Back in the day, fame had to be earned. You had to ski faster than everyone else (or a hundredth of a second slower, as all Finns know), write better than anyone else, or lead a country in a way that left a mark on history. Or, alternatively, fail so spectacularly that people would still be talking about it decades later.
In the era of Ronald Reagan, publicity wasn’t a hobby – it was a consequence. Today, it’s a profession.
The modern celebrity hasn’t necessarily done anything remarkable. They haven’t won Olympic gold, written a great novel, or invented new technology. They’re visible. And that’s enough. In fact, it’s more than enough. We live in a time when fame no longer requires substance – an empty box with a shiny label is sufficient.
Social media has “democratized” fame. It sounds nice, but in practice it means anyone can rise to prominence for no particular reason. You don’t have to be exceptional – you just have to be visible often enough. Preferably a little loud, a little irritating, and completely tireless in producing more content.
At the turn of the millennium, people still asked: why is this person famous?
Now the answer is: because everyone else knows who they are.
We see the same pattern over and over again. Someone emerges from a single moment: one controversy, one reality TV appearance, or one viral video. After that, they’re everywhere: interviews, podcasts, headlines. Not because they’ve done anything meaningful, but because they’re already visible. Visibility creates more visibility, and before long no one even remembers how it started – only that the person is famous.
It’s as if there’s some kind of collective agreement, except no one remembers signing it. We like to think we choose who we follow and what we care about. In reality, that choice has already been made for us.
Who rises into view is not random. Algorithms elevate, algorithms recycle, and attention compounds as media outlets – increasingly fueled by social media – latch onto emerging trends. One interview leads to another, one headline to the next. Eventually, an “phenomenon” takes shape – something no one consciously chose, yet everyone continues to feed.
So who creates a celebrity? The audience clicking along or the system deciding what gets shown in the first place? The honest answer is: neither on its own. It’s a machine we participate in, but don’t control.
We don’t follow celebrities because they move or inspire us. We follow what we’re shown, often enough, long enough.
Fame creates the famous. Today’s celebrity is famous because they are famous.
And perhaps the greatest irony is that ordinary has become the new extraordinary: “Look – just a completely normal person!”
Averageness is now a brand. Everyday life is content. A cup of coffee, a gym selfie, and a half-formed opinion are enough to build a personal brand as long as they’re packaged in the right format at the right time. And if nothing happens, a little provocation will do. The algorithms will take care of the rest.
But perhaps the biggest shift isn’t in who becomes visible – it’s in what we ourselves consider valuable.
When attention itself becomes the primary currency, content turns into a byproduct. It no longer matters what is said, as long as something is said, preferably something that triggers a strong reaction. Quiet expertise, long-term work, and genuine knowledge make for poor entertainment. They don’t scale, and they don’t generate clicks.
So here we are: in a world where fame no longer follows meaning – it replaces it.
The real problem isn’t that these kinds of celebrities exist.
The problem is that we create them.