So Your Kid Wants to Be a Twitch Streamer

My son and I were out for a walk when he told me he wanted to be a streamer when he grows up. He’s 11. I instantly grew a long and bushy beard.

“Son,” I said, “there are many things to know before you can stream.”

“Father,” he said, “you have already told me these things. You have told me that I must learn to use OBS, the Open Broadcaster Software, and become familiar with the Twitch community guidelines. You have told me that I must set up my ‘scenes’ ahead of time and make sure that my room is acoustically balanced before I spend too much on microphones. I know I can do all of that. And I believe that the people of the world wish to watch me play Luigi’s Mansion 3.”

“Beloved child,” I said, “I’ve spent a lifetime producing content for the internet, and I have seen the streamers come and go. I have watched the baking streams, the synthesizer and Eurorack streams, the piano skills streams, the headphone aficionado streams, the antique toy restoration streams—and, yes, the makeup and gaming streams, with their hundreds of millions of views. I have seen bakers stare into the camera in anguish and say, ‘There is a terrible problem in the fondant community.’ These things I have witnessed and more. So I would not have you become a streamer. But if you must, I will teach you about the Three Questions of Streaming.”

“I await your counsel,” said my son, realistically.

“First question: What are your brands?”

I could see that my son was confused.

“Well, I like Nintendo—”

“No, my Beloved Pumpkin. You may think you are playing a video game on the internet. But that is an illusion. In truth you are a tiny data point at the intersection of vast brands. And you must give the brands what they want.”

“What is that?”

“Transactions. When you start a stream, a transaction is taking place inside of Twitch, which is within Amazon. When a person sends you a message in the stream, that is also a transaction. When you connect to a server and start co-op play of an FPS, that is a transaction. For every transaction, some data is logged. For every bit of data, another ad can be targeted. What gaming chair do you use? What mouse? What supplements do you take to keep you awake? What beverage do you drink?”

“I like Mountain Dew Spark Raspberry Lemonade.”

“I pray that one day you will not. But look inside the can, beyond the neon-pink ichor. You want that beverage. But when you are a streamer, that beverage wants things from you. It wants you to drive transactions. And what happens when we drive transactions? I sense your befuddlement, so I will tell you: We monetize.”

“But Father ... What if I don’t want to monetize transactions?”

“Then throw away your devices and dive into the sea. But even there you will find server farms. They put them in the ocean to cool them. And those servers, too, are processing transactions, in barnacle-encrusted undersea data centers.”

“So if I monetize ... I can make a living as a streamer?”

“No, Son. Not at all. You can drive transactions that brands can monetize, but self-monetization requires far more work. For that, you must place a link in your bio.”

“And where does that link lead?”

“To many, many places. You could write a book of tips and tricks. You could record birthday shout-outs on Cameo. You could resell the goods that brands send you. You could train others to become streamers so that they might have a taste of your success. You could promote cryptocurrencies, at least when bitcoin is high. You could sell ads for mattresses on your podcast.”

“Must I do a podcast too?”

“Everyone must do a podcast. And of course, while I hate to say it, there is Patreon.”

He looked at the ground. “But these things have nothing to do with Luigi’s Mansion.”

“That is the truth, and you must accept it. Now we come to the third and most important Question.” I paused for effect. “Are you Face or are you Hands?”

He looked at me, waiting for me to go on. “There are two kinds of influencers. There are Faces, who show up on camera, even if in the corner, as they stream. They exist in the moment and talk for hours. They sometimes become very famous, and if they can survive being famous on the internet, sometimes they can monetize themselves and become wealthy. Hands influencers, however—they record and edit. They show you things. They are deliberate. They put the camera above the table and you see them at work, their knowledge and skills. You imagine your hands doing the same work. They can teach you to cook, play piano, do calligraphy, crochet, and fix old toys—and, yes, how to make Luigi stockpile golden bones to get one-ups. You may watch them for years and never see their faces. They add tables of contents to their videos. They are your teachers, not your friends. They command respect.”

“Faces are more famous,” he said.

“When they are successful, that is true,” I said. “But Hands are happier. They are rarely in a situation where they must look at the camera and apologize for having relations with another streamer’s spouse, or for watching deepfaked pornography of another streamer, or for saying racist things while they play videogames. Faces must always apologize. Hands need never say they are sorry.”

“But my favorite streamers are Faces!”

“There is a joke—you’re old enough to understand this now—about a statue of a man and a woman sculpted in an embrace, brought to life by a mischievous god for one day. But when he brought them to life they did not sleep together, as the god expected. Instead they caught pigeons and pooped on them.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Perhaps I am not doing justice to the joke. The point is, your viewers will see you like a pigeon sees a statue. They will poop on you with emoji, in forums, in comments, in chat. They will project their unhappiness onto you, and you will need to sit there radiating your love for them. Eventually you will crack into pieces, and when you attempt to express how sad you are, they will mock you and tell you to kill yourself, and you will no longer be given as many soft drinks to promote. So if you must stream, son, then be Hands.”

We were almost home. A man walked by with an expensive dog.

“I will take the Three Questions to heart,” said the boy.

My beard grayed even further. “Sweetest progeny,” I said finally, “I don’t know if I am truly helpful. I fear the Three Questions will not be enough for the future that awaits you. When you are ready to make this your living, it will be trivial to change your face, your voice, your apparent age—many aspects of your being—using machine-learning and style-transfer technologies. Perhaps you’ll control an avatar that has some faked intelligence of its own, so that rather than being a streamer, you’ll be more like a puppeteer. But what if millions of others do this too? Will the brands simply spin up their own fake influencers in order to drive transactions? I worry, my boy. How will people like us—real, human people—monetize for brands in this uncertain future?”

“Don’t worry, Papa,” said my son. “I will start now, and I will work hard. When we get home, I will play Plants vs. Zombies: Battle for Neighborville, and I would like to experiment with the Elgato lighting rig you bought at the beginning of the pandemic for conference calls but never used. I will stream in my heart all day and night, until the brands take notice and I can add a link to my bio and monetize.”

I sighed. An Amazon truck was backing up, cawing like a crow. “But are you sure,” I asked, “that you wouldn’t consider sports medicine?”