work was abundant. However, what troubled me was the language being employed. All these diverse cultural outputs—writing, photography, animation—were being lumped together under one umbrella term: "content."

As in, "We need some content for this site!"

A friend from a web-design agency would call me up on my landline—this was 1999, after all—asking if I could recommend any writers because they had a new client in need of "content."

From the very outset, I found the term "content" disheartening. I could understand the rationale behind its usage; it offered a convenient way to refer to various forms of expression—be it prose, photography, music, or drama. However, the term implies that these distinct cultural forms are interchangeable, which is a significant oversight. The priority at the time was merely to acquire material in bulk to fill the website, with quality taking a back seat.

The deeper issue is that the term "content" reflects a corporate and technological mindset that overlooks the richness of human expression. Tech enthusiasts revel in developing publishing tools and social media platforms. They find joy in creating efficient systems for storing and retrieving data. Yet, they often view the actual cultural products produced through these systems as trivial.

For them, the hard work lies in developing the technology, not in the creativity involved in crafting narratives, jokes, or visual art. This perspective is not only narrow-minded but also fundamentally dehumanizing.

Words and their meanings differ immensely in terms of human experience. A 2,000-word memoir about the anxiety of starting kindergarten serves a vastly different purpose than a technical guide on Photoshop. Each piece occupies a unique space in our emotional landscape. However, from a technological viewpoint, these texts might seem equivalent simply because they share similar character counts and storage requirements.

This reductionist approach flattens the rich tapestry of human culture, stripping away the essence that makes each form unique and valuable. Corporations and tech giants thrive on this conflation, as it diminishes the perceived worth of artistic endeavors. By labeling everything—be it a documentary on climate change, a child's first steps captured on camera, a lengthy book review, or a meme—as "content," it creates the illusion that all these creations hold equal value, which is detrimental.

Since 1999, the term "content" has seeped into mainstream discussions about culture. Online editors and influencers frequently refer to their work as "creating content," diminishing the artistry involved. Even Hollywood has succumbed to this terminology, referring to its film and television productions as mere "content."

The recent Writers Guild of America (WGA) strike highlights the negative consequences of this mindset. Executives sought to replace significant aspects of scriptwriting with AI-generated "content," aiming to retain ownership of the creative output. This devaluation of the meticulous work that goes into writing scripts is alarming and serves to undermine the artistry involved.

While I have pondered this issue for some time, it seems the tide may be turning. The WGA strike represents a formidable pushback against the trivialization of writers' contributions. Numerous bloggers have spoken out against the term, and Jason Bailey's insightful article in the New York Times further underscores how "content" diminishes the value of artistic work.

Emma Thompson eloquently criticized the term at a recent conference, stating, "To hear people talk about 'content' makes me feel like the stuffing inside a sofa cushion." She argued that referring to creative work as "content" is disrespectful to artists and their craft.

So where does this leave us?

While we may not be able to convince corporations or tech professionals to abandon the term "content," we can certainly choose to stop using it ourselves. I urge you to commit to never using the word "content" when discussing human creativity and artistry. This shift in language compels us to articulate what we truly mean, allowing us to appreciate the nuances of each form of expression.

For instance, if you're discussing blog posts, call them that. If it's a piece of fiction, say so. The more precise we are in our terminology, the better we can appreciate what we are discussing.

If you must refer to a variety of expressions collectively, consider using the term "culture." While broad, it carries a weight that "content" lacks and respects the richness of human creativity.

Addendum: After sharing these thoughts, some designer colleagues pointed out that "content" plays a specific role in their work, and they can't easily abandon the term. I understand this perspective; my concern lies more with its use in casual, mainstream discussions where it diminishes the value of artistic endeavors.

What you've just read could be categorized in various ways: an essay, a blog post, a rant, or an article. But please, let's refrain from calling it "content."

The first video, "Stop Calling Me CaseOh," delves into the frustrations surrounding the label "content" and advocates for a more respectful vocabulary.

In the second video, "STOP CALLING ME!," the speaker emphasizes the importance of valuing artistic work beyond the superficial label of "content."