The Capitalization of Rage

Or: How the Algorithm Turned Us All Into Angry Little Hamsters on a Wheel

Remember when people used to post cat videos and brunch photos? Yeah, me neither. Now the internet feels like a 24/7 group project where the assignment is “be mad about something.” Welcome to the age of ragebait—a glorious feedback loop in which social media companies discovered that fury is the most renewable energy source on Earth. And no one harnesses it quite like TikTok.

The Algorithm Wants You Angry

TikTok doesn’t care if you’re laughing, crying, or screaming into your iced latte—it just wants to know that you’re feeling. The app studies every second you linger, every comment you leave, every time you watch the same video twice to verify that yes, that person did just say that. The result? A feed perfectly engineered to keep your blood pressure spiking.

Studies and journalists alike have pointed out that TikTok’s algorithm prioritizes emotional intensity over accuracy, nuance, or sanity. A thoughtful explainer on reproductive rights? Ten likes. A creator claiming something unhinged, like “men invented showers to control women”? Two million views. The machine doesn’t distinguish between righteous anger and dumb drama—it just sees “engagement.” And the more engaged we are, the more ads it can sell.

TikTok has basically monetized the human limbic system.

Ragebait: When Controversy Becomes a Career

“Ragebait” sounds like something you’d buy at Bass Pro Shops, but it’s actually the fastest-growing industry on social media. Entire influencer empires now run on outrage. You don’t need to be interesting or informed—just irritating.

Here’s the formula:

1. Post a take so absurd it makes people’s temples throb.

2. Sit back while the stitches, duets, and rebuttals roll in.

3. Watch the algorithm crown you a thought leader because everyone’s yelling at you.

That’s it. You’ve hacked the system.

Creators have literally made six-figure incomes by posting nothing but provocations designed to piss people off. One UK rage-poster told The Mancunion he earns over £100k a year just by making people furious before breakfast. Moral: anger pays better than authenticity.

Why Everyone Suddenly Has a Hot Take

Once something starts trending on TikTok, the platform practically begs you to join the dogpile. You’ll see the same topic twenty times in an hour until your brain whispers, “Fine, I’ll post about it too.” That’s how we end up with crochet-pattern accounts suddenly issuing statements on celebrity divorces and elected state officials sharing their take on how bad the latest pop star’s album is.

Take the West Elm Caleb fiasco: one mediocre man ghosted a few women in New York, and within days, the internet treated it like the Nuremberg Trials. TikTok turned a minor dating drama into a moral crusade. People who had nothing to do with it felt summoned to contribute. One journalist called it an “algorithmic witch hunt,” which feels generous—it was more like a public stoning with ring lights.

And, because the internet has the memory of a goldfish on Adderall, everyone involved moved on 72 hours later. Except Caleb, who presumably deleted every app and fled to a cabin.

Manufactured Outrage, Real Exhaustion

The problem isn’t that people get angry online; anger is sometimes healthy. The problem is what we’re encouraged to get angry about. The algorithm doesn’t reward nuanced outrage—say, about climate collapse or voter suppression. Those don’t trend because they make advertisers nervous and users sad.

Instead, TikTok feeds us low-stakes fury: a barista’s tone, a “cringe” couple, someone using the wrong word for scone. Meanwhile, posts about genocide, reproductive rights, or anti-trans legislation get quietly deprioritized. Activists have been complaining for years that TikTok buries their content while rewarding fluff. The app denies it, but the receipts are plentiful.

So we scroll, furious at micro-offenses, while systemic injustices fade into algorithmic oblivion. It’s a masterclass in distraction: everyone from global leaders to CEOs whispering, “Shh, don’t look up, just argue about whether oat milk is homophobic.”

The Psychological Toll: Doomscrolling as Self-Harm

Constant outrage feels productive—it gives us the illusion of civic engagement—but it’s mostly stress disguised as participation. Researchers link this endless cycle of anger-clicking to anxiety, burnout, and depression. We start to mistake performance for purpose, debate for depth.

The worst part? We know it’s bad. We joke about “touching grass” like it’s rehab. We confess to being “chronically online” as if the diagnosis comes with free Wi-Fi. But TikTok’s emotional roulette keeps spinning, because every comment, even “this makes me want to die,” tells the algorithm, “Great! More of this, please.”

Why This Is Bad for Democracy (and Dinner Parties)

When platforms profit from outrage, moderation becomes obsolete. Subtlety is punished, context is cropped out, and the loudest voices drown out the sanest. Everything turns into a zero-sum brawl: you’re either for or against, hero or villain, feminist or pick-me.

It’s not just exhausting—it’s corrosive. Outrage used to be a spark for social movements; now it’s the background noise of the internet. And as we expend our energy on trivial dramas, the big stuff—policy, inequality, the actual state of the planet—scrolls quietly by.

Don’t Take the Bait

We can’t algorithmically purify the internet (yet), but we can starve the beast. The next time you feel that twitch to rage-comment, resist. Scroll past. Leave the bait on the hook. Every time you don’t engage, you deny TikTok a few precious seconds of your attention economy.

Follow people who make you think instead of seethe. Seek out slow content—the essays, the deep dives, the creators who’d rather teach than trigger. Curate your digital diet like your mental health depends on it, because, frankly, it does. But be wary, because even these creators can get sucked into the algorithmic maelstrom, so desperate to get views that they hop on the latest rage train too.

Or do what I just did, put it down entirely. Tiktok has a screen time lock of 0 minutes on my phone, as of 3pm today. I’m not ready to let it go entirely, but I’m definitely taking a step back.

The “capitalization of rage” isn’t just a cute metaphor—it’s the business model of the modern internet. TikTok doesn’t care about your feelings; it cares that you have them, loudly and often. But here’s the rebellious thought: what if we stopped? What if we let the outrage rot on the vine?

Further Reading (a.k.a. Receipts for the Rage Economy)

“Engagement, User Satisfaction, and the Amplification of Divisive Content on Social Media.”

PNAS Nexus. A large-scale study confirming what we all suspected: algorithms boost outrage because it’s good for business. Read here →

“The TikTok Algorithm Is Good, But Is It Too Good?”

Catholic University Law Review. Legal analysis on how TikTok’s emotional manipulation machine works — and why “good engagement” isn’t always good. Read here →

“TikTok’s algorithm is highly sensitive – and could send you down a hate-filled rabbit hole before you know it.”

The Guardian. A wild ride through the content vortex — from cooking videos to conspiracy in six swipes or less. Read here →