The problem is never the audience, it has always been the

Host: The night was alive with the hum of screens. In a small studio apartment, light from a dozen devices flickered like urban stars, painting the walls in shifting colors — blue, amber, violet. Outside, the city pulsed with its usual restless heartbeat, a thousand windows glowing like eyes that refused to sleep.

Jack sat in front of a laptop, his grey eyes fixed on the streaming platform’s dashboard, numbers flickering, rising, then falling like the tide. His jaw was tight, his fingers restless, drumming against the table.

Jeeny stood behind him, her arms crossed, her expression thoughtful, almost tender. The light from the screen washed over her face, making her look both modern and mythic — as though she were made of both flesh and data.

On the screen, a quote glowed against the dark background:

“The problem is never the audience, it has always been the distribution. The digital space is proof that the audience is quite accepting.” — Rasika Dugal

Jack: (sighing, leaning back) “That’s what they all say. Blame the system, not the crowd. But you know what, Jeeny? Maybe the audience isn’t as innocent as everyone thinks. Maybe we’ve just taught them to love what’s easiest, not what’s true.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Or maybe we never gave them the chance to choose. Distribution shapes taste, Jack. It decides what people even get to see. If the gate is narrow, don’t blame the ones still outside.”

Host: The screenlight flickered, reflecting in their eyes — his like steel, hers like molten amber. The room smelled faintly of coffee and burnt ambition, the air heavy with ideas that never got funded.

Jack: “You sound like an idealistic producer, not a realist. You really think the audience is out there, waiting for depth? They scroll past art for algorithms. They don’t want to feel — they want to escape.”

Jeeny: “And yet they watch, Jack. They cry, they comment, they share. You call it escape — I call it connection. People still feel, even when they don’t know why. The digital space didn’t kill empathy — it just remixed it.”

Host: The sound of rain began against the window, a steady rhythm that softened the buzz of electronics. A cat on the rooftop darted past, its shadow slicing through the light like a memory.

Jack reached for his glass, half-empty, the liquid trembling as his fingers brushed it.

Jack: “You’re giving too much credit to the crowd. Algorithms don’t just recommend — they define. The system gives you what it thinks you’ll like, not what you need. The distribution isn’t just broken — it’s strategic. And the audience? They’ve made their peace with being manipulated.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack — they’ve made their peace with being seen. Even if it’s through the lens of data. For the first time in history, everyone can speak, share, create. That’s not manipulation — it’s liberation, even if it’s messy.”

Jack: (laughs bitterly) “Liberation? More like noise. Everyone’s talking, no one’s listening. The digital space has made attention the new currency, and we’re all broke.”

Jeeny: “You mistake chaos for corruption. It’s not that the world has become noisier, Jack — it’s that we can finally hear it. The digital doesn’t destroy art; it just democratizes it.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, blurring the neon cityscape outside. Jack’s reflection on the window seemed to merge with the lights, his outline fractured, multiplied. The room’s glow pulsed with the same energy as his anger — sharp, bright, consuming.

Jack: “And what has democracy given us, Jeeny? Mediocrity with a megaphone. The digital age hasn’t freed expression — it’s flooded it. Art is no longer about truth, it’s about visibility.”

Jeeny: “Maybe visibility is a kind of truth. Even the mediocre have stories. Even the unheard deserve a mic. Isn’t that what you always said — that art belongs to everyone, not just those with the resources?”

Jack: “That’s not art, Jeeny — that’s noise pollution. When everyone’s broadcasting, no one’s understanding. The signal gets lost in the static.”

Jeeny: (softly, almost smiling) “Maybe the signal isn’t lost, Jack. Maybe you just stopped listening.”

Host: Her words landed like raindrops on iron — soft, but ringing. Jack’s shoulders tensed, his eyes narrowing, but the anger behind them began to fracture, revealing something smaller, truer — fear.

He turned off the laptop, plunging the room into semi-darkness, where only the city’s glow painted their faces in electric silver.

Jack: “You don’t get it, Jeeny. You’ve never had to compete in this kind of marketplace. It’s not about art anymore. It’s about visibility algorithms, monetization, reach. The distribution machine is a god now — and it doesn’t believe in soul.”

Jeeny: “And yet it still craves it. That’s why stories that are honest, raw, imperfect — still break through. You can’t manufacture that. The digital may be ruthless, but it’s also democratic. The audience knows how to feel, even if the system forgets how to filter.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the audience is wiser than the machine?”

Jeeny: “Always has been. The problem isn’t that they won’t listen — it’s that they’re not being reached. The distribution decides who gets heard, not who gets loved.”

Host: Jeeny’s reflection glimmered in the window, her eyes bright, alive, as if they were lit from some inner electricity. Jack, still seated, seemed carved in half-light, the tension in him oscillating between defiance and doubt.

The rain eased. The city lights steadied. Time slowed, as if the world had begun to listen to their argument.

Jack: (softly, almost to himself) “So you really believe it’s not the audience that’s the problem?”

Jeeny: “I believe the audience has always been ready. It’s the gatekeepers who weren’t. Art used to live behind locked doors — now it’s walking the streets. It’s a little messy, sure, but it’s free.”

Jack: “Free things lose their value, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Only if you measure value by price. But if you measure it by impact, by connection, by how many souls it touches—then the digital space is the most honest stage we’ve ever had.”

Host: A moment of silence. The city hum filled the room again — the buzz of a world both connected and lonely, infinite and intimate.

Jack looked at his hands, his expression softening. There was no argument left, only the echo of what she’d said — connection as truth.

He turned the laptop back on. The screen came to life — videos, comments, faces, voices. A flood of real people. Laughing, crying, sharing.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the problem isn’t the audience at all. Maybe it’s the way we’ve been trying to reach them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The digital space didn’t shrink attention — it expanded empathy. It just needed the right frequency.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “And you think you’ve found it?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think it’s finding us.”

Host: The rain stopped completely, and the sky began to clear, revealing patches of deep blue between the towers. The air smelled cleaner, as if the storm had washed something invisible away.

Jack and Jeeny sat side by side, the glow of the screen now gentle, alive, reflecting both their faces.

Outside, the city continued its digital symphony — a thousand screens, a million stories, a billion eyes watching, listening, accepting.

Host: And in that moment, beneath the neon sky, they both understood the truth in Rasika Dugal’s words —

That the audience was never the barrier. It was the bridge waiting for connection.

It was the gatekeepers, the distributors, the systems of silence that had always misunderstood how hungry people still were — not for content, but for contact.

And as the night deepened, the screenlight dimmed, and the city pulsed quietly in the dark, the world — messy, loud, connected — felt, at last, seen.