The Bite-Sized Failure of Quibi: A Cautionary Tale of Old Media Grift
Quibi. The name itself sounds like a rejected Pokemon. More importantly, it represents a spectacular failure, a $1.75 billion misjudgment of the digital landscape, and a stark reminder that throwing money at a problem doesn’t guarantee a solution. Just ten months after its grand debut, the platform, designed for “quick bites” of video content, shuttered its doors, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions and bewildered investors.
My first introduction to Quibi came from a former boss, a veteran of the cable TV world, specifically, the channel whose name starts with F and ends with "-ox News." Her enthusiasm was palpable, bordering on evangelical. "Bite-sized video! Whitman and Katzenberg are running it! Billions in funding!" she exclaimed. I was perplexed. How could something so revolutionary have completely bypassed my radar? The answer, I realized, was simple: Her ambitions lay within Quibi’s meticulously curated ecosystem, whereas mine did not.
For her, Quibi was the perfect synthesis: a mountain of capital, seasoned executives, and a brand of innovation that wouldn’t disrupt the established order. It was, in her eyes, the logical evolution of user-generated content, where the "users" were A-list celebrities and the production values surpassed even the most lavishly lit influencer videos.
However, I’d witnessed this exact scenario play out before: the overfunded, under-imagined startup burning brightly before imploding spectacularly. Clinkle, the ill-fated mobile payment app, springs to mind. So do the numerous instances of rock stars attempting to conquer the tech world. The pattern is consistent: too much money, not enough common sense, and a recipe for disaster.
Quibi perfectly encapsulates the pitfalls of old media attempting to co-opt the new. It cherry-picked elements from the world of user-generated content – some might argue the worst aspects – and repackaged them in a glossy, Hollywood-esque veneer. The objective was transparent: to dethrone TikTok, YouTube, and the multitude of platforms empowering individuals to create and share short-form videos, amassing vast audiences and influence.
Imagine the frustration of studio executives watching videos like "OMG I TOLD MY HUSBAND I WAS PREGNANT WHILE WEARING A DINOSAUR COSTUME CAN’T STOP SHAKING" racking up millions of views while their meticulously crafted films and television series languished. They had, after all, dabbled in cinema verite before, with the rise of reality TV. Why couldn’t they recapture that magic?
My cinematographer friend, Loren Feldman, often remarks on the exorbitant costs associated with studio productions, often amounting to thousands or even millions of dollars per minute. Snappy dialogue, guaranteed emotional cues, and breathtaking VFX require investment. The chasm between the most popular TikTok video and the lowest-rated network TV show is insurmountable. Traditional media is defined by its regimentation, control, and careful crafting, resulting in what some might consider perfection and others, blandness. Millions are poured into PR campaigns for stars, cosmetic enhancements, and rigorous fitness programs. Everything about Hollywood, both the desirable and the undesirable, comes at a price.
Quibi’s core premise was flawed. They believed that if everyday creators could achieve viral success with limited resources, seasoned professionals could do it exponentially better with significant backing. They sought to disrupt tradition, but only within certain boundaries. With a war chest of $1.75 billion – enough to produce over a hundred episodes of "Game of Thrones" – they aimed to create a "runway" of inexpensive content. They reportedly sidestepped union wages by producing videos just shy of the length required for union contracts, and they lured established and emerging talent with relatively modest paychecks. In essence, they replicated the YouTuber’s business model: leveraging fleeting popularity to generate even less revenue. However, the tried-and-true methods that had served them well on studio backlots and at lavish awards ceremonies proved utterly ineffective when applied to bite-sized entertainment.
The fundamental reason for Quibi’s demise is simple: no one is willing to pay for a curated, pre-packaged short-form video experience. Just as magazine journalism gave rise to free blogs, reality TV spawned the TikTok star. These independent creators monetize their content on their own terms, retaining control and autonomy. Eventually, they might coalesce in a studio setting, but it will be a natural evolution, free from the scrutinizing gaze of studio executives.
In our current era of the pandemic, our viewing habits have shifted. We crave long-form narratives, meticulously crafted productions with compelling storylines and stunning visuals. We want "Lovecraft Country," not an eleven-minute vignette about someone’s golden arm.
Perhaps Quibi offered actors, producers, and writers a space for experimentation, a creative sandbox for exploration. Perhaps it could have thrived in a world where commutes were the norm. However, the reality is that both Netflix and TikTok offer readily accessible entertainment options, whether you’re on the subway or at home. There was no void for Quibi to fill, no compelling reason for it to exist in the space between.
Quibi will not be the last to attempt to disrupt a new model in order to extract additional revenue. Former Crown publisher Molly Stern, the woman who recognized the potential of Michelle Obama’s memoir and transformed it into a bestseller, has launched Zando, a publishing house that requires authors to manage their own distribution and marketing. The apparent goal is to monetize Wattpad, a widely popular online platform for sharing stories. The fundamental flaw becomes apparent to anyone who has ever attempted to sell anything online: people are happy to like and share content, but they are far less inclined to make a purchase. Conversion rates on social media are notoriously low, and even the most influential personalities rely on traditional advertising or, worse, deceptive endorsements of viral products to generate sales. This is territory that established media executives would typically avoid, yet here we are.
Jeffrey Katzenberg, Quibi’s co-founder, was driven by fear. He witnessed the rapid decline of the traditional media landscape and sought to embrace the new, albeit with an outstretched hand. The result was an attempt to squeeze profit from emerging models using outdated techniques. As anyone currently attempting to monetize online media could attest, the modern consumer is vastly different from those who once lined up to see "Beauty and the Beast." Those consumers have matured and now subscribe to Amazon Prime. And, like the Beast, they will quickly turn on you if they sense that you are attempting to steal their most precious commodity: their time and attention. The story of Quibi is a cautionary tale, a monument to the dangers of arrogance and a misunderstanding of the evolving digital landscape. It underscores the importance of truly understanding the audience, not just trying to exploit them.
