Stories, not content; because the world doesn’t need more obscene digital landfill

Why we refuse to degrade our stories to ‘content’ and how good stories are the antidote to this epidemic of meaninglessness

Every time we get a commission inquiry for ‘content creation,’ I have to swallow the nauseating feeling before patiently explaining why we don’t do that. Because what they probably mean by ‘content’ is, in fact, much more than that.

Let’s be clear—content wasn’t always this despicable. The term emerged innocently enough during the early days of the internet, used to describe anything published online: text, images, videos. But as digital spaces evolved, and businesses began hiring marketers to fill endless feeds, the word ‘content’ became a catchall. Its meaning flattened. And with that flattening, came a normalisation of meaninglessness.

‘Content’ now refers to the endless digital detritus churned out to satisfy algorithms, not audiences. It’s a word that makes no distinction between a lazy meme, a heartfelt documentary, a research-based article, or an empty carousel of brand clichés. ‘Content’ strips intention from information. It assumes that everything we put online is just there to fill space.

And that is obscene.

Because silence is not a gap to be filled. It’s a necessary part of life. Infants find solace in it. Animals retreat into it. The idea that businesses must constantly post for the sake of filling the silence—adding to the noise of the world—is a symptom of our deeper discomfort with stillness.

And it’s not harmless. Everything we post has an ecological cost. Yes, your post about the cupcake you ate does cost the planet. This is the reality of our digital excess. It’s not just overwhelming. It’s wasteful.

The antidote to this is not more content; it’s meaningful stories.

A story is not something made to fill a calendar. A story has reason to be. Stories deliver new insight, a sensory experience, transformation, discovery, amusement, inspiration, leadership, compassion, caring, understanding, empathy, or to liberate the audience or solve a problem for them. A story engages your intellect and emotions, and we don’t mean this through the terminology of engaging equalling commenting, liking, or sharing on social media. To engage is to think about and allow space in your mind, regardless of whether you hit that like button. A story considers its audience, their state of mind, their mental space, their world and its current situation.

The term ‘content’ became more mainstream as businesses cut budgets and turned to marketers to produce creative work. But that’s also when the trouble started. As social media platforms pushed more advertising space into our lives, the volume of content exploded. The result was what some called “content shock”—a tipping point when there was simply too much stuff and too little attention.

Many who weren’t truly equipped for the creative work of story-making still stepped into these hybrid creator-marketer roles, underestimating just how much it takes. It seemed easy—just post something, anything. And so, meaningless filler became the norm. But authentic story-making isn’t easy. It demands craft, insight, originality, and emotional intelligence.

Marketing and story-making are never the same thing; too often, they require two very different kinds of thinking and creativity. That’s why we don’t substitute our work for a marketer’s—or vice versa. We always partner with exceptional marketers and don’t pretend to be them. And when clients come to us without in-house marketing, we collaborate with experts from our carefully chosen circle of affiliates. Because meaningful connection doesn’t come from either side pretending to be both.

And now, as audiences begin to retreat from the noisy public squares of social media—into private, quiet, curated digital spaces like DMs and group chats—there’s, hopefully, less room for meaningless noise. People are becoming extremely intentional about what they give their attention to. We think that’s a good thing because it’s an obvious preference for stories over ‘content’. 

So, no. We don’t do content. We do better than that. We do stories—good stories that exist for a reason other than the inability to sit with silence.

A system for wrath: Social code to express big emotions

Across cultures, some rituals are often formed as structured social expressions for deep emotions—grief, joy, disgust, and anger. Their formalization reflects a society’s attempts to channel powerful feelings into comprehensible acts. Among the Vanniyela Aetto, known more commonly as Veddas—the first people and the jungle folk of Sri Lanka—there is a striking example of this. This extraordinary practice is recorded by anthropologists C.G. and Brenda Seligmann.

Their 1911 study, ‘The Veddas’ reveals how the Vanniyela Aetto once used a piece of dried human liver, obtained through personal acts of violence, to summon courage and resolve in moments of profound insult or challenge. This was no casual outlet for aggression but a response to situations that struck at the very foundations of an individual’s dignity—instances such as the theft of a spouse, betrayal, or the violation of land or belongings.

“Every group of Veddas except the most sophisticated village Veddas believe that it was formerly the custom for a man to carry in his betel pouch a small piece of dry human liver. It was essential that the liver should be taken from a man killed by the individual who proposed to carry a portion of the dried liver in his pouch.”

The ritual was reserved for wrath, for extreme situations, far removed from the mundane outbursts of frustration. Their approach to such intense anger was measured, deeply symbolic, and tied to the core of their identity as hunters and defenders.

The act of chewing this dried liver was not just symbolic but a visceral reminder of personal power, a ritual of transformation that turned indignation into action. As the Seligmanns describe, the practice seems to have vanished several generations ago, but its echoes remain in oral traditions. The liver served as a talisman of strength, a bridge between the act of past vengeance and the courage required for future justice. This practice—ritualized, extreme, yet deeply tied to the Vanniyela Aetto’s social codes—embodied their understanding of controlled fury, situating anger as a tool wielded only in moments of utmost necessity.

“The purpose of the dried liver was to make a person strong and confident to avenge insults. As far as we could understand a Vedda might thus work himself up into a condition of berserker fury, but this was only done after very serious insult, as when a man’s wife had been carried off or been unfaithful, or when his bow and arrows had been stolen or an attempt made to take his land or caves.” - C.G. and Brenda Seligmann

This story offers a glimpse into how the Vanniyela Aetto transformed raw human emotions into structured responses, embedding their struggles within acts laden with cultural meaning. It provokes broader reflection: How do rituals shape our responses to emotional situations? The Vanniyela Aetto ritual was practiced by men; what about other genders’ use of rituals to express emotions? How do societies, ancient and modern, formalize emotions into symbols, forging connections between personal identity and collective values? Protests, riots and vigils, are current examples of forms expressing collective anger. What are their personal counterparts? What are ‘accepted’ forms for an adult to express their personal anger right now? Vanniyela Aetto’s practices make us question our response toward anger, our ways of demanding justice, and whether we still need systemized ways to communicate our deepest emotions through ritual. Perhaps, having a socially-accepted method to channel a deeply unsettling emotion is convenient, as our systemised responses to other emotions, like love and gratitude, show.

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Emotions are essential to human communication. Expressing emotions in a calculated, measured manner has been part of Eastern creative practices since the 4th century BC. We bring this into practice as part of our commercial story design methodology. Read more.

Stories bring us together (P1): Something to listen to and something to look at

Something to listen to

Few stories seem to hold as much attention as the ones told by a survivor; they tap into universal themes of resilience, strength, and hope. These narratives often reveal our incredible ability to overcome adversity. 

“If I tell the sorrows of my heart it will burn my tongue, If I keep it in my heart I’m afraid it will burn me from the inside. But If I let it out, I fear that it will burn the world” - a father who lost his sons.

I’m listening to Yuval Noah Harari discuss how stories can unite or divide us. Some lead to cooperation, others lead to conflict. Wars are fought not just over resources or territory but over the underlying stories that justify and give meaning to those resources and territories. 

And we can also change our minds about stories too. I’m thinking of "The General" by Dispatch; particularly the lyrics "Take a shower, shine your shoes, you got no time to lose," It's a song about the futility of war. It tells the story of a war-weary general who, after a profound realization, urges his soldiers to abandon the fight and go live their lives. 

There is a term for when a positive psychological change occurs as a result of experiencing a highly challenging circumstance; they call it post-traumatic growth. I think, to a certain degree, we’ve all experienced or witnessed this at some point. It’s a soft sage-like patience in the moment of crisis; a profound calmness and understanding. 

Listen to Nina Simone's live recording of Who Knows Where the Time Goes. Some messages are more powerful when spoken softly. I feel gratitude when I listen to this song. You’ll recognize the survivor in her voice. 

These are our shared myths; they aren’t epic stories of gods and nations, they are personal narratives of survival. If you are into these moods, check out my Change is Gonna Come playlist. Fair warning, these are big feelings songs.

Something to look at

There’s a beautiful film about a man named Mr. Badii (played by Homayoun Ershadi), who drives through the outskirts of Tehran, searching for someone to help him with his plan to end his life. Directed by Abbas Kiarostami and set in contemporary Iran. It’s called "Taste of Cherry" and is a visual masterpiece in my view. The film goes into some deep existential questions about human connection, and life and death—these are big themes we all are familiar with, regardless of cultural background. This is an example of how stories can bridge cultural gaps and connect us through common human experiences.

It's a bit of a slow-paced film with moments of dialogue. Long takes and stationary shots allow the scenes to unfold naturally without cuts. This kind of visual and narrative strategy creates a space for the audience to get to know the story's characters.

This is a good way to approach brand development. It’s better to give enough time between changes for customers to familiarize themselves with the difference. We often refer to this as the 25% rule; as the minimum amount to retain. Gradual changes over time help maintain familiarity and trust with existing customers.

I often advise entrepreneurs to approach developing their business identity and personality similarly. Sometimes the core identity doesn’t emerge at first; I’ve worked with businesses that start with a particular idea, and by the time they launch, they’ve changed their entire model. So I find it’s better to leave room for the brand to grow along the same path as the business. 

Businesses are like people, as they grow so does their sense of identity and personality. Let the business story unfold naturally. A logo will become more meaningful over time. This is why I think a brand is as much built on reputation as it is on vision. The stories we tell shape identities and perceptions.