Last year, Barrett Garese wrote a thought-provoking essay about the future of film, TV and the web.  When I realized my response to his post was longer than a single comment ever should be, I blogged my response on my old blog.  One week later, I relocated from Blogger to WordPress and most of my old thoughts were left behind.

Now, this week, I’ve been thinking a lot about media forms.  And as I started to write today’s post, I realized Barrett’s essay and my response are still as relevant as they were a year ago.  So I’ve republished my old post below, with a new afterword.

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As a former agent at UTA, Barrett Garese has better insight into the future of media than most of us do, and he’s blogged a fascinating essay about where he thinks film, TV and web content is headed. (In a nutshell, he believes the key is to capitalize on the inherent differences of each platform, rather than insisting on convergence.)

While reading his essay, I realized my own response would be longer than appropriate for his comment column, so I’ve posted it here. My thoughts will make more sense if you’ve read Barrett’s essay as a primer, but I think these points stand on their own as well.

I’ll Stop the World and Converge With You…

The convergence of film, TV and web is happening, but that doesn’t dilute the power of each individual experience.  Film is still film, TV is still TV, web is still web, etc.  But what this does create is a NEW possibility: the convergent format, in which content is specifically designed to either:

A) feel different across all platforms (i.e., the viewing experience is engineered to suit each specific screen size or format.  For example, producers could edit different versions of the same show by using different shots or angles — such as including more motion on TV or film, but more closeups and static shots for web and mobile.)

… or:

B) be different across all platforms (i.e., the web version of a show is completely different, while still complementary in theme, to the film or TV version.  For example, a TV series could unfold in real time, but the show’s website could post weekly 3-minute flashbacks that add context to last week’s conflicts).

Your Home Theater Is Not Actually a Theater.

Audiences anticipate different experiences based on the distribution method.

We expect to immerse ourselves in a film experience (minus the live distractions), while we expect to be distracted from the TV experience (because we’re at home). Thus, we’re already anticipating a different kind of content to be shared across those varied platforms — and when the end result doesn’t match our expectations, our engagement with that content may suffer. (Or, it may surprise us.)

We also expect a difference in on-screen quality relative to the effort it takes to obtain the image.  For example, driving to a theater at 7 PM should reward me with a higher quality experience than watching something on my phone at 3 AM.

And, we expect the content to connect with us on levels that equal our applied (and uninterrupted) attention.  Mindblowing films can’t be processed in 5 minute increments via stolen wi-fi during your lunch break, yet 3 hours in a theater had better provide you with a deeper and more profound experience than 30 consecutive episodes of Tiki Bar TV (which, it should be said, I love).

LOOK AT ME.

The biggest expense for online content should be promotions. You can create an amazing show for $5, but you’re still releasing it into a medium that A) not enough people are paying attention to, yet which is B) paradoxically flooded with crap (which may explain A).

If I were to produce a new web series (after concluding Something to Be Desired), I’d be sure that the promotional plan was in place before the first episode ever hit the web.  The days of “throwing it out there and seeing what happens” are best left to people experimenting in their own free time, not people who expect to gain the traction that validates (both artistically AND financially) their investment of time, money and effort.

Whither the Studios?

Eventually, existing corporate studio behemoths will become distribution companies that happen to have (exclusive?) contracts with production houses. Instead of producing AND distributing their own in-house content, they’ll profit from their primary assets (reach and volume) and leave the creative aspects to contracted producers — who will in turn be grateful to not have to worry about being both creative and ubiquitous at the same time.

That said, there will always be exceptions. In the long run, it’s still cheaper for Verizon to produce its own web shows than it is for them to subcontract with a production company, and it’s still more profitable for an indie prodco to bootstrap their way into self-distribution than it is for them to produce their own content but only keep a percentage of eventual revenues.

A Soap Opera Without the Soap Had Better Be a Damn Good Opera

Content producers need to rely less on advertising and more on the inherent value of the content itself. Gone are the days when content is produced as a lure to hook viewers into sitting through commercials — nor can content *be* produced under a presumed business model that eyeballs = advertising opportunities = profit.

If you cut out the middleman of advertising, what are you left with?

You’re left with an audience who’ll pay you directly for what you create — or for the experience it creates in them — rather than a vessel with holes waiting to be plugged by commercials.

This also impacts media that’s produced for traditional, large-scale distribution. Just because a show isn’t pulling in the millions of eyeballs it needs to validate its TV time slot, it doesn’t mean that show couldn’t be profitable at a lower operating cost with web-based distribution.

If I were the producers of a canceled darling like Pushing Daisies (and if I still owned the rights to that property), I would shrink the budget, post 15-20 minute episodes (or segments) online, and invite the fans to pre-pay for next season’s DVD in advance.  That initial influx of cash could be used to fund part of the upcoming season, which means the prodco isn’t scrambling to line up sponsors now and then waiting for a year-end DVD windfall to break even.

Afterword

Since Barrett and I forecast the future of web media one year ago, services like Kickstarter and Indiegogo have come to my attention.

As “crowdfunding” sources, these sites enable aspiring artists, authors, filmmakers and designers to obtain the funds necessary to launch their ideas without begging for traditional sponsorship, investors or distribution deals.  For example, filmmaker Gregory Bayne raised more than $25,000 to fuel one documentary, while author Robin Sloan nearly quadrupled his initial funding request of $3,500.

So… if we can free ourselves from the need for advertising, and if crowdfunding now makes it easier to get more complicated projects off the ground… what might the future of easily-funded, “owe-nothing” media-driven business models look like?

And, how will the media created by these new artrepreneurs change our future predictions?

Image by perreira.

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These days, everyone is desperate to be recognized as an expert.  But you don’t actually need to be an expert to get paid, and paid well.

You just need to be “above average.”

Keep It Simple, (for the) Stupid

In order to make a living, you only need one thing: the ability to solve someone else’s problem.

People are always willing to pay for what they don’t know how to (or can’t, or aren’t willing to) do for themselves.  Where we, the solution providers, often miscalculate is in figuring out how much other people actually do know.

Here’s a hint: it’s (almost) always less than you think.

At the annual PodCamp Pittsburgh “un-conference,” we offer hourlong workshops on all aspects of social media.  Without fail, the sessions we list as “Advanced” inevitably attract audiences who only have a passing familiarity with the topic, while the “Basic” sessions are full of people who’ve barely turned on a computer.

This is because all of us — instructors and pupils — overestimate the public’s actual level of capability.

The Ever-Dwindling Audience for Expertise

Who needs help in life?  Everyone.

Who has problems that “experts” in that field would classify as “entry-level” problems?  Everyone.

Who has problems that “experts” would be hard-pressed to find answers to?  Very few.

Think of the audience for your expertise as a pyramid:

• The base is comprised of people who know absolutely nothing about the topic at hand, except that they have a problem which needs to be solved (by someone else).
• At the peak are the experts who possess answers to most of the known problems.
• You’re somewhere in the middle.  But don’t worry; so is (almost) everyone else.

Thus, in order to get paid, you never need to be at the peak.  You just need to be one step above the base.  Even someone at the next-to-entry-level of topical knowledge can make a living providing solutions to the entry-level audience immediately below her.

So why does everyone so desperately claw at imaginary titles like “expert” and “guru” when all they need to be is “above average”?

Because we’re all too conceited to admit how little we actually know.

Paying God Makes Me an Angel, Doesn’t It?

There’s a bit of dialogue in the underrated film Max, in which a doctor asks his ill friend’s wife why he hasn’t come in for a diagnosis.  The wife replies, “You don’t charge enough.”

No one wants to pay for solutions from someone who’s “above average” when they could pay more for solutions from an expert.  Never mind that the solutions would be identical; being advised by an expert allows you to believe your problems are worthy of “expert attention.”

Experts are never just selling answers; they’re convincing other people that their problems are special.

But What If You Actually ARE an Expert?

There’s a difference between knowing enough about a topic to be instructive to those who don’t know much, and knowing so much about a topic that you become valuable to nearly everyone in that particular field.

If that’s you, congratulations: you can now charge like you mean it.  But you also need to be able to back up your fees with proof of relevance, or your expertise will be exposed as an illusion by the people who hold you to elevated standards.  (No wonder there’s such a premium on actual expertise, and so much perpetuated misinformation about what results should constitute “success.”)

Not sure if you’re an expert, or honest enough to admit that you’re “just” above average?  Never fear: there are always going to be more entry-level problems in the world than expert-level problems, because there will always be more entry-level people creating problems in the first place.  As an above-average solution provider, you’ll never have a shortage of work.  And by declaring yourself as such, you can avoid being saddled with the incredible responsibilities allocated to real experts.

After all, if you’re too lazy to develop actual expertise but you’d still like to charge for it, god forbid someone take you seriously enough to give you the keys to their important machinery.

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Yesterday, I said you need to be interesting if you want to get paid to be yourself.  But producing content that others willingly pay for is only one way to make a living online.

What people fail to realize is that everything you do online is part of a living resume.

As Doug Derda, the co-founder of the long-running Should I Drink That? podcast, pointed out in a comment yesterday:

you wanna know how I made money? I took what i learned at Podcamps, [and] worked on it for my podcast which eventually got me a full-time job as a social media coordinator. That’s how you make money.

So is Doug getting paid to drink beer?  No.  Is he making a living from the advertising revenue on his podcast?  No.  Instead, his expertise in creating and promoting his podcast is what opened the door for him to land a full-time job managing someone else’s media.  And that’s the job that allows him to keep funding his show.

Doug’s not alone.  Many other media producers — including yours truly — have parlayed their passions into occupations.  Just not in the romanticized way that get-rich-quick schemers might expect.

How I Got from There to Here

In 2007, social media veteran John C. Havens earned a contract to produce a series of web videos for a client.  The problem: he’s not a videographer.  But I am.

John knew of my work as the creator of Something to Be Desired, which came up during a 2006 interview he conducted with me for About.com after I organized the first PodCamp Pittsburgh.  Based on what he knew of my video experience, he brought me aboard for this particular job.  And that opportunity eventually led to me becoming the Director of Social Media for Creative Concepts LLC, who had been John’s original client.

Am I getting paid to produce STBD?  No.  Am I getting paid to organize PodCamps?  No.  But had I not produced STBD in the first place, I never would have had a reason to attend the first PodCamp in Boston, or to replicate the event in Pittsburgh, which put me on John’s radar, which led to the offer that became a long-term job.

So why aren’t more people treating their online persona as a full-time recruiter?

Monetize This

In November, a friend sent me a link to a job posting.  It was for a Director of Social Media position within a sub-office of the federal government, and its salary ($40-$50K) was the kind of number that most of the people who ask “how do I monetize my blog?” can only dream of.

Of course, the requirements for that job were also beyond the reach of most blog jockeys, who spend their days burrowing so far into their favorite niche that they can’t see the light of opportunity all around them.  Social media is a booming field, and as the examples above illustrate, legitimate employers are willing to offer legitimate money to people who understand how these tools work.

So why, in an economy where any job has to be considered rationally, is everyone still trying to become “internet famous” overnight?

One problem is that we’re still getting used to the idea of content-as-resume.  We’re still laboring under the pretense that people are either creators or they’re facilitators, artists or accountants.  Either you do, or you make.  Despite social media’s inherent ability to dissolve psychological boundaries, we’re still not comfortable allowing our preconceived labels to overlap.

Once you realize that a potential employer is as likely to contact you through your Flickr stream as they are through your LinkedIn profile, you begin to realize that everything you do online is both a statement and an opportunity.

So make no mistake: every pixel you produce is a brick in the wall of your future.

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Having now fully recovered from PodCamp Pittsburgh 4 (including two additional days of travel), I can finally sum up the entire experience in one word: necessary.

If you’re like me, you spend more time online every day than you’d like to admit (or than your significant other thinks is sane).  You create media, you consume media, you share media and you form tenuous “relationships” with people you’ve never met.  You develop a cabal of fellow Twitter users or Facebook friends, and you spend your weeks commenting on one another’s lives, actions and opinions, leading yourselves to believe that you’ve formed some kind of meaningful bond in the process.

And then, when you close your laptop, you return to your own four-walled reality without any tangible proof that anything you’ve done made a damn bit of difference to anyone.  Including you.

If Only These People EXISTED Outside of This Magic Electric Box!

What live events like PodCamp — or like this week’s BlogWorld Expo — allow us to do is transfer those intangible relationships we’ve developed online into the physical forms of friendship that we’ve come to expect and understand from our pre-web days.  Suddenly emoticons are replaced with actual smiles and sneers, body language and inflection supply the missing context from our tweets, and human beings prove themselves to be more than a collection of blog posts and Flickr tags.

We realize we are talking to human beings every day, and that we’re not getting the whole story online.  People we disagreed with turn out to be more like us than we thought, and people we look up to are revealed to have the same flaws and idiosyncracies that remind us all that we’re human.

It’s deceptively easy to think you know someone online.  And it’s even more tempting to think you can form an accurate opinion about them based on your electronic interactions.  For example, I didn’t know Steve Klabnick or Eric Williams very well “in real life” before PodCamp Pittsburgh 4, which sometimes made it difficult to keep a level head when we’d be debating politics, theology or intellectual property on Twitter.  When all you know of someone is his avatar, it’s impossible to understand who he is and why he might believe what he says.  And it’s this type of snap judgment in a world of decreasing focus that leads us to believe we know people better than we do.

And then suddenly, when you’re face to face with someone at a live event, it hits you:  we really are all in this together, and our differences are mostly a matter of opinion.  At the end of the day, we’re all just a long walk and a 649 shot away from seeing eye-to-eye — or at least from agreeing to disagree.

Because there’s more to life than snap judgments and ironclad theories.  There’s the timeless value of sharing a room with people who all have at least one thing in common, and then discovering the depth and degree of the differences.  Which is why the electricity of a live event beats the online equivalent every day of the week.

Three years ago, Pittsburgh became the second city (after Boston) to host a PodCamp.  Now, with PodCamp Pittsburgh 4 happening this weekend, I’m proud to announce that the event I helped to create has just sold out for the first time.*  But by “sell out,” I mean in terms of capacity, not ethics.

As you may have noticed recently, I have a big problem with people exploiting social media channels (as well as exploiting people) to make money and build reputations through dishonesty.  The basic tenet of social media is that “your voice matters.”  But, at the risk of coming off like an elitist prick, I’ll add one caveat to that statement: “Your voice matters as long as you’re not a valueless asshole.”

Hence, if we’ve done our jobs as organizers properly, here are 10 Things You WON’T Be Learning at PodCamp Pittsburgh 4:

• Hate Speech: The Internet Makes It Easy!
• How to Be an Anonymous Racist Douchebag
• Sexism: It’s Okay!
• How to Steal Other People’s Work for Fun and Profit
• Why You Should Join a Multi-Level Marketing Scheme
• Death Panels Aren’t So Bad: Why Old People Don’t Belong Online
• How to Organize a Fringe Group Militia Using LinkedIn
• Gaming the System for Numbers So You Can Feel Loved
• Who Needs Literacy When You Can Have a Blog Instead?
• Stalking Your Ex: How Social Media Can Bring You Together (Again)

Granted, PodCamp Pittsburgh is an open-source “un-conference,” which means people can sign up to host whatever sessions they’d like.  But we do have a quality control process in place that’s meant to ensure two things:

• The people who are speaking know something about their topic, and
• Their topic won’t do more harm to the world than good.

If you feel we’ve failed in our mission to weed out the bastards, let us know.  It won’t happen again.

Thanks for caring, and I’ll see [some of] you at PodCamp.  (And if your socializing skills need a jumpstart, fear not: just remember this.)

*  Technically, because non-VIP tickets to PCPGH4 are free, people can still attend as walk-ins.  But since The Art Institute of Pittsburgh does have a maximum capacity of 500, and since all 500 spots have been claimed, this event is a “sell out.”  Get cozy.

This weekend, I attended my first Small Press Expo, which is (according to its website) North America’s Premiere Independent Cartooning and Comic Book Arts Festival.  My friends Rachel and Josh went last year and they loved it, and since Baltimore is only an hour away from the event’s Bethesda ballroom, I joined them on this year’s trip down from Pittsburgh.

Being surrounded by hundreds of comic book creators, cartoonists, illustrators, publishers, writers, critics and fans was truly exhilarating, and not just because I’m a longtime comics fan who appreciates the indie scene.  A roomful of inspiration, creativity and self-actualization is naturally infectious, and meeting other creative people always makes me want to create something myself.  Thus, I end up leaving these types of events with a million new thoughts swirling in my head (and, in this case, a mini-comic about mermaid love gone wrong).

Some things I noticed, which may be applicable to your event / business / frame of mind:

People respect you when you do it yourself. Regardless of how talented you are, people admire anyone with the pluck to try something on their own, much less anyone who can earn a living on their own terms.  “Being an artist” is a universally romantic yet seldom-realized dream, so an event like this gives everyone who attends a chance to support those people who are brave (or delusional) enough to make their own rules.  (That said, it does help if you’re actually talented; people are far more inclined to support someone whom they personally think deserves to “make it.”)

Making money is allowed.  (Encouraged, even.) Unlike other web content creators who seem reluctant or unable to charge for their work, the vendors at SPX are unashamed to charge for their creations — and the attendees are unoffended.  Since everyone involved is either self-published or allied with a small press, all purchases help support people who make art for a living.  Nearly everyone I saw had purchased something, and lots of people were sitting happily on the floor outside the main exhibition hall, reading through their fresh stacks of brand new comics.

If there’s something for everyone, everyone leaves happy. No matter your tastes, this event had a book for you.  Vendors were selling comics about super heroes, sci-fi, fantasy, comedy, relationships, biography, parody, ninjas, animals, kids, horror, history, surfing, pornography and pin-up girls — and everything in-between.  If you couldn’t find something worth your time at SPX, you weren’t paying attention.  (How many events can you honestly say that about?)

Develop a coverage strategy when attending large events. Since this was my first time to SPX (and since I was conveniently broke and therefore unable to indulge my appetite for reading material), I was content to wander the floor and observe.  Rachel made two passes through the room — once to reconnoiter without buying anything, and then a second swoop to make her actual purchases.  And Josh beelined directly for the books he already knew he wanted in advance, making all his major purchases in the first half hour and then returning to explore the $5-and-under offerings.  Having pre-set expectations helped each of us find what we wanted, and we all left happy.*

There’s only so much time to talk. Josh zipped through the event without engaging anyone he didn’t want to talk to, stopping only at the tables of the artists whose work he already admired or whose work kept his attention for longer than a moment.  On the other hand, Rachel and I moseyed from table to table, inevitably getting embroiled in conversations with the artists about their work, their lives and their print quality.  If you’re in a hurry and don’t want to get trapped in endless conversations, be spatially aware of when a vendor has no one else nearby to speak to and nothing else physically to do — those are the times you’re most likely to get waylaid.

Longevity trumps talent. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if you keep doing something long enough, even if you’re an average talent, you’ll eventually be respected as a veteran.  You can’t help but acquire knowledge over the years, and that wisdom — coupled with your obvious hard-nosed grit — will earn you generations of fans who admire you simply for fighting the good fight.  (Again, it helps to actually be talented, but it helps even more to get out of bed every morning and do whatever it takes to keep going.  Talent is singular, but tenacity is something we all like to believe we can achieve; when you do, you become inspirational.)

Different price points provide fans with different opportunities to support you. Dedicated fans are happy to pay $20 or more for your work.  People who’ve never heard of you (but like what they see) would prefer to pay less.  And products under $5 let people take a chance on your work without incurring much risk, or to support you fiscally even if they’re not your biggest fans artistically.

Be personable. I realize that people who create comics for a living are trained to express themselves non-verbally, but events like this are a showcase of talent and personality.  As interested as I am in your work, I’d rather talk to you for thirty seconds than watch you ink a page of your next issue.  I can always buy that issue later; I can’t talk to you again until next year.  (I know, I know: “There’s a thing called the Internet.”  But it’s not the same.)

Give me a reminder. People moving through an event like this are going to see a lot of media all at once.  They’ll be overwhelmed.  Provide them with a freebie so they can find you online later and learn more about your work at a time when they’re less informationally challenged.

We need more events like this. Not just for comics, but for all fields, artistic and beyond.  The communal energy of SPX is reminiscent of the kinetic energy at the first PodCamp, which started out as a meet-up for people who make web media.  The opportunity for like-minded individuals to meet in a common space and share their expertise with peers is rare, but the benefits — both professionally and intellectually — are worth the effort.

*  Admittedly, I didn’t have nearly enough expendable cash for an artistic smorgasbord like this.  Judging by the line waiting to access the ATM, neither did a lot of other people.  I should start a trust fund for next year.

In September of 2006, a few creative geeks in Boston hosted a small event called PodCamp.  It was designed as a peer education and social network for podcasters — that is, people who make audio and video content for the web.  They were expecting a few dozen attendees; they got over 300.

People from as far away as California, Florida and England converged on Boston that weekend to meet their peers, share their collective knowledge and build a real-world community around an online pastime.  The energy and insight on display that weekend was infectious, and so PodCamp founders Chris Brogan and Christopher Penn decreed that any of us who wanted to host a PodCamp in our own hometowns could do so with their blessing.

Since then, there have been dozens of PodCamps around the world, from Sweden to Hawaii.  There will be 20 hosted this year alone, including the 4th annual events in Boston and Pittsburgh.  Global attendance for PodCamps measures into the tens of thousands.  And yet, in all this growth, one subtle change seems to go mostly unnoticed:

PodCamp isn’t about podcasting anymore.

Instead, PodCamp has become a catch-all for blogging, social networking, personal branding and SEO (among other themes).  The number of actual podcasters has dwindled precipitously since 2006, while the number of casual social media aficionados has exploded.  (To wit: of the four long-running and nationally-recognized podcasts in Pittsburgh, all of them — Should I Drink That?, Something to Be Desired, The G Spod and The Wrestling Mayhem Show — existed prior to PodCamp.)  And it’s easy to see why:

• Podcasting takes more time, energy and resources than text
• Podcasting is frequently collaborative; blogging is not
• Podcasting gets compared to the work of professionals; writing is personal
• Podcasting is a multi-step process; text can happen anywhere

Our move toward ever-faster means of communication with fewer barriers to entry means the cheapest, fastest and easiest will always become the most ubiquitous, while anything more complex will be relegated to the Land of Niche.  But complexity is entirely relative.

When I first started producing Something to Be Desired in 2003, I thought we had to move fast because producing a web-based sitcom was so easy, everyone would be doing it.  I was only half-right; it turns out producing a continuing series only seems easy, while producing individual web-based videos is far easier.  Very few people have the time, interest, help, skill or ideas to sustain an ongoing show.  So although I expected the web to mount a serious challenge to TV and film paradigms through an explosion of independent talent, the web instead provided disruption through distribution, not production.

Who knew that the audience at the first PodCamp would be the anomaly rather than the norm?  Who could predict how easily we’d convert from an audience of makers to an audience of talkers?  And who could expect that the democratic web, which once seemed on the verge of detonating our expectations about what was possible artistically, would so quickly be co-opted as just another distribution tool by the existing media conglomerates — one which we’re content to analyze but not to utilize?

If actions speak louder than words, why are so many of us content to just keep talking?