Have you noticed that lately people around you seem to have slightly changed? The workaholic era somehow faded, replaced by a mindset that says: maybe we would rather leave the office on time and book a spa night instead of falling asleep at the desk. Hardly anyone seems interested in saving anymore — the whole “you only live once” mentality keeps pushing us towards quick purchases, little luxuries, and spontaneous escapes.

And then, of course, there is online life. POVs, fun TikTok dances, and “romanticising my life” videos are everywhere. People are emotional, vulnerable, chaotic, joyful, dramatic. Sometimes genuinely refreshing to watch — though, admittedly, a little too much at times as well.

In short, we seem to be living through the “main character” era.

But why is this happening? Are there psychological roots behind it, or is it something bigger altogether? And what does it say about us culturally and economically — not just individually?

No surprise that when exploring the world of “main character syndrome”, all roads eventually lead online. And while TikTok quietly gave the phenomenon its name and recognisable features, the real roots go much further back — to Tumblr in the early 2010s, with its cinematic approach to everyday life through blurry photography, indie music references, handwritten diary aesthetics, and emotionally charged captions.

Then came the pandemic, which played a major role in accelerating the shift. During lockdowns, people suddenly found themselves isolated, spending most of their time online. With the offline world temporarily frozen, many turned to self-documentation almost as a quiet proof of existence in a digital space where physical connection had become limited.

Step by step, we ended up in a world where identity itself became content.

Today, the global creator economy is estimated at over $250 billion and projected to surpass $500 billion within the next few years. At the same time, more than 50 million people worldwide now identify as creators or content producers in some form.

But was it really just the arrival of TikTok and Covid — the two things we now quietly blame for almost everything, from the rise of tarot culture to the inability to save money? Not quite.

We all know — or at least subconsciously feel — that this whole “main character era” is somehow linked to narcissism. These are the people with endless “personal boundaries”, lip-sync reels, hyper-curated routines, and suspiciously packed weekday schedules. But psychologically, the reasons behind this “main character” behaviour are actually far more layered.

This idea comes from psychologist Dan McAdams, who argued that “main character syndrome” is not necessarily some modern social disease, but rather another form of self-expression and self-understanding. People have always tried to shape their lives into stories that make sense to them.

The difference is simply the format. Today, that thinking happens online through TikToks, Instagram captions, and photo dumps. Years ago, it happened through diaries, handwritten letters, or personal journals. The identity adapts to the circumstances of its time.

This point connects us to the specifics of the current generation. You have probably heard about the so-called Gen Z loneliness epidemic. And honestly, the reality is even harsher than it sounds. According to recent studies, around 85% of Gen Z respondents said they experienced loneliness at least once over the past year — compared to roughly 46% of Baby Boomers. The gap is pretty striking.

In many ways, this constant self-revealing online becomes a search for validation, attention, and emotional connection from others — sometimes even from complete strangers. Posting your life can almost feel like proof that someone is watching, or relating to you.

Lately, many people have started describing a rather strange feeling: the internet has created something close to a double life. One version of a person exists online, the other offline. And very often, the digital space feels far safer for experimenting, revealing emotions, or trying on different identities.

For years, the internet carried this quiet promise: you can become whoever you want here. But only recently have we started fully noticing how deeply those two worlds overlap, and how a bad comment online can suddenly affect your relationships, confidence, or work offline too. In many ways, we became so used to treating the internet as the “safe” version of reality that now we are slowly trying to find balance between the two worlds again.

What content performs best online? Usually the loudest, most emotionally charged, or visually dramatic things. Dancing alone in the middle of the street, public vulnerability, chaos, oversharing, exaggerated confidence — the algorithm feeds on emotional engagement.

Which is probably why so many people slowly begin performing their lives rather than simply living them.

Interesting fact: There is a theory online that many of our “main character” habits partly come from the cartoons, teen shows, and films we grew up watching. Not in some dark psychological way, but simply because so much of that media taught us to see life as something emotional and deeply personal.

And honestly, when you think about it, it does make some sense: Hannah Montana, Madagascar, or Scooby-Doo. Though of course, this theory only really works in combination with all the other factors surrounding it.

Partly, probably yes. There are quite a few psychological studies linking excessive social media validation-seeking to certain narcissistic traits — especially the constant desire for attention, admiration, and reassurance. Though there is still quite a big “but” here.

First, it is important to understand what we are actually talking about. The word “narcissism” gets thrown around online so casually now that it almost lost its weight. But real narcissism, in the clinical sense, refers to Narcissistic Personality Disorder — an actual diagnosed mental health condition recognised in psychiatric manuals like the DSM-5. And that is something far more serious and complex than simply romanticising your life on TikTok.

Second, as we already quietly mentioned earlier, the “main character” behaviour is often connected less to arrogance and more to loneliness and the fear of becoming invisible. Researchers increasingly argue that social media has fundamentally changed the way identity is formed. Younger generations now grow up shaping and adjusting parts of their personalities around audiences, algorithms, likes, reposts, and online reactions.

In that sense, the phenomenon is often linked less to pure ego and more to performance culture. When your identity becomes constantly visible, measurable, and public, it almost naturally pushes people to view themselves as characters inside their own unfolding storyline.

So overall, saying that this entire trend is simply narcissism would be a huge oversimplification.

Does the “main character” era influence the economy? Absolutely. And honestly, in a much bigger way than it first seems. Maybe the easiest way to explain it is through three shifts this culture quietly created.

We are talking about an industry already valued at around $250 billion, with forecasts expecting it to pass $1.3 trillion by 2033. And where is most of that money coming from? Advertising, of course. TikTok alone reportedly generated around $17.2 billion in advertising revenue in 2024. Attention became a business model. Personality became marketable. Even simply being visible became profitable.

It is no longer just about the product itself, but about the atmosphere around it. Gyms are probably the clearest example. People choose them not only for the equipment or trainers, but for the lighting, interiors, mirrors, playlists, and overall vibe. The same thing happens in cafés, fashion, skincare, restaurants, and hospitality. Sometimes the product itself is not dramatically different from a cheaper alternative — the real difference is the branding, the aesthetic, and how well the whole thing fits into someone’s online life. The attention economy flourishes on presentation.

The “main character” era does not suddenly make everyone want to become influencers, but it definitely changed the way younger generations look at work itself. The old idea of sitting in an office for 30 years while your manager disappears to the Maldives every other month no longer feels particularly inspiring.

As a result, career ambitions are shifting quite dramatically. Around 45% of students globally now say they want to start their own business after graduating, while more than half of Gen Z professionals already freelance or participate in gig work in some form rather then sitting in the office. Stability matters less; freedom, flexibility, independence, and ownership matter more.

The only slightly concerning question is what happens long term. Because eventually somebody still has to teach the children, build the bridges, design the infrastructure, and keep society functioning while everyone else is busy building a personal brand.

Honestly, I am probably not the big brain here to give a final answer. Most major cultural shifts usually come with both sides attached to them anyway. And this one is no different.

So let’s put it this way: if next time you want to film a silly trend, post an overly cinematic sunset, or share some random little moment online but suddenly feel embarrassed or “too cringe” to do it — remember that most of it is just narrative identity, internet culture, the cartoons and films we grew up with, and the strange way social media reshaped self-expression (joking, but also not entirely joking).

Maybe the healthiest approach is simply to take the best out of every era without letting it completely consume you.