Fandom used to be simple. You loved something, you bought the toy, you maybe wrote a letter to a magazine. Today? It’s a global, digital machine—and we’re all cogs in it. The “digital flock” is every fan who engages online. Creators make content; consumers digest it. But the line between us has blurred. Henry Jenkins saw this coming: fans no longer just consume; they negotiate, play, and retell. We’ve gained unprecedented control over our own narratives. But that control comes with a cost.
Social media platforms are designed to capture your attention and turn it into profit. Shoshana Zuboff calls it “surveillance capitalism”—your emotional reactions are the product. Fear and anger are the most potent triggers because they activate our fight-or-flight response, keeping us scrolling longer. Algorithms amplify divisive content because it generates engagement. And engagement means ad revenue.
This isn’t just theory. It’s why Star Wars YouTube is dominated by outrage. Channels like “Geeks + Gamers” and “Star Wars Theory” built massive followings by attacking new productions, often pivoting from praise to criticism when they realised outrage paid better. The #NotMyStarWars hashtag, the harassment of Kelly Marie Tran and Gina Carano—these aren’t just fan disagreements. They’re the logical byproduct of a system that rewards toxicity.
This online negativity can be crushing while every face-to-face interaction I’ve had with fellow fans has been warm, even when we disagree. The toxicity lives in the digital space, where anonymity strips away empathy. That’s why I sign my emails “Vincent”—to remind people there’s a human behind the screen. Because in the digital flock, it’s easy to forget we’re talking to people.
This post is adapted from my doctorate research on the intersection of religiosity and fandom.