Silicon Valley Discovers Loneliness Is Renewable Resource, Begins Drilling

Venture capitalists have run out of software companies to fund and have discovered that lonely people will buy spatulas from strangers on the internet. They are now writing million-dollar checks to anyone who can say "my community" without blinking, sources confirmed this week.

"They're founders," said Megan Lightcap of Slow Ventures, referring to people who film themselves opening packages. The firm is reportedly writing $1 million to $3 million checks to creators who post about sourdough and describe their followers as "an intentional community of mindful humans." Due diligence reportedly consists of checking whether the applicant owns a ring light.

The announcement comes from Reed Duchscher, CEO of talent management firm Night, who spent the last decade extracting percentage points from MrBeast—a creator valued at approximately $5 billion. Duchscher now declares the megastar era "over," conveniently timed with his firm's pivot to signing smaller creators with fewer lawyers and more flexible contract expectations.

"It's much easier to build businesses when you have a hyper-niche, scaled audience," said Duchscher, using three words that each mean something different than what they appear to mean.

Translation experts have decoded "hyper-niche, scaled audience" to mean "small following, no agent, signs fast." The phrase has been submitted to the Corporate Doublespeak Hall of Fame, where it joins previous inductees "rightsizing," "synergy," and "we're all family here."

Duchscher noted that he "ended his role as MrBeast's talent manager" but "continues to work with the creator on his chocolate business, Feastables." In the same interview, he explained why the MrBeast path is now impossible. The conflict of interest reportedly stood in the corner of the room, waving its arms frantically. The journalist did not notice.

Industry analysts have praised the creator economy's evolution toward what they call "the spatula singularity"—the theoretical end state where billions of dollars of venture capital, decades of platform engineering, and the most sophisticated parasocial manipulation systems in history all converge on one pure outcome: convincing you to buy kitchen utensils from someone who feels like a friend.

"A food creator could launch a cookbook," Duchscher offered as an example of the business opportunities available to niche creators. This insight—that people who make food content could sell food-related products—was delivered without irony to a journalist who wrote it down. Neither party laughed.

Platforms like YouTube and TikTok have reportedly spent unfathomable resources engineering systems that trap users in content loops they never escape. The article describes this as a natural weather pattern. "Algorithms kind of stay in that vertical," Duchscher explained, as if describing how rivers flow rather than a $500 billion attention-harvesting machine designed to ensure you never discover anything new.

The word "community" has filed a formal complaint with the Oxford English Dictionary, claiming it has been stretched so thin it can no longer perform its original function. Once used to describe neighborhoods and shared spaces, it now means "audience that hasn't unsubscribed yet." VCs have discovered you can securitize loneliness. "Community" is what they call it on the term sheet.

"The megastar era is over," announced the man who just finished being paid by a megastar. He was not warning anyone. He was through the door. He was describing it closing behind him.

The article about creators was notably illustrated with a professional photograph of their manager. Zero creators were pictured. Duchscher appeared in what sources described as "a very nice sweater," looking thoughtful. The visual hierarchy of the creator economy was thus laid bare: the person who takes the percentage gets the headshot.

Trust, experts note, is now manufactured by creators, packaged by managers, and securitized by VCs. The audience pays retail. The creator builds the relationship. The manager monetizes it. The VC funds the monetization. The follower buys a $47 cookbook they'll never open because it feels like helping a friend. Everyone profits except the person holding the book and wondering why they're still lonely.

One creator with 200 million followers has leverage. Has lawyers. Has "no" as an option. Ten thousand creators with 50,000 followers each? They compete for scraps. They undercut each other. They sign the first contract placed in front of them. Platforms "benefit from diversifying their talent pools," the article noted, which translates to: it's easier to control 10,000 desperate peasants than one king who knows his worth.

At press time, the word "founder" was last seen begging for mercy in a WeWork bathroom, having been applied to a 24-year-old who ranks energy drinks on camera. The word "builder" reportedly checked itself into a rehabilitation facility after being used to describe someone with a Pinterest board.

Loneliness, it turns out, is a renewable resource. And Silicon Valley has learned to drill.