On Empty Pixels

I press play, and for a second, I let myself believe.

But it feels like watching an assembly line.

There's a checklist somewhere: lighting, done; audio, done; color grade, done. They treat it like manufacturing, not knowledge work. But a vision isn't something you can assemble from a kit of parts.

It's abstract.

And so the result is all shokuhin sampuru—that perfect, plastic replica food in a restaurant window. Beautifully crafted, meticulously detailed, and completely, utterly lifeless.

It's clear they have never once stopped to ask what makes a good video good. Is it the mic? The camera? The lighting?

They are chasing ghosts in the machine.

It has always been, and will always be, the purpose. Without purpose, it's all uninspiring. It's why they start a video by saying, 'Sorry if I sound different, I have a cold.' That thought is so profoundly self-absorbed.

Know your audience.

Every single second, every single word must be optimized for the purpose of the video you chose to make.

Because we are not forced to be here. Our attention is a privilege, and this lack of purpose is the ultimate disrespect to the viewer's time.

They miss the forest for the trees. They have mastered every leaf—every setting, every trick—but have no concept of the forest itself. And they think money can solve this.

That enough gear can compensate for a lack of genuine thought.

But real insight can't be bought. A unique perspective doesn't come in a box; it's earned.

They forget what the tools are for. A camera is not the end. It was never meant to be the end. It is a means to facilitate a vision.

Like writing is not about the words, but the meaning.

When that vision is non-existent, the process is hollow.

And I feel my time being used to fill a container, not to build a structure. They've served me a beautifully decorated, but entirely empty, plate.

And the hunger is still there.