"Easy Access Fandom": The Presumptive Worldbuilding of POV TikTok

In the decade since Vine (R.I.P.), the short-form vertical video has expanded from a vessel for comedy sketches and lip-sync performances to the de facto form of online content and communication. Whether we like it or not, platforms like TikTok and Instagram are where culture happens now: memes and controversies that pervade other websites, independent musicians who later find chart success, social and political movements that affect the real world.

With so many new ways and tools to make video content in this relatively new form, it’s no wonder new video genres have come out of TikTok, too. “-core” genres like Corecore and Hopecore come to mind: video collages interpreting unrelated clips, images, and songs through unifying emotional/social themes, similar to the usually more text-based but also contemporary (originating on Tumblr) art of web weaving, which I hope to cover in a future post.

One prominent genre (with many, many, many subgenres) is what I’ll refer to broadly as “POV TikTok.” The term “POV,” short for “point of view,” started out meaning just that—through using the camera as a character, the viewer becomes a part of the video’s scenario, with the camera view representing the viewer’s perspective as protagonist. A caption from a second-person point of view provides context. For example, this video, captioned “POV: You have siblings,” is filmed from the protagonist’s point of view, encouraging the viewers to imagine themselves in the protagonist’s shoes.

However, on TikTok, and particularly in videos I’d describe as part of the POV TikTok genre, “POV” has broadened to be a signifier of contextualizing text explaining the video’s scenario, without the viewer necessarily being a part of that scenario.

Not every video that uses “POV” in this way is a part of POV TikTok, though. As of now, the top videos in #pov are personal stories and comedy sketches using a mix of first-person and second-person language. Here, “POV” simply tells the viewer that the caption explains what is happening in the video. In the vast majority of cases, “POV” could be deleted from the caption entirely, and it would still make sense. For example, this video uses second-person language, but the friend to whom it refers is visible in frame. The video isn’t actually filmed from their point of view; the camera (and, by extension, the viewer) isn’t a character at all.

What I’m referring to when I talk about “POV TikTok” is a different case entirely. Unlike the examples above, POV TikTok videos aren’t set in our world. They aren’t relatable comedy sketches or inspirational anecdotes; they’re short works of speculative fiction, often set in vaguely science fantasy settings.

These settings, though, are rarely given any exposition. Viewers can only glean context about the characters’ world through captions that hover above the protagonist—who is not the viewer, but the video’s creator and only actor. This protagonist speaks directly to the camera and interacts with it as not just a character, but as every character, leading the viewer to assume the roles of every other person in this universe. These characters’ dialogue is often written on-screen (and sometimes narrated by the video’s creator), as if the viewer is saying it, and the protagonist reacts accordingly.

This video, to me, is a fascinating case study of this genre’s staples and presumed canon. As the viewer, we are immediately dropped into a world in which people can only say a certain number of words each year. As explained by the other characters (which, if you’ll remember, are all… us?) throughout the video, each person is able to say a different number of words each year. That’s all the exposition we get.

It’s never made clear how this rule is enforced: Are people physically unable to speak after reaching their word limit, or is it possible but illegal? What about nonverbal communication? Regardless of if the word limit is biological or legal, wouldn’t the people of this world have all learned sign language or at least carry around notepads and pens? Is the word limit entirely random each year, or does someone/something else determine it?

What I find even more interesting, though, is the presence of the on-screen captions in these worlds. Presumably the characters’ captioned speech isn’t visible or literal, but what about the caption showing the protagonist’s word limit? The protagonist is aware of his own word limit, since he clearly knows he really has more than one word, but it seems like he can also see the word limit as something physical in his world. In the very first scene, he’s crossing his fingers and looking up at the text, hoping for a lucky draw.

However, the other characters can’t see his word limit. He tells them (us) that he only has one word (and seemingly does so every year, maybe as an excuse to stay silent, although it isn’t explained), and the other characters believe him. Still, in something akin to dramatic irony, we as the viewers can see the word limit, despite it being invisible to the characters with whom we share a perspective. We aren’t seeing from the protagonist’s point of view, but we aren’t exactly seeing from the other characters’ point of view, either.

None of this matters in the world of POV TikTok, though. These rules are consistent through almost every video in the genre, and they’re instantly self-explanatory—increasingly so with each video you encounter. Without a second of exposition (about the world, not the characters’ personal lives), viewers are able to jump into the story right away. It is, I think, the most immediate form of speculative fiction.

I’ve found myself baffled by a few POV TikTok videos before when doomscrolling late at night, but my fascination with POV TikTok as a genre really began with this episode of the Sad Boyz podcast, in which they react to POV TikTok parodies by creator @nickel_c. When discussing POV TikTok, podcast cohost Jordan Adika uses a term that has stuck with me since I first heard it: “easy access fandom.”

Viewers are able to immediately understand and immerse themselves in the worlds of these videos, and that means they’re also able to immediately join fan discussions in the comment section. After less than a minute of watch time, they can discuss unnamed characters and speculate about the next video, which might come out later that same day. Unlike with other fandoms, they don’t need to worry about avoiding spoilers or memorizing facts before interacting with more seasoned fans. Viewers can access both the source material and fan communities easily, quickly, and freely.

Most fandoms, on the other hand, take anywhere from hours to years to catch up with. Even after knowing everything there is to know about the source material, fans might not know everything there is to know about the fandom itself. Easy access fandoms, like those that form around POV TikTok videos/creators, on the other hand, require no prior knowledge; everything about the world at large is either explained in the video or irrelevant to the smaller-scale story.

Currently, most of these POV TikTok stories are about romance, drama, and the occasional dystopia: genres that appeal to the teenage audience to whom these videos are targeted. I wonder, though, what else could be represented through this format. I’d love to see (or even personally explore) more of how captions interact with these worlds and what this interpretation of “POV” could mean for storytelling, both in and out of short-form videos.